Longing for a Simpler Time

I've always found it strange that I feel sentimentally retrospective toward the 1950s, especially since I never lived during the time, nor my parents, however, I cannot deny that the feelings are there. Call it a longing for that which was simpler, a time when America was flourishing while the whole of Europe laid in a shambles, a time of lemon chiffon and suburban cocktail parties. I wish to live in a time when you knew your neighbors, even invited them into your humble Sears Catalog Home for a pot roast. I want that American dream consisting of a wife, son, daughter, and family car. Perhaps I'm just a hopeless romantic, maybe not even 'perhaps'...I suppose I am. The whole idea of a structured life really appeals to me. Don't get me wrong; I'm not solely obsessed with the superficial ideas of the housewife and suburbia, but of the feel of the time when one knew that being an American and living in the United States meant something, when the US dollar wasn't a joke, when college was affordable, and the government at least half-heartedly cared about its citizens. I've always been about the choices we currently have as Americans, or, at least, what APPEARS to be choices ('appears' as many of them are out of reach for the middle-class man)...I value that there are at least 10 flavors of Pringles in Wal-Mart at any given time, but I'm finding more and more that I despise this America that I live in. As a middle-class white European-heritage male, living on a sizeable hill in North East Pennsylvania, having no religion and next to no family that I really KNOW, I feel as I have no community, no bond, no one and nothing to share a common understanding with. I know who my neighbors are, but I might as well not have any at all. I've conversed with the carpeting in my living room more than the bulk of my neighbors, and that's really sick. I long for the time of the kitchen appliance boom, the invention of the microwave, and the very real possibility of an alien or Soviet attack, and I mean that in all honesty. I want to have a barbeque with three other couples and their children outside under my awning by the pool where the kids play all day. I want to wake up to the smell of crackling bacon and scrambled eggs and have breakfast and coffee with my family in the overly-floral canary yellow kitchen. I want to have a good job that provides financial security for my family and their future, to come home after a long day at work, kick back on the armchair, and light up a cigarette while I read the newspaper. Perhaps Mrs. Abington will stop by to borrow a cup of sugar, or maybe Mr. Cooper with request my help with the construction of his new home addition. I want dinner with my family where the conversation is placid, the food is homemade, and the floral centerpiece is always moved to the sideboard before we begin. I want to have that Sunday brunch at the local diner, where we know the waitresses by name, and she knows our 'usual' order and is actually happy to see our familiar faces. And that jukebox in the corner?, yea, I'll be playing the latest upbeat tune for only a nickel, listening from my booth while my legs stick to the red vinyl seats. It's not fair that my dream is next to impossible. I'm sure there's a 1950s cult/village somewhere which I imagine to be a lot like Stepford, Connecticut, but I'll take the cult atmosphere with the Life cereal and everything that comes with it, gladly, happily, although perhaps I'll spare the robotic vagina.