The Trunk

My mother had her best glassware wrapped in newspapers in a big trunk at the bottom of the hall closet. Once I was fascinated to read that one of the stories preserving her delicate plates was the announcement of the disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa. This struck me as a coincidence so bizarre as to be meaningful.  When I got older I knew better. Those plates were wrapped in the 1970s. It would have been some damn disaster or other.

Its hard to describe the 1970s to young people today. It stunk, the way a dead skunk stinks in the dead of night: nobody's fault, but unavoidable. I think that lack of anger is most peculiar to moderners. In the 21st century we know who to blame. But where Americans today gravitate towards Glenn Beck or Michael Moore, the 1970s celebrated Irma Bombeck, who explored the curious notion that Mom's Good Housekeeping books of 1950s gracious living were as phony as Star Wars.

I'm talking regular folks. The guys doing coke and David Bowie were a deliberately exclusive club.