I was raised in America during the 1950s. "The Land of the Free." "The Home of the Brave." "Leave it to Beaver." "The Brady Bunch."
People left their doors open, even in New York City. Young men sang a cappella under the street light outside our window.
We lived in an ethnic melting pot. Was the absence of computers and a more controlled media shielding us or were we just ignorantly blissful? The Middle East was on my world globe. Period. It was a childhood filled with music, art, a loving family and "The Endless Days of Summer."
"Make Love not War" was chanted in the 1960s as various so-called gurus pranced barefoot amid wide-eyed flower child wonders waving peace signs and looking for the path to enlightenment. The Vietnam War hit America with a vengeance. I was aware of the war. Period. I was not a protester. I was a pretender living in a Woodstock reality.
There has always been war, and America has always been affected by it, but war with other nations was always at a safe distance. It is the soldiers who live the horrifying reality of war. It knocks the peace and love and mom and apple pie right out of them. Their lives are forever changed and not always for the better. They are great heroes.
War is now on American soil. The "Days of Innocence" are over. We all are at risk of being attacked and killed by terrorists, and the hate that many Americans feel toward the government and each other just adds to a world gone mad.
How I miss those "Endless Days of Summer."