I grew up in the Deep South, during a time when whispers from the antebellum were still faintly audible. They were passed ear to ear, generation to generation, from our ancestors to our great-grandparents, to whom we still had a physical link. Memories were longer then, and the passage of time slower.
If the antebellum whispered, the periods which followed murmured. Each period grew louder until it got to the Great Depression, which spoke in a loud, nagging voice to remind us in the modern age that times then were hard. Grandparents wiped off tin foil and folded it into neat squares to use again. They were wary and determined that the hard times which could come in an instant should not catch them off guard. Grandchildren rolled their eyes and threw away the tin foil when no one was looking. We were a generation drunk with luxury, and scornful of the fretfulness of our elders.
