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Salient. Victoria University Student Newspaper. Volume. 33, Number 9. 25 June, 1970

And 50 Years of (American) Capitalism

And 50 Years of (American) Capitalism

The following is excerpted from a Time Essay (17 November, 1967) entitled 'And 50 Years of Capitalism'. Later in the essay it is said "The material rise is only part of the story. There have been cultural gains as well. With paperbacks in every drug-store, reading has soared."

Compare an imaginary middle-class Mr. U.S. in 1917 with his counterpart today. After breakfast cooked on a cast-iron stove, Mr. U.S. of 1917 wrapped himself against the early autumn chill, went out to his open Model T, hand-cranked the engine into ear-splitting action, and headed for the office at the blazing 15 m.p.h. demanded by the bumpy, unpaved road. Back at the house, his wife kneaded the dough for the day's bread, then took soap and dishcloth to wash the Mason jars in which she was about to preserve apple butter. When she hurried out to get provisions, it meant going to the grocer, the butcher, the druggist, and the hardware store to get all the items on her list. By the time she got home, it was far too late to stop by for a chat with her neighbor, Gladys, five blocks away; nor could she phone to explain, for in those days there was only one telephone for every ten people, and someone was always using the party line. Besides, she had to face the laundry stacked beside the hand-powered washing machine. That evening, Mr. US. got home to find his wife so exhausted that she fell asleep after supper while listening to the tenor of John McCormack scratching out of the Victrola that stood in the light of the flickering gas lamps in the living room.

Today, Mr. U.S. finishes his breakfast of frozen orange juice and diet-bread toast, pops a vitamin pill into his mouth, steps into his fastback Barracuda, punches the tape deck button for swing or symphony, and heads for the freeway. The six-lane concrete strip lets him proceed at 65 m.p.h. toward his office in town—except when there are so many other cars going the same way that he can listen to all of Beethoven's Ninth. By the time he gets to the office, his wife has already called—from the pink, push-button Princess extension in the kitchen—to ask him to stop by the shopping center on the way home and pick up the washing there. She and Mabel next door are going to a theater matinee in the Mustang, but she will be back in plenty of time to take the lamb chops out of the freezer and fix dinner. And they will get the dishes into the automatic washer before 7.30 so they can watch The King and I in color.