The Good Ole Days

Recently, as I wandered around in a mega-shopping center, a thought occurred to me. As such an event is rare these days, I decided I should share it with people before it left of its own accord, never to be heard from again. With the obvious exception of the fact that everything in a Japanese mall is in Japanese, the place appeared identical to those I've seen elsewhere. They remind me of casinos, really. You will almost never see a window or a clock. God forbid we should be exposed to the elements or, worse yet, realize how much of our life we had wasted looking at the most uncomfortable underwear ever invented. As a side note to this little rant, I should mention that I am still amazed that we can see lawsuits filed over a "wardrobe malfunction" during the half-time show, but it is somehow acceptable to flaunt sexy lingerie in the windows of Victoria's Secret (by the way Vicky, I think the proverbial cat is out of the bag). But I digress...
What started me down this vein of thought was a sense of loss. We have lost innumerable aspects of our culture, particularly in America, thanks to the shoe-box stores and mega-malls. Even at the ripe old age of thirty I can scarcely remember shopping on the town square. But what I do remember was great. Not only were the stores well-kept, but they were also unique. Before Barnes and Noble came to town, we used to buy newspapers and baseball cards at a little shop off the square. My father and I would sneak off between Sunday school and church and walk around the corner to the newsstand. The men behind the counter all called my father by name as he bought his paper and my baseball cards. Then we would walk back just in time to find my mother before the service started. It was a nice Sunday tradition, but that little store has long-since faded away. People are more inclined to drive their cars over to a shopping district that is completely disjointed from the town's pedestrian-friendly square. With windows rolled up, a/c on and music playing, they drive to the store, park as close as possible to the door, and walk inside to buy things from people they don't know. They return home, pull the car in the garage closing the door behind them, and go inside. During the whole process they manage to avoid any human contact beyond the sales clerk's obligatory questions, and for most people the church service never enters the equation. Its sad, really.
I find myself wondering how this happened. It seems unlikely that I am the only one who enjoyed walking down the street on a Sunday morning, visiting with the familiar faces you were destined to meet. Many of the "Mom and Pop" businesses showed genuine concern for their customers. It sounds like a foreign concept today, but I often felt like they even liked us. Maybe my memory is biased, but it just doesn't seem like it was that bad.