“We didn’t realize we were making memories, we just knew we were having fun.” (Anonymous)

We all have a decade that lives inside us. Mine wears bell bottoms and velour, smells faintly of Charlie perfume, and sounds like the soft crackle of a vinyl record finding its groove. Looking back, the 1970s were the comfort food decade of my life, not because they were flawless, but because something felt reassuringly normal.  Music came wrapped in album covers big enough to become artwork and neighbors knocked on the front door instead of sending a text.

I was a teenager in the 1970s, when the world felt larger and every road seemed to lead somewhere new.  There was something genuinely comforting about that era: a slower rhythm, fewer distractions, and a quieter belief that life didn’t have to be extraordinary to have purpose. There was a gentleness sewn into everyday life that I still miss today. 

Sundays belonged to family dinners, when the pot of Sunday sauce would begin its slow, steady simmer shortly after breakfast.  No Italian household worth its salt waited until lunchtime to start thinking about the sauce. The scent of tomatoes, garlic, and fried meatballs drifted through the house for hours, announcing that the day would end around a crowded table, with boyfriends welcomed as if they had always belonged.

And then there were Sunday afternoons.  Nothing felt more luxurious than driving my Pontiac Firebird with the sunroof open on a warm, lazy Sunday afternoon.  I can almost feel my hands on the steering wheel as I cruised with nowhere particular to go; a full tank of gas and a favorite song were all the plans I needed.  Looking back, I realize my Firebird and I had our own kind of magic. It had the zing; I had Farrah Fawcett feathered hair. Together, we cruised with a confidence that only a teenager can possess.

The 1970s certainly had its share of turbulence. The Vietnam War was coming to an end, Watergate had left the country questioning its leaders, and the nation would soon elect a soft-spoken peanut farmer from Georgia as president. But beyond the headlines, there was another America. An America of neighborhood friendships, handwritten notes, music on the radio, and Sunday afternoons that seemed to stretch a little longer than they do today.

Maybe what I miss most about that decade was the permission to simply be. We weren’t constantly documenting our lives or comparing ourselves to everyone else. We went out without a phone in our pocket, got a little lost, and somehow always found our way home. A Saturday night could be as simple as hanging out in a friend’s house, meeting at the diner, going to the movies, or sitting in a car talking until the clock reminded us it was time to leave. We weren’t chasing experiences to prove we were living, we were just living them.

Perhaps I don’t miss the 1970s as much as I miss the girl who drove that Firebird. I miss her optimism, her eagerness, and her faith that the best parts of life were just around the corner.