The 1940s seem like ancient history
now to much of the population. To me, they seem like yesterday. I was born in
1937, near the end of the Depression, and the long-ago attack on Pearl Harbor
that propelled the United States into World War II is one of my early memories.
The war years, and the country’s gradual financial recovery from the
Depression, shaped my childhood.
About ten years ago I decided to
write my memoirs, thinking in my self-centered way that I had something to
contribute to history. They were self-published as Recollecting the Forties. Writing the book turned
out to be a painful, cathartic experience for me. Under the guise of being honest
or humorous, I criticized even people I cared about—my mother, teachers, and
various people in the small town where we lived.
Perhaps we grow more tolerant as we
age, or maybe my memory is failing. Whatever the reason, I feel much less
judgmental now. So what if some people behaved neurotically because they were over-religious?
Most of us are neurotic in one way or another. Was I really damaged by the
teacher who taught by her nineteenth-century standards? Why did I disparage my
mother’s housekeeping skills? She was a wonderful mother, and housework is
rather low on my own priority list.
Though I regret
much of what I wrote, my general conclusion is unchanged: The forties were a
time of much inhibition, poverty, and ignorance, and I am happy to be living in
a more enlightened era. However, there is much to be said for the frugality (albeit
necessary) and other positive aspects of that decade. We need to “recollect”
much from the forties, while staying free of its destructive qualities.
