As a mid-boomer, born in 1956, I can recall times when my grandparents used the phrase “The Cat’s Pajamas” to describe one another, telling me about their swell courtship days in the 1920s. Having had pet cats from a young age, I didn’t think any feline would tolerate wearing bedclothes. Maybe that was the style back then, but I suppressed the urge to wrestle our feisty male Maine Coon, Butch, into a pair of my PJs.
My parents were college sweethearts in the early 1950s, and my dad enjoyed telling us about “The Dish” he had his eyes on (meaning our mom). She told us the story about the “Tall, Dark, and Handsome Dreamboat” (our dad), whom she fell in love with. They were both in the Greek system of fraternities and sororities, wearing white sport coats, pink carnations, and that whole fairy tale business. A little bit before cherry, boss, and bitchin’, but according to them, it was a swell time.
A few months ago, I was on a second date with a woman close to my age (I’m a widower), and toward the end of the date I told her I thought she was swell. Mind, this was 2025. I don’t know why I used that word, but she told me she thought I was swell, too. There was a third date, but like over-chewed Swell Bubble Gum, the flavor had become stale in our short time together, and we parted ways amicably.
In my teen years, things (and people) were groovy and far out. Girls were chicks and guys were dudes. By my late teens, I had a summer job at a hotel downtown that hosted banquets, parties, and sundry events. One night while I was working, I noticed the restrooms outside one of the party rooms had the MEN and WOMEN signs covered with DUDES and DUDETTES. I wonder if the ladies in attendance thought that was demeaning. Probably not in 1975. I don’t think I ever used the word groovy in conversation, though I thought Marcia Brady was a groovy chick.
When my daughters were teens in the mid-to-late 90s, being “Da Bomb” or “All That, and a Bag of Chips” was hip to say. I wonder who coined that last phrase – a Frito-Lay ad person? All I know is that when I indulge in salty snacks now, my ankles swell. And that’s not Swell.
William P. Adams lives in the pacific northwest, writing short pieces inspired by his childhood in the 1960s. His stories have appeared in Macrame Lit and Rockvale Review.
