Just ask a baby boomer. Poem, by Friendship, at My poetic side

When you ask of their youth, a soft light takes their face,

A gentle smile appears, time cannot erase.

For those Boomer years, a truth they understood:

Not having much, but making all things good.

Long summer days, a sun-kissed, easy span,

Bikes flew until streetlights flickered on command.

Barefoot on grass, leaving emerald streaks behind,

Watermelon slices, the sweetest porch-side find.

And powdered mixes, a luxury so grand,

Lemonade dreams across a thirsty land.

One telephone, a guardian on the kitchen wall,

Its cord a tether, stretching for a whispered call.

Saturday cartoons, a sacred, morning rite,

No endless screens, just stories bathed in light.

And Sunday's feast, where every kin would keep,

No alibis, while family bonds ran deep.

Young spirits roamed, the world their boundless stage,

A stick, a ball, a jump rope, turning every page.

No constant watch, no tracking every quest,

Just trust you'd find your way back, put to nature's test.

And when hunger called, a signal sharp and clear,

We always surfaced, casting off all fear.

Yes, life was lean, with less a common sight,

More chores, fewer frills, but bathed in golden light.

A slower pulse, a sweetness deeply sown,

With simple joys, on fertile ground well-grown.

Not everything they had, but truly, quite enough:

Laughter and love, and freedom, strong and rough,

That forged a spirit, resilient, keen, and tough.

Now silvered, wiser, looking back they clearly see,

Not just a childhood, but destiny's key.

A foundation laid for gratitude and grit,

For community, and the place where they would sit.

The toys were few, a simple, meager store,

But boundless memories forevermore.