Stories Mentioning : life in the 70s
Things that go bump in the night
Things that go bump in the night Written by Imp The school summer holiday of 1970 I remember it so well, weeks and weeks of endless days stretching before me, no school, not that I minded school it was fun to learn all the new things they showed us. School at 7 years old was so different to what it would become at 11 or 15 and of course I knew nothing of it, that was the future and I never gave it a single thought. I was 7, I’d always been 7 and I always would be 7, and …
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The Things We Do For Love
The Things We Do For Love Written by Nix “Get up.” “What?” My mother asked groggily, staring at me through half-opened eyes. “Why?” “I need a ride. I have to go to 7:30 Mass,” I answered, bouncing from foot to foot, my eyes darting to the time on my parents’ bedroom clock radio. “Huh? Are you kidding? Why?” “Because,” I stammered, “I…really, really…love…Jesus?” The truth was I really, really loved Danny O’Reilly, a boy one year ahead of me at our Catholic grade school and he was the altar boy for that week’s 7:30am Mass. I would—and did—lose sleep over …
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A Place of My Own
A Place of My Own Written by Gail Walter Imagine a place where the kids could sleep and live, a sort of wing addition on the house with partitioned sleeping quarters and a large children’s lounge for kidding around in. This was my mom and dad’s dream, to build their own home, designed on the back of a cigarette box and rationalized over a couple of bottles of red wine with a friend who was also an architect. It was 1974 before it was ready. I was sixteen and somewhat torn by the design of the place. I liked the …
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Parental Influences
Parental Influences Written by Gail Walter When people think about the seventies they don’t generally think about parents, and yet we all had them. In some shape or form! I was born to a pair myself. And they were an inextricable part of my memories about those years. I came from a conventional family, in some ways. My dad devoted himself to his work as an international journalist and my mother concentrated on bringing up what she thought of as three budding “Shirley Temples”. We had two prevailing planes of reality in our family. Our intellectual, political and hypothetical world …
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