I spent the first 16 years of my life without electricity, indoor plumbing, or a telephone. There were no glowing screens, no buzzing notifications, no endless stream of headlines telling us who to fear or what to buy. We lived with kerosene lamps, hand-drawn water, and a wood stove. We werenƵt disconnected; we were rooted. Not in cyberspace, but in community. Not in convenience, but in meaning.
When modern amenities arrived, one by one, we didnƵt rush past them. We savored them. A single lightbulb dangling from a ceiling was a marvel. A hot bath indoors? Luxury. A telephone ringing? That was the world reaching out to us, and we gathered around to listen. These werenƵt upgrades. They were quiet revolutions that brought ease, not noise.
I lived through the Great Depression and World War II, the Korean War, Vietnam, and all the little ones between. We knew hunger and rationing. We knew sacrifice. And we knew loss, the kind that wears a Gold Star in the window. But when peace returned, it wasnƵt abstract. It was warm bread in the oven, kids in the yard, music on the radio. It was the stillness of not fearing what might come next. We appreciated peace because we knew what war cost.
Back then, half the town still rode horses. The other half rattled along in Model T Fords on dirt roads. Sears Roebuck and Montgomery Ward catalogs werenƵt just shopping; they were windows into another world. Today, the world doesnƵt wait for a catalog. It barges in, uninvited, every second of every day.
Could people today imagine such a life? Could they survive without their screens, their notifications, their endless updates? Could they go a week without wi-fi and a mirror of self-importance in social media? I wonder.
We had less, but we had time. Time to think. Time to sit on a porch and listen to the crickets. Time to be.
Now, we live in the age of Ƶplenty.Ƶ Instant news, infinite entertainment, artificial intelligence at your beck and call. But in the pursuit of plenty, what have we created?
Does it make us happier or hollow?
Did it give us abundance or addiction?
Look at our towns. Look at the hollowed-out eyes of young people in the grip of opioids. Look at the families torn apart, the dreams derailed. Did our race toward comfort breed the very disconnection that made drugs a substitute for meaning?
And what of the world itself? The skies were clearer when we traveled slower. The rivers cleaner when we took less. Now the very earth groans under our need for more. Global warming isnƵt a theory; itƵs a fever. The storms rage harder. The seasons shift. Did the chase for more-more energy, more speed, more stuff, set the fuse on a future we might not survive?
And now, here comes AI, whispering that it can solve it all. That it can write, think, speak, drive, create. But can it care? Can it grieve with us when the news is bad, or rejoice with us when a grandchild is born? Can it walk with us in silence when thereƵs nothing to say?
Progress is not a sin. Comfort is not an enemy. But we should ask: In the great exchange between simplicity and speed, between enough and excess, what did we lose? And can we get it back?
There is power in remembering. And maybe, just maybe, in remembering, we can reclaim something true before it slips away forever.
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