When civilization has long collapsed, the Warring States era has come and gone leaving strontium-90 and cesium-137-salted ashes where once great cities stood and humanity is not even a memory, only this will remain as a reminder of the glory that was.
In 1937, the median American household income was $723, the average, according to the Social Security Administration, was $890. That's with, usually, only the husband working. The inflation factor to convert that to 2025 dollars is 22.28.
In the first quarter of 2025, the median household income was $80,610, the average $82,373. That's with, almost always, both husband and wife working.
The houses pictured here, from a 1937 issue of Life, cost between $3,000 (upper left) and $6,000 (the two next to the bottom; the bottom house is $4,000), so between $66,840 and $133,680 in inflated dollars. In the first quarter of 2025, the average house price was $503,800.
So in 1937, if we take the average house price to be around $4,500, a house cost something like five or six times a typical family's annual income. And in 2025, a house costs roughly six times a typical family's annual income.
What kind of amenities did houses in 1937 have? Take a look:
Of course, a lot has changed in the country since 1937, much of it, maybe most of it, not for the better. For example, in 1937, the average house price in the Richmond district of San Francisco was around $3,500. Today it is over $1.8 million. So back then an ordinary working stiff could buy a home in a lovely part of the country, ride a trolley bus downtown or to the wharves to a job that paid him enough to own that house and support his family. His wife could shop at the local corner store and volunteer with the PTA and the library. His kids could walk to safe, disciplined schools that actually taught math and science, history and literature. On his days off he could take his family to Golden Gate Park or other safe and enjoyable parts of the city. Without owning a car. Today? He couldn't afford a house within two hours of San Francisco, and that would be with his wife working. The schools he can afford for his kids are pointless, violent child warehouses. He needs a car, and so does his wife, not only to get to work, but also just to get groceries. And crime....
Now you may say that there are still plenty of affordable housing areas in the country, and no doubt there are. But are they in delightful areas by the ocean or a lake with lovely mountain views? Are they crime free with excellent schools? Are they close to cultural amenities like world-class museums, concert halls, theaters? Are there plentiful, well-paying jobs within a short bus-ride (a safe, clean bus ride)? Are there corner stores and shops within walking distance of home the wife can visit daily for fresh foods for her family?
Are they? Are there?
Some claim the origin of song
was a war cry.
Some say it was a rhyme
telling the farmers when to plant and reap.
Don't they know the first song was a lullaby
pulled from a mother's sleep?
And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten.
Now is the high-tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer.
We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing.
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Everything is happy now.
―
 |
| A Ranger SBD dive bomber flying over a Norwegian fjord. |
The USS Ranger spent
almost all its wartime career in the Atlantic and Mediterranean,
blasting targets from French Morocco to Norway. Winston Churchill requested it reinforce the British Indian Ocean fleet after the Japanese obliterated it, but Admiral King refused. It sank the French battleship Jean Bart during Operation Torch. The Germans claimed to
have sunk it four times, but it never suffered a scratch from enemy action, and
its fighters and dive bombers cut a wide swath through the enemy. While hunting off Norway, sinking tens of thousands of tons of German shipping, Churchill personally requested she be 
withdrawn. The Brits were afraid she'd sink the Tirpitz before they did. Notice in the photo to the left how happy and carefree her pilots are. No worries have they!
Why did the Ranger spend its time in the Atlantic? Because it
was considered too slow and vulnerable to risk being deployed in the
Pacific against the Japanese, who were a most formidable foe, fierce,
fanatic and fatalistic. They expected to die in the war and intended to
take you with them.
Now look at the photo to the lower right. It's of pilots in the ready room of the USS Hornet. They don't look so happy. These men faced the Japanese, battling them at Midway and during the Guadalcanal campaign. The Hornet
was sunk in fierce fighting during the Battle of Santa Cruz, less than a
year into the Pacific War. They had reason to be glum.
In the photo directly below, pilots about to set off on a mission against the
Japanese listen to a reading from the Bible and pray together,
recognizing that there is a good chance they won't come back, and if
they are shot down, survive and are captured by the Japanese, they
will need all the strength God can provide them to endure the ordeal
they will face.
What verse were they reading? That's lost in time. But perhaps Romans 5:3~5:
"We glory in tribulations, knowing that tribulation produces perseverance; and perseverance, character; and character, hope."
What verse do you think they were reading? It's far enough back in the
book that it might be something from Revelations, perhaps 19:11 --
"I saw heaven standing open and there before me was a white horse, whose
rider is called Faithful and True. With justice he judges and makes war."
Or perhaps it was 21:4 --
"He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no
more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for
the former things have passed away."
 | |
| Hornet dying under the blows of the Japanese. |
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| Neither the Wasp nor her crew, ship's and aviation, did anything shameful on this day. Shame on you, Life magazine! |
Why would people tattoo the logo of an auto parts shop on themselves, I asked. They both shrugged. My uncle suggested I should get a tattoo of Betty Boop. While he and el jefe discussed whether Ms Boop should be posing in a cocktail glass or astride a motorcycle, I wondered why so much of popular culture, whether candy bars or cartoons, originated in the 1920s and1930s. I guess it was America's coming of age era, when it by then had developed and matured its own distinct culture and history with unique musical, architectural, culinary and literary styles among other things. You could grab a hamburger and a Coke, then go to the movies and watch a Walt Disney cartoon, see a western shoot-em-up with Tom Mix and his wonder horse Tony while munching on a Baby Ruth. Afterwards, you could take the elevator to the top floor of a skyscraper to someplace called the Madhattan Room to dance the Lindy Hop to the swinging jive of Woody Herman or Kay Kaiser.
would be if I were a 1930s cartoon. Certainly not Clarabelle Cow. They shrugged again. I nixed the swinish suggestion.The men then began discussing camshafts for some reason and I thought about the name Betty. Why was it once so popular? There was Betty Boop, of course, but also Betty Rubble, Betty Crocker, Bettie Page, Bette Davis, Bette Midler, Betty Grable, Betty Hutton, Betty White, Betty Ford, Betty, Betty, Betty. I don't care all that much for the name. No reason, I just don't. I have a good friend named Gwen...Gwendolyn...and I like that name. Always have. I wondered if I like the name because I like my friend or I like her because I like the name. Silly? But what if she had a name I hated, like Bertha, Mildred or Gertrude? Would I even have bothered to have gotten to know her?
My newest, who had been amusing himself on the ground, climbed up into my lap ready for chow so I unbuttoned my blouse and he giggled and latched on with a will. Both men stopped talking and looked away. It's funny how guys will obsess over boobs and pay money to have a girl show them hers, but when they see one being used for its purpose they get embarrassed. Or maybe they are just being polite. I don't know.Of course, as soon as the future emperor of the world was done nursing he pooped. I got a fresh diaper out of my baby bag and began changing him. As I was cleaning him, he got an erection (nothing sexual about it; it's just a boy baby thing). I knew what was coming so I was quick to try to cover him but not quick enough as he began fountaining pee over me, a contented smile on his face. When that happened with my first boy, I didn't know what was coming, leaned over him wondering why he had gotten an erection and he peed in the face.
I heard laughter and looked over to see both guys watching me. I made a face at them.
My mother, who had been working in the rose garden, came around the corner brushing something off her sleeve and saw us. She marched over and stood between me and the two guys, glowering first at them, then at me. "Wanda, you cover yourself right now. What do you think you are doing?" She picked up my baby and rocked him. I heard el jefe mutter "Here we go." I could have explained but I just pointed to the baby bag then held my fingers to my nose. She'd been there in her time so she understood."Well, you could be more modest, you know," she said.
"Oh, it's just el jefe and...."
"Even so." And she glared daggers at both men, who looked like little boys being scolded by their grandma.
Why don't you join us, mom? Have some ice tea."
"Well, I will, but I have to wash up first. You close your blouse, Wanda. You hear?" she said as she handed me my baby, his arms stretched out for me. She went into the house. I stuck my tongue out at her back.
I heard glasses clink and unc say, "You're a lucky man, Jeff. What a set!" I opened my eyes to see both men looking at me as el jefe was saying, "They're especially big when she is nursing; they're full of milk." I was tempted to say, "Are either of you boys hungry?" But I didn't. While thinking what goofs men were to be mesmerized by the sight of boobs, I realized that I enjoyed their gaze, liked letting them see. I smiled at them and el jefe raised his glass to me.
I looked up at the blue sky and racing clouds high up. Saw barn swallows circling and zooming. Heard a dove coo. I felt a slow rush of pleasant happiness sweep over me. Somehow, somewhere, I heard a lute playing, something I somehow knew but had never heard before.
My uncle said, "I should go." and el jefe said, "No, stay. When that boy grows up you can tell him about the time you saw him suck on Wanda's tits, take a shit, get a hard-on and then piss on her."
"I'll wait till he introduces his prom date to me."
I heard a door slam as my mother came back outside. "Wandaaaa!"
I pulled my blouse over my stupid boob and tried to cover the one my boy was using. He unlatched and began possetting.
If I were emperor of the world
And master of all cities
I’d pass a law to keep the girls
From covering their titties.
~ George Yesthal
The Last Things I'll Remember
by Joyce Sutphen
The partly open hay barn door, white frame around the darkness,
the broken board, small enough for a child
to slip through.
Walking in the cornfields in late July, green tassels overhead,
the slap of flat leaves as we pass, silent
and invisible from any road.
Hollyhocks leaning against the stucco house, peonies heavy
as fruit, drooping their deep heads
on the dog house roof.
Lilac bushes between the lawn and the woods,
a tractor shifting from one gear into
the next, the throttle opened,
the smell of cut hay, rain coming across the river,
the drone of the hammer mill,
milk machines at dawn.
Grandma's Grave
by Freya Manfred
Mother and I brush long drifts of snow from the gravestones
of my great grandfather and grandmother, great uncle and aunt,
two of mother's brothers, each less than a year old,
and her last-born brother, George Shorba, dead at sixteen:
1925-1942
A Mastermind. My Beloved Son.
But we can't find the grave of Grandma, who buried all the rest.
Mother stands dark-browed and musing, under the pines,
and I imagine her as a child, wondering why her mother
left home so often to tend the sick, the dying, the dead.
Borrowing a shovel, she digs, until she uncovers:
1889-1962
Mary Shorba
Mother almost never cries, but she does now. She stares
at this stone as if it were the answer to all the hidden things.
