I was born in 1951. White kid, middle class, female, semirural.
We weren’t nearly as afraid of being kidnapped, or molested, or drinking the water straight out of the creek as long as it was running clear. Maybe we should have been, but we weren’t.
We were, however, a whole lot more afraid of nuclear war. (Maybe we should be now, but mostly we aren’t.)
Little kids, and to some extent older ones, were a lot more likely to have significant unsupervised and unformatted time. Not everybody thinks that’s better, but overall I do. You could find out what was in your head without somebody telling you all the time what ought to be in there.
A lot of the environmental damage that’s happened over the last seventy years hadn’t happened yet. Some things have been cleaned up; but additional damage has been done.
Political and social discourse was a lot less fragmented. This had its disadvantages; but at least, if something was on TV and in the newspapers, there weren’t going to be lots of people arguing that it hadn’t happened at all.
It seems to me, in recollection, that people were a lot more relaxed. Time off was time off. Your boss wasn’t going to call you during off hours unless you had an unusual sort of job. Nobody – other than maybe your four year old or your cat – was expecting you to be continuously accessible. People could be out of touch for hours, or even days, and nobody would be upset about it. That had its downsides, of course; but it had its upsides too.
(Years later, in the late 1970’s, I broke up with my boyfriend on a trip across the country. I got in my car and drove off (I didn’t leave him by the side of the road, he was staying with his friends and it was his idea). Nobody for a thousand miles knew who I was. Nobody who knew me knew within a thousand miles where I was. Nobody at all but me knew what I was doing. It was terrifying; I was shaking. And it was also a huge thrill of power through me that I can feel to this day; I was shaking with joy. Nobody in the current society ever gets to feel that.)
One person, with an average sort of job, could often support a family. That’s a big one.
We were on the absolute cutting edge of great technology – and we weren’t, mostly, full of doubts about it. We had all sorts of things nobody had ever had before. An utterly ordinary house might have not only indoor plumbing and electric lights, but also a washing machine, a home freezer, electric or gas heat and cookstove – no more stoking the coal or the firewood!–, telephone, television. You could watch right now things happening on the other side of the continent, the same day! You could call up your uncle who’d moved to Italy and hear his voice, real time, on the phone! You could get an injection and wow, you wouldn’t get polio! You could take penicillin and your infection went away!
Not all that stuff was brand new, but some of it was, and just about all of it was new as something in common use during the lives of our parents. And we expected it to keep getting better. We hadn’t discovered antibiotic-resistant diseases yet – we expected disease to just be gone, soon. We hadn’t discovered the downsides of some of that tech. We thought soon everything would be atomic powered, including cars and houses. Work hours were supposed to keep getting shorter (and the jobs were expected to still pay just as well.) We expected our lives to just keep on getting better.
I don’t get the impression that many people think that, now.
– but, having said that, I remember again that we also expected the world to end in nuclear fire, any moment. The Red Queen’s got nothing on humans; just about all of us can simultaneously believe contradictory things before breakfast, after breakfast, and at two in the morning while sound asleep.