“Matchbooks. You don't see 'em anymore”. Strange random thought my honey texted me this morning. I don't know what brought it to her mind; indeed, initially the very unusual, randomness of the message occupied my thoughts more than the idea itself. Later though the text popped back into my mind and I thought : you don't see 'em anymore!
When I was a kid in the seventies, we had a big glass bowl in the dining room buffet (as we called it) that was more or less full of matchbooks. Everytime we went out to dinner at a restaurant, or traveled and stopped at a motel, or went to just about any other business for the first time, my Dad would pick up a matchbook or two. Of course, back then my Mom smoked and my Dad now and then would surruptiously have a cigar, not to mention that we were fond of barbequing in the backyard when it was warm, so some matchbooks found a utilitarian purpose, but mostly they just collected in the glass bowl and were a conversation piece. I loved looking at the artwork, the logos and different fonts on them. I don't know what happened to the bowl of matches, nor to that teak buffet for that matter (you don't see teak buffets in dining rooms much anymore either!). My Dad still collects things- stamps, quarters with unusual designs, eggcups - at last count over 300 different ones!- but not matchbooks. And how could he? When was the last time you came across a bowl of matches at a restaurant checkout to help yourself to?
By and large this might be a good thing. A reflection of society's collective frowning on smoking and anything that encourages the unhealthy habit. Of course those who do can easily enough get lighters to fire up their smokes, and campers in need of a method of starting a cooking fire can still buy boxes of heavy-duty, waterproof matches in hardware stores. But the Bo Peep restaurants, Ma and Pa's Seaside Cottages and Lovelies nightclubs out there - if they're still out there and haven't been turned into Applebees, Motel 6's and Hooters- can find better ways to spend their advertising money.
I thought about it some more. You don't see other commonplace things from my childhood too. Pay phones are a rarity now, and of course the rotary phone itself is now so rare as to be an interesting collectors item fetching $40 at antique shops. People have celphones now. You don't see TV antennas (or is that “antennae”?) soaring over suburban houses either. Of course, people long ago got sold on the idea of 200 channels via cable, and then got sold on “cord cutting” and using Netflix and Amazon after that, but getting rid of those 40-foot metal monstrosities behind their garage was seldom a high-priority weekend task. Still, one by one, month by month, street by street, down they came until now they're about as rare a sight as a working Ford Pinto or Polaroid camera.
The disappearance of residential TV antennas (or is it “antennae”?) is seldom lamented by anyone other than a singing Cardinal or a filmmaker looking to quickly set a scene as belonging to the '70s. They didn't add a lot to the skyline and half the time didn't bring in the PBS station without snow and static. But it still made me a little sad when I thought about them, or the lack of them.
Occasionally, as with the World Trade Center, things disappear suddenly and violently from our world. And we grieve them. More often though, things just gradually decline and fade away and get to be less and less a part of the landscape until suddenly they are no more. Old cars break down and go to the wreckers until the model is a vintage head-turner; old friends call and get called less and less until one year they're not even on the Christmas card list. You just don't see 'em anymore.
Matchbooks. I kinda wish we saw them around more these days.
When I was a kid in the seventies, we had a big glass bowl in the dining room buffet (as we called it) that was more or less full of matchbooks. Everytime we went out to dinner at a restaurant, or traveled and stopped at a motel, or went to just about any other business for the first time, my Dad would pick up a matchbook or two. Of course, back then my Mom smoked and my Dad now and then would surruptiously have a cigar, not to mention that we were fond of barbequing in the backyard when it was warm, so some matchbooks found a utilitarian purpose, but mostly they just collected in the glass bowl and were a conversation piece. I loved looking at the artwork, the logos and different fonts on them. I don't know what happened to the bowl of matches, nor to that teak buffet for that matter (you don't see teak buffets in dining rooms much anymore either!). My Dad still collects things- stamps, quarters with unusual designs, eggcups - at last count over 300 different ones!- but not matchbooks. And how could he? When was the last time you came across a bowl of matches at a restaurant checkout to help yourself to?
By and large this might be a good thing. A reflection of society's collective frowning on smoking and anything that encourages the unhealthy habit. Of course those who do can easily enough get lighters to fire up their smokes, and campers in need of a method of starting a cooking fire can still buy boxes of heavy-duty, waterproof matches in hardware stores. But the Bo Peep restaurants, Ma and Pa's Seaside Cottages and Lovelies nightclubs out there - if they're still out there and haven't been turned into Applebees, Motel 6's and Hooters- can find better ways to spend their advertising money.
I thought about it some more. You don't see other commonplace things from my childhood too. Pay phones are a rarity now, and of course the rotary phone itself is now so rare as to be an interesting collectors item fetching $40 at antique shops. People have celphones now. You don't see TV antennas (or is that “antennae”?) soaring over suburban houses either. Of course, people long ago got sold on the idea of 200 channels via cable, and then got sold on “cord cutting” and using Netflix and Amazon after that, but getting rid of those 40-foot metal monstrosities behind their garage was seldom a high-priority weekend task. Still, one by one, month by month, street by street, down they came until now they're about as rare a sight as a working Ford Pinto or Polaroid camera.
The disappearance of residential TV antennas (or is it “antennae”?) is seldom lamented by anyone other than a singing Cardinal or a filmmaker looking to quickly set a scene as belonging to the '70s. They didn't add a lot to the skyline and half the time didn't bring in the PBS station without snow and static. But it still made me a little sad when I thought about them, or the lack of them.
Occasionally, as with the World Trade Center, things disappear suddenly and violently from our world. And we grieve them. More often though, things just gradually decline and fade away and get to be less and less a part of the landscape until suddenly they are no more. Old cars break down and go to the wreckers until the model is a vintage head-turner; old friends call and get called less and less until one year they're not even on the Christmas card list. You just don't see 'em anymore.
Matchbooks. I kinda wish we saw them around more these days.