I am, as it happens, a baby boomer, but not one who feels any

Host: The autumn evening hung quiet and amber over a suburban backyard, where the light from a small fire pit flickered across old photographs spread out across a patio table. The leaves rustled in the soft wind, a symphony of gentle decay. A record played faintly from the open kitchen window — an old jazz tune, mellow and wistful, like memory itself humming under breath.

Jack sat back in his chair, his grey eyes fixed on the fire as it consumed the edges of a newspaper clipping from 1973. Across from him, Jeeny swirled her wine glass absentmindedly, her gaze shifting between him and the shadows of the past.

Jeeny: “Terry Teachout once said, ‘I am, as it happens, a baby boomer, but not one who feels any broad-gauge nostalgia for the '60s and '70s. My attitude resembles that of my parents, who were born in the '20s and lived through the Great Depression and World War II.’”

Jack: (smirking) “So, a man immune to the myth of his own generation. That’s rare.”

Host: The firelight flickered across his face, carving soft hollows in his cheekbones, his expression somewhere between irony and reflection.

Jeeny: “Rare, yes. But refreshing. Everyone romanticizes their youth. Teachout saw through the illusion — maybe because his parents lived in a time where nostalgia was a luxury no one could afford.”

Jack: “Exactly. His generation danced on the ashes of sacrifice and called it revolution. His parents fought for survival; theirs for meaning.”

Host: A log cracked in the fire, sending a small shower of sparks into the air. The sky deepened, turning indigo — a color that always seems to carry both memory and regret.

Jeeny: “Do you think he’s right to feel detached? Every era defines itself through the stories people tell about its youth.”

Jack: “But the stories aren’t truth. They’re marketing. The '60s became mythology — rebellion rebranded as virtue. The '70s turned cynicism into culture. But behind all that... was exhaustion. People forget how much of that ‘freedom’ was just running from the wreckage their parents left behind.”

Jeeny: “You sound almost bitter about it.”

Jack: “Not bitter. Just disenchanted. Every generation thinks it invented disillusionment.”

Host: The wind brushed through the trees, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke and wet leaves. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked — a small, ordinary sound cutting through the vast quiet.

Jeeny: “Maybe nostalgia is the most dangerous drug. It keeps us addicted to an imagined version of ourselves.”

Jack: “Exactly. It’s not the past we miss — it’s the feeling of believing we mattered. That’s what nostalgia feeds.”

Jeeny: “And what Teachout resisted.”

Jack: “Yes. Because his parents’ reality wasn’t golden — it was grey, rationed, desperate. When you’ve seen real hardship, you don’t worship memory. You respect endurance.”

Host: She leaned forward, her face lit softly by the flames, eyes bright and unflinching.

Jeeny: “But isn’t endurance its own kind of nostalgia? The memory of having survived?”

Jack: “No. Nostalgia edits; endurance remembers. One hides the pain, the other wears it.”

Host: The record changed sides, the needle clicking softly, then returning to its familiar hum. The melody — a slow, haunting trumpet line — seemed to fill the space between them like a confession.

Jeeny: “Do you think every generation looks backward because they can’t see a future worth looking toward?”

Jack: “That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? The farther progress takes us, the more we crave simplicity — even if that simplicity never existed. The 'good old days' are always someone else’s struggle rewritten as charm.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why Teachout didn’t fall for it. He understood that nostalgia is a privilege. The poor can’t afford it. The suffering can’t afford it. Only the comfortable can pretend the past was kind.”

Host: The fire crackled, the smoke twisting upward into the chill air. Jack tossed another photograph into the flames — Woodstock, perhaps, or a protest crowd lost in time. The edges curled, faces vanishing in orange glow.

Jack: “His lack of nostalgia wasn’t cynicism. It was gratitude. His parents lived through scarcity and loss — he inherited the quiet discipline of survival. Not the noise of idealism.”

Jeeny: “So maybe the lesson is humility — to see our own lives as chapters, not revolutions.”

Jack: “Humility, yes. And perspective. Every era believes it’s the center of history — until the next one arrives to rewrite it.”

Host: A silence settled, the kind that invites truth to rise from its hiding places. The fire burned lower now, glowing embers replacing flame. Jeeny set down her glass and looked at him steadily.

Jeeny: “If you could choose — to be part of that restless generation or his parents’ — which would you pick?”

Jack: (after a pause) “His parents’. At least they built something. The boomers inherited the house and argued over the wallpaper.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Harsh. But not wrong.”

Host: The flames dimmed, leaving only the rhythmic pulse of glowing coals. The stars appeared faintly overhead — dim through the haze, but persistent.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Teachout’s honesty matters now more than ever. We live in a time that worships youth again — not as rebellion, but as currency. He reminds us to stop pretending every decade was a dream.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s wisdom — learning to see history without the perfume. To love it for its lessons, not its illusions.”

Jeeny: “And to remember that every generation thinks it’s saving the world — until it realizes it’s just another link in the chain.”

Host: The camera slowly panned out, showing the two of them framed by the soft circle of firelight, surrounded by fallen leaves — the past scattered quietly around them.

The music drifted from the window, the last few notes fading into night. The fire sighed, collapsing inward, and the scene became still — two figures contemplating not just history, but inheritance.

And as the screen darkened, Terry Teachout’s voice lingered like a final thought:

that nostalgia is not memory,
but myth in disguise;
that to remember clearly
is to love truth more than sentiment;

and that wisdom does not come
from looking back with longing,
but from looking back with clarity —

knowing that the world
was never golden,
only endured,
and that endurance itself
was always
the truest beauty of all.