Growing up, we had the usual generational divides in our home. When my parents were born, they were included as part of the Silent Generation who lived through the Spanish Flu, Roaring Twenties, Great Depression, World War Two. Right behind them came the Greatest Generation who lived through WWII, Korea, Joseph McCarthy, and the battle over whether drinking water should have fluoride in it. I came from the Baby Boomer era, and our generation had its own challenges such as racism, political assassinations, and the Viet Nam War. Now, make no mistake about it, the Olds and I got along just fine, but there were some hairline cracks in the relationship. Usually, it was over insignificant cultural matters.
Music was always problematic because I confused the Olds. I genuinely liked, and still like early 1920s Jazz through the Big Band sound of 1944. That year is my own arbitrary date because it was the year the Glenn Miller’s plane went down. They liked Mantovani and some of the crooners like Perry Como. One night over dinner, the subject of music came up. It was our family’s preferred method to avoid mentioning more challenging problems. Mother nearly dropped a fork in horror when I brought up a new-to-me 1920s band, the Clicquot Club Eskimos, and started talking about them.
Mother composed herself, and said, “I think you should try listening to other music your school friends like. I just heard about a new group of English singers called the Rolling Stones, and that Joni Mitchell seems like a nice young lady. Perhaps you should try her music for a change. Over dessert, she mentioned another band I might like called Metallica. Mother remained remarkably clueless for her entire life.
The length of my hair was another generational battle. My father thought of himself as a barber, and cut my hair. Trust me, he was no barber, but he was so thrifty he could make the buffalo on a nickel squawk. He would cut my hair and then beginning a few days later would run the back of his hand up the back of my head. If my hair did not bristle, it was time for another haircut. After a decade, I liked keeping it short. Short, according to Father, meant off the top of my ears and my shirt collar. Mother thought I looked too much like an IBM engineer, especially with a mechanical pencil in the plastic shirt pocket protector. I think their logo might have been a dead give-away. I thanked her for the compliment; she glared and said it was NOT a compliment.
I could keep going about the culture wars of the good old days, but the heart of the matter every generation goes through them, and then guess what? The day slipped in on us when we Baby Boomers evolved into the mindset of the Greatest and Silent generations. And now, it appears that the Millennials are turning into Boomers. Good for them! They’ve quit making snide remarks like, “Okay, Boomer,” and are realizing sometimes there is a lot of old-fashioned common sense, wisdom they need to learn. Some of them are willing to listen to us.
They once feared becoming their parents, vehemently pledging it was never going to happen to them, and now they have become us. They always wanted to be “cool” (or is it “hot”? I can’t remember) and now they have arrived. A good example is that our Olds told us to turn off the light when we left the room, turn down the heat and put on a sweater when cold – and now that the Mills are paying the utility bills, they are economizing.
Economically, the Mills are catching up to us Boomers with the exception of home ownership. Taking into account the all too frequent painting the house, utility bills, taxes, various fees, new windows, water in the basement and replacing a water heater, and a lot more, owning a home isn’t all it is cracked up to be. For some, this American dream is edging toward the cliff of a nightmare. The Mils are discovering the lessons and experiences common to each generation.
There are other examples of how they are morphing into us and becoming more like their parents. The older they get, the less they want to go to a loud party or stay out too late. They are not that keen about watching a violent movie where blood and body parts are blown across the county. A nice Agatha Christie style mystery, preferably on PBS, is becoming their preferred adventure.
Drive at night? Maybe, but like us, they don’t feel as comfortable as in the past, and they are much more aware that there might be deer on the road, or something else. And since they don’t like driving at night, they’re vying with us Boomers for the early-bird specials at a quiet restaurant. Like us at the Silents and Greatest’s, they will delight in saving money with discounts and coupons.
For some, the older they get the more likely they are to return a traditional or main-line denomination church. The great mega-churches, often with either Hollywood worthy choreography or a praise band was their ‘thing’ for a while. The older the Mils get, the more many of them want to reconnect with something from their childhood, with the old familiar hymns, solid preaching, and an emphasis on practical, practicing Christianity.
The sad thing is that the Mills will never attain our Boomer level of being cool. They won’t be driving the hot muscle cars or wearing the fashions with our panache. Sorry, ladies, but you will never be as cool as your granny, back in the day when she was in school. Bell bottoms and paisley shirts and tie-died t-shirts aren’t coming back. Nor are go-go boots and dancing to disco under the reflecting balls over the dance floor. Conversely, the good thing is that men will never yield to the temptation of donning polyester leisure suits, much like what Cousin Eddy wore in Chevy Chase’s Christmas Vacation.
Nor are we likely to see women sporting what was known as Big Hair – the beehive hairdos and other similar styles, lacquered into place with copious amounts of hair spray. Today, not so much, except in some parts of the Bible Belt where the motto remains, “The taller the hair, the closer to Jesus. It was popular among many women of the Greats, but not so much with the Boomers. Their accepted uniform was long straight hair, often ironed before going out the door.
There is one sure sign that a Mill has started becoming a Boomer: Dad jokes, such as, “Birdie with a yellow bill hopped upon my windowsill, cocked a shining eye and said, ‘What did you do with the light…? Socket?” Tell the joke, and before the groaning stops, ask, “You want another one?”
