Dear 1950,

You were born on a Sunday morning. The halfway point of the 20th century, the new dawn of the fifth decade, and most importantly, you were another era entirely. Yes, the world was war-torn, Hoover was pushing for a hydrogen bomb and we began the year by forming the first international police force, but the world was a different place. When I think of the heralding year of the fifties (and the entirety of the fifties), I think of summers at the ballpark eating real hot dogs, watching Mickey Mantel or Joe DiMaggio steal the glory in the World Series. Listening to mom and pops old crackling Crosley radio after dinner in the sitting room, taking in the weekly adventures of the justice-loving Green Hornet and his masked confidante, Kato. Probably falling in love with a girl because she’s bold enough to wear shoes with no toe piece, and asking her to the fall Carnival. Oh, the Carnival. With cheap good candy, bright well-oiled rides, and the perfect chance to kiss the girl under the night’s fireworks on top of the Ferris wheel. Oh good heavens, take me back. Be it the wide-skirt dresses with every matching accessory or simply the smell of mama’s home-cooked Sunday roasts (which she always did still dressed in her heels and pearls), the fifties sound truly lovely. 

And because today is a lazy Sunday, I shall include a small collection of photographs so that you too may be caught up in my reminiscent hazy daisy dream land. 


All pictures from Pinterest


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