Growing up in a small Indiana town in the 1960s, I remember summer evenings when the whole neighborhood would gather on someone’s front porch. No invitation needed—you’d just show up with whatever you had: lemonade, cookies, or just yourself. Last week, I tried explaining this to my eleven-year-old granddaughter, and she looked at me like I was describing life on Mars. “People just… came over? Without texting first?”
That conversation got me thinking about all the things we took for granted back then—things that have quietly disappeared from modern life. If you grew up in a small town before 1980, I bet you’ll recognize most of these. And if you didn’t? Well, pull up a chair and let me paint you a picture of what life was like when the world moved a little slower.
1. The sound of absolute quiet at night
Remember when nighttime actually meant silence? Not the constant hum of air conditioners, not the distant drone of highway traffic, not even the neighbor’s TV bleeding through the walls. Just… quiet. Maybe a cricket or two, the occasional bark of a dog several streets over, but mostly nothing.
I still chase that kind of quiet. These days, even in my suburban neighborhood, there’s always something making noise. The other night I woke up around three (happens more often now that I’m in my sixties), and I counted at least five different electronic hums in my own house. Back then, the quiet was so complete you could hear your own heartbeat if you paid attention.
2. Knowing everyone’s business (and them knowing yours)
“Did you hear about the Johnson boy?” That’s how half the conversations started when I was young. By the time you got home from school, your mother already knew you’d failed that math test—Mrs. Henderson from two streets over had called.
Was it invasive? Sometimes. But it also meant you were never really alone. When my buddy’s dad lost his job at the mill, casseroles appeared on their doorstep for weeks. Nobody organized it through a meal train app. People just knew, and they showed up.
These days, I barely know my neighbors’ names, let alone their struggles. We’ve traded privacy for connection, and I’m not sure we got the better end of that deal.
3. The anticipation of waiting for things
Want to know what was playing at the movie theater? You waited for Friday’s newspaper. Wondering if your cousin got your letter? Give it a week or two. Photos from the family reunion? They’d be ready at the drugstore in about ten days.
That anticipation made everything sweeter. I remember the excitement of running to the mailbox every day the week of my birthday, hoping for cards from relatives. Now my grandkids get instant everything, and I wonder if they’re missing out on that delicious feeling of waiting for something good.
4. Downtown as the heart of everything
Our downtown had it all: Murphy’s Five and Dime, the bakery where Mr. Schmidt made donuts fresh every morning, the barbershop where men solved the world’s problems over haircuts. Friday nights, the whole town would be downtown—teenagers hanging out at the soda fountain, parents running into each other at the hardware store, kids begging for pennies to buy candy.
I drove through that same downtown last year. Half the storefronts are empty, the other half are antique shops only open on weekends. The real action happens at the strip mall on the highway now. Convenient? Sure. But something essential was lost when we stopped bumping into each other naturally.
5. The freedom of being unreachable
When you left the house, you were gone. Really gone. Your mom couldn’t track your location, your boss couldn’t call you back to work, nobody could reach you unless they physically found you.
As a kid, I’d disappear for entire summer days, showing up only for dinner. As a young father, I could actually leave work at work. There was no checking email at ten at night, no urgent texts during dinner. When I coach my sons on work-life balance now, I realize they’re fighting battles we never had to face.
6. Seasonal rhythms that actually mattered
Strawberries in June. Corn in August. Apples in October. If you missed them, you waited until next year. This forced patience connected us to the cycles of the earth in a way that’s hard to explain to someone who’s never lived it.
Winter meant truly hunkering down—no quick runs to the 24-hour supermarket when you ran out of milk. You planned ahead, you made do, or you borrowed from neighbors. Those limitations shaped us, taught us to be resourceful in ways my grandkids will never need to be.
7. Front porches as social media
Every evening after dinner, people would migrate to their front porches. You’d wave at folks walking by, chat with neighbors, watch the kids play kickball in the street. It was Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram all rolled into one, except you could smell Mrs. Patterson’s apple pie cooling and hear Mr. Davis practicing his saxophone three houses down.
Modern houses barely have front porches anymore. We’ve retreated to private backyards and interior spaces. Sure, we’re more comfortable, but we’ve lost those organic interactions that used to knit communities together.
8. The magic of boredom
“I’m bored” was met with “Go find something to do.” And we did. We invented games, explored creeks, built forts, started rock collections, learned to whistle, practiced juggling with crabapples. Boredom was the springboard for creativity.
My grandkids never experience true boredom. There’s always a screen, always entertainment on demand. But I wonder what inventions, what flights of imagination, what deep thoughts are lost in the constant stimulation.
9. Trust as the default setting
We didn’t lock our doors during the day. Keys were left in cars. Kids sold lemonade without permits, and people actually bought it without worrying about liability. The starting assumption was that people were good, that things would work out, that community meant looking out for each other.
I’m not naive enough to think crime didn’t exist or that everything was perfect. But there was a fundamental faith in our neighbors and institutions that’s been eroded. We’ve become more careful, maybe more safe in some ways, but also more isolated and suspicious.
Closing thoughts
Sometimes I catch myself romanticizing the past, and my sons rightfully remind me that not everything was better back then. They’re right, of course. But sitting here in my home office, looking out at my quiet street where everyone’s inside looking at screens, I can’t help but feel we’ve misplaced something important along the way.
Maybe the real question isn’t whether life was better before 1980, but rather: what can we resurrect from those small-town values that might make today a little richer? Can we put down our phones long enough to sit on the porch? Can we embrace a little boredom, a little waiting, a little not knowing?
What do you miss most from simpler times, and more importantly, what’s stopping you from bringing a piece of it back?
