Before my father died, he penned a few books that were snapshots of his life as a husband, father and building contractor living in a sleepy Central Florida town that was on the verge of waking up as a city. One of his books, titled “Main Street & Magnolia,” shared stories of the people and businesses of Ocala’s downtown square after World War II.
Lately, I’ve heard a lot about Main Street from politicians, pundits and just about everyone else. Yet, I wonder if my dad would recognize the Main Street of today.
In this time of economic volatility, I’m intrigued by the prolific use of the term “Main Street.” Our presidential candidates urge us to return to the sensibilities of the everyday working class, which nicely morphs into the catch phrase of Main Street for a crisp 30-second sound bite. Yet, if we dig a little deeper, we may very well discover we share more differences than similarities of the small-town lifestyle so publicly espoused today.
My father’s Main Street understood the difference between rights and privileges.
It was his right to participate in a market-driven economy, but it was a privilege to afford more than one car for a family of six, so my sisters and I shared the family car in high school.
It was dad’s right to pursue educational opportunities for his children but a privilege to send them to a private college, so he didn’t. We turned out OK anyway — or so I like to believe.
And it was my dad’s ultimate joy to help pay for his daughters’ weddings. Bless his heart, he had four girls so the financial deck was stacked against him. But never did he consider getting a second mortgage to finance a destination extravaganza. That was a privilege, or rather, in his opinion, a wasteful indulgence.
In his book, dad wrote “In Ocala, everything was within walking distance. We went about making a living, getting married, raising a family and going to the square on a Saturday night to get a bag of candy at McCrory’s.”
A bag of candy is a far cry from the $40 video game, oversized plasma screen TV and gas-guzzling SUVs so prevalent in today’s America. Somewhere along the way, we began financing the notion of the American dream with credit cards, over-mortgaged houses and a lifestyle few could afford.
If we are to label ourselves as Main Streeters, let’s earn it as my father’s generation did. Let’s live within our means. Let’s reduce urban sprawl. Let’s minimize our carbon footprint. Let’s enjoy a walk around the square on a Saturday night.
I pulled out dad’s book recently, thumbing through the pages. Dad said his memory of Main Street gave him a “warm glow of nostalgia.” Not sub-prime mortgages or credit card debt.
He autographed my copy with the inscription “To Amy Lisa, Always remember.”
I’m trying to, dad. Thank you for the reminder.