My wonder years
As I have meandered through my retirement years, my nightly entertainment on TV has been challenging. The mind-numbing drivel that is offered daily is beyond my tolerance. With my daughter’s purchase of ” Netflix,” my problem seemed to be solved. We began watching seasons of past shows. After consuming “My name is Earl,” “Malcolm in the Middle” and “Raising Hope,” my mind was tired. The increasingly obsessive use of obscenity, crudeness, irreverence and sex in the frantic quest for ratings was too much for my fragile psyche.
My discovery of “The Wonder Years” was a much needed blessing. This show was set in the late 60s, and as a product of that amazing era, I was totally drawn back into time. The music alone immersed me in pleasant memories. I was once again sitting in my 55 Chevrolet. The motor sounded wonderful. The sky was so blue and the air smelled of flowers, only slightly overshadowed by the smell of “Jade East” I had sprinkled along the back of the seat. A guy has to be prepared. I bought that car for $186 saved from my summer job of cutting grass on the pipeline.
To me, it was a fortune well spent. I ripped off the exterior chrome and filled the holes with “Bondo.” After removing the front bumper, installing lifts and scavenger pipes, I installed a floor shift, gauges and a tachometer. Then I painted my car metallic silver-blue. My incredible parents bought seat covers for my birthday.
There are no words to express how I felt about that car. It was truly a girl magnet and the beginning of a most memorable time in my young life. The 60s were, also, a time of respect for parents, teachers and police.
I would like to share an example of Daddy’s parenting skills that is still fresh in my mind to this day. One night at supper (yes, I still call it supper), Daddy suggested that I hoe the garden afterwards.
I patiently explained that I was tired from working on the pipeline and did not feel like hoeing the garden. Daddy solemnly looked out the window and asked if I could see the driveway. I said yes and he responded, “Do you notice that it goes two ways?”
I have to admit, on that particular day, I turned in one of my best efforts at hoeing the garden. My parents were the best and I never saw them reading a single parenting book. Indeed, they would have been insulted had someone suggested “it takes a village” to raise a kid.
I will always be thankful and treasure my incredibly wonderful memories. In a world that can seem to be unraveling, my wish for my neighbors is that they too, occasionally, revisit the sweetness of youth in their own “Wonder Years.”
Bobby Clardy
Toccoa, Georgia
The writer grew up in Columbus.
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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