K Grieve • October 20, 2025
The Way We Were: A Boomer's Journey Through Changing Times
The Way We Were
Inspired by a piece called “We are the Bridge”
We baby boomers have lived through more change than perhaps any generation before us. Born into a world of black-and-white televisions and handwritten letters, I, like most “boomers,” oddly find myself checking facts on Google, ordering everything and anything online, and FaceTiming my grandchildren from the dock at our lake place, Alexander Point.
Most of us “boomers” are well past our 60s and have maneuvered technological change and societal upheaval. We have lived through a century of change - all condensed into one lifetime. We began in an age when milk was delivered to the door, phones were attached to walls, and families gathered around the evening news. Now we live in a world where our grandchildren carry the universe in their pockets and talk to digital assistants as if they were family.
I grew up in a Catholic family in Winnipeg, where the rhythm of life followed the church bells — Mass on Sundays, confession on Saturdays, and a firm belief that nuns had eyes in the back of their heads. Faith was as much about community as it was about doctrine; it shaped how we showed up for one another. Even now, I hold on to the parts that speak to compassion, social justice, and the quiet sense that we’re all meant to look out for each other.
In those days, Winnipeg felt both small and vast. The kind of place where most everyone in your neighborhood knew your last name and where you were on Friday nights. Summers meant escaping the city and heading to the many magnificent Manitoba lakes or where those of us without lake access went to the free admission community swimming pool. We learned to swim, meet with friends, ride bikes, play tag, and stretch the days long past sunset. It was a world without screens or schedules. Time felt good.
Then life accelerated. We watched Kennedy promise the moon and for Man actually get there. Women, including many of us, symbolically burned their bras and then stepped confidently into new careers and public life. We typed on manual typewriters, progressed to IBM Selectrics, and eventually learned to “click send.” The first time I used email, I remember thinking it felt unreal - a letter that didn’t need a stamp.
We’ve seen family life reinvented, gender roles rewritten, and communication transformed from handwritten letters to emoji-laden texts. We remember when a photo meant developing film and waiting days to see if it “turned out.” Now we can take a dozen shots before breakfast and (my personal favorite) delete the ones that don’t flatter.
Now, my grandchildren can find anything with a swipe of a finger, and they ask Siri questions we used to save for the Encyclopedia Britannica. When they show me how to work a new app or laugh that I “still type with two fingers,” I remind them that my generation invented the personal computer, the protest march, and the peace sign - we’re hardly “not with it.”
We watched Elvis shake his hips, Kennedy inspire a nation, Martin Luther King Jr. dream, the Beatles redefine music, and Neil Armstrong “Take one step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” We questioned authority, protested wars, fought for rights, and then, almost without noticing, became the authority.
And then, the impossible happened: our Dick Tracy dreams came true. We once giggled at that comic-strip detective talking into his wristwatch; now our Apple Watches tell us when to stand, remind us to breathe, and nudge us toward our daily steps. How were we to know that Maxwell Smart’s shoe phone was a precursor to today’s iPhone? Technology, once the stuff of fantasy, has become as ordinary as brushing our teeth.
What amazes me most is how the threads of then and now connect. At Alexander Point, our summer retreat, I watch my grandchildren leap off the dock, their laughter echoing across the water just as mine once did when leaping into the community pool. Different time, same joy. They may post their memories instantly; I write mine down and shape them into stories, but it’s the same impulse: to remember, to share, and to belong.
We baby boomers are the bridge between worlds - from the catechism to the cloud, from handwritten letters to video calls, from milkmen to meal kits. We carry the past in our bones and the future in our hands. And standing on that bridge, with a grandchild’s hand in mine and the summer wind off the lake “ruining” my hair, I can’t help but feel grateful to have lived through it all - the slow and the fast, the sacred and the digital, the then and the now.
We may not dance like we once did, but we still know all the words to the songs that shaped us. We may scroll slower than the younger generation, but we still want to know what’s happening in the world…and if we pause to reflect, as boomers tend to do, we realize how lucky we are to have witnessed humanity stretch, stumble, and soar.
Our phones, those sleek rectangles that never leave our sides, are more powerful than the computers that sent astronauts to the moon. We once shared one rotary phone in the kitchen, its long, twisted cord stretched around corners so we could whisper secrets. Now we carry the world in our pockets and see our grandchildren’s faces light up in real time, oceans away.
Then the Internet showed up! What a game changer! It linked the world in ways we could hardly have imagined, making libraries, classrooms, and newsrooms just a click away. It amplified voices that often went unheard and opened up a world of knowledge, opportunities, and connections. But along with these benefits came a lot of noise — misinformation, division, and a constant stream of opinions. We gained immediate access to a wealth of information, yet sometimes lost that essential quiet space needed for reflection. Despite its contradictions, the Internet has transformed how we communicate. It brought us closer together and broadened the horizons of what we could learn — as long as we choose wisely about what we pay attention to.
Worse still, the Internet gave cover to cruelty. The anonymity of the Internet seems to grant some people license to say things our generation would never have tolerated in public. We were taught to bite our tongues, to disagree without tearing someone down. Today, behind screens and usernames, too many speak without kindness or consequence. It’s a loss of civility that still startles me - how easily respect can evaporate when faces are hidden. It’s shocking to witness how quickly respect can vanish when people aren’t face-to-face.
Even shopping has transformed from an errand to an algorithm. I remember the thrill of department stores - the clatter of hangers and the excitement of the Sears’ Christmas catalogue arriving in the mail. Today, a few taps on Amazon, and a box appears at the door by morning. I still find it astonishing- and a little sad - that convenience has replaced conversation.
A. nd somewhere along the way, waiting disappeared. We used to line up at the bank on Fridays to cash our paychecks, and at McDonald’s to order a burger and fries that actually took a few minutes to cook. Now, we get restless if a website takes more than three seconds to load. Groceries arrive within hours; packages appear the next day. What once felt like luxury is now expected. We’ve become so accustomed to immediacy that patience, once a virtue, is now a shortcoming!
And along comes Artificial Intelligence— this strange, brilliant new frontier. It writes, paints, answers questions, even mimics voices. Part of me is amazed: after all, it’s just another step in our long dance with progress. But another part wonders what happens when machines begin to “think” faster than we do. Will curiosity fade when answers come too easily? Will we forget how to reflect, to wrestle with ideas, to linger in uncertainty - the very things that make us human? Will one of my protégés marry an AI creation?
Yet, through all of it, faith, family, technology, and time, one truth endures: connection. Whether through handwritten letters or instant messages, church basements or Zoom calls, it has always been about reaching out, holding on, staying close.
The Wi-Fi at Alexander Point is often spotty, but the sunsets never fail. I watch my grandchildren leap off the “bouncy thing”, their laughter carrying across the water. I remember jumping off the cracked concrete dock that my in-laws had at their cozy cottage at White Lake in Manitoba. My grandchildren post their memories instantly; I write mine down and shape them into stories. But it’s the same impulse— to remember, to share, to belong.
We baby boomers are the bridge between worlds - from catechism to cloud, from rotary dials to smartwatches, from handwritten notes to emojis. We carry the past in our bones and the future in our hands. And standing on that “bridge” with a grandchild standing beside me and the lake spread before us, I can’t help but feel grateful for the slowness that shaped us, and the speed that still surprises us.
Kathy's Blog
Good Friends, Great Stories Friendship isn’t always about who you have known the longest. Friendship is about the memories we’ve made, the laughter we shared and the the experiences that have woven our lives together. Friendship is about favourite traditional experiences, shared history and laughter that never fades. Friendship is about sharing margaritas at lunch, downing junk food, not counting calories and knowing that at least one of you will never make it to dinner. Friendship is about stories that get better as they are retold. My husband Ross and I have enjoyed incredible friendships throughout the years. Each one has brought its own special kind of companionship and fond memories. The following stories offer a glimpse into a few of the lasting connections that have shaped our lives. Some friendships arrive early when we really can’t appreciate their worth. I was ten years old, newly arrived from Victoria to Winnipeg when such a friendship began on a concrete playground at Frontenac School. It was early September and the prairie elm trees were beginning to show shades of burnt orange and golden yellow as I made my way to my new school. I could see a flock of Canada geese winging their way South, as far as Mexico I had heard. Dressed in turquoise peddle pushers, topped with a white tee and flowered cardigan I carried my metal “ponytail” embossed lunch kit tightly in my hand feeling both anxious and hopeful. I arrived in time to find teachers standing along the edge of the playground calling out student names and classroom numbers. I lined up behind Mrs. King who was teaching one of the two grade five classes. I followed her in line with about twenty-five rambunctious boys and girls as we made our way to the second floor to our assigned classroom. Cautiously, I headed to one of the oak desks arranged in neat rows atop the dark green linoleum floor. It seemed like a nano second later when the bell rang announcing recess and within minutes the classroom emptied. I cautiously entered the noisy playground and looked around, not knowing a single soul. The schoolyard was filled with laughing girls happily skipping double Dutch on the cracked concrete. Screaming boys were energetically playing soccer on the coarse grass and others took turns powerfully swatting at the hard tetherball. I guess it was a typical play area but to me it looked like unfamiliar territory where everyone knew the rules but me. Enter what today would be known as a “geeky” looking girl: Davette Kent. She was gawky and wore knee highs on her gangly legs. She peered at me through dark, heavy rimmed glasses. Her mousey brown hair was limp, with bangs cut straight across her high forehead. A few pimples were poking through her pale skin. Like me, she was standing alone, gazing around. She mirrored my anxiousness. Both Davette and I were in need of a fast friend that September day, and that is exactly what we found in one another. We tossed each other a lifeline, and neither of us let go. When the bell rang, we lined up holding hands and kept that tradition for the next two years when we separated and went to different schools. … My husband Ross began a friendship with a young fellow named Bob. They met in grade eight in Winnipeg Manitoba. It was a friendship that carried on through high school, university and beyond. In high school they made what they considered a particularly strategic decision: they joined the choir, not because either had dreams of musical greatness, but because they had discovered that the choir was an excellent place to meet girls. It may not have launched a singing career, but it reinforced a friendship that would last a lifetime. Years later, it was early spring in Toronto on a late Wednesday afternoon in 1977 when my husband, Ross got “the call”. The streets were filled with the grey slush of the melting snow from a colder than usual T.O winter when he made his way to the office that day. Working for a large family owned Canadian construction company since 1969, he was accustomed to surprises and was deft at handling them. This call was different and very much out of the ordinary. It was a call that changed the course of his life and mine. That afternoon one of the company executives from head office in Edmonton reached out to Ross and told him to make his way to the Toronto airport at midnight. He was told to pick up a package at Canadian Airlines. “What’s it about?”, Ross asked. “Just be there!” the executive replied, and “make your way to Edmonton on Saturday for a morning meeting at the Van Winkle Hotel.” It all seemed strange and almost clandestine! Navigating the dimly lit streets, Ross arrived home from the airport and opened the “mysterious” package. He learned that the Poole family was selling the company they had founded in 1906. The company’s visionary president since 1947 was leading a management buyout and his plan was to invite twenty four of his managers of the day to buy the company. Each invitee was offered a small interest with the president taking the biggest proportion. Ross was the youngest of the group and had just recently been given the manager designation. He felt honored and lucky to be given this extraordinary invitation. It certainly turned out be be an opportunity of a lifetime. Ross did get to the Saturday morning meeting and agreed to accept his offering which was a total investment of $8000. Although he agreed to invest he didn’t have the $8000 readily available but figured he could find a way to make it happen. That Saturday afternoon on his return to Toronto he stopped in his hometown of Winnipeg to see his family but first met his best friend Bob at the Norwood Hotel that Bob and his family owned. Over an ice-cold beer, Ross told Bob the story about the surprising sale. He told Bob he would like to invest but wondered how on earth he was going to come up with the money. Bob said “Ross you have to do it. Wait here I will be right back .” Bob returned in ten minutes with a brown paper bag and handed it to Ross. Inside was $8000 cash that Bob pulled from his vault. This generous gesture was unconditional and given without hesitation. A testament to a friendship built to last. Many years later, the friendship went the other direction and Ross returned the favor by investing in a project that Bob was spear heading. Through the decades, Ross and Bob’s friendship continued to build on loyalty, shared history and stories worth retelling. More than six decades later, their friendship lives on. It’s a friendship shaped by growing up together, knowing each other stories, sharing life‘s joys and challenges, and enjoying professional success. Here is Ross and I (left) with Bob and his wife Dianne (right)
“Helen Mirren, who turned 80 in 2025, rejects the term “aging gracefully,” preferring to describe her approach as "aging with fun, commitment, and unapologetic realism". She advocates for embracing the natural process of getting older as a "beautiful thing" rather than fighting it, encouraging others to live in the moment and accept physical changes.” Aging is not for the faint of heart! It creeps up on you before you actually know it’s happening. It demands courage, boldness, wisdom, resilience, and realism. Add to that, growing older centers on the stories you carry and the memories you hold. For me, many of those lessons were learned from stories about my mother’s life, her choices, and the way she met hardship and joy. How Mom lived her life gave me my first understanding of what it means to live and to age with determination. My mother Marjorie lived until 95. Mom’s married life was pretty much emblematic of her generation. A devout Catholic, she learned the hard way that the ‘Rhythm Method’ (the practice of choosing specific days for intimacy to avoid pregnancy) of birth control was not in the least dependable. Think five kids with the last, our youngest brother Doug, born when my mom was 40. She smoked Crave M cigarettes. Back then, you could send a kid to the local drugstore with a quarter and a note to the pharmacist to get your cigarettes. Unheard of in today’s world. Almost weekly, my mom made homemade bread which filled the house with a yeasty and comforting smell. And her doughnuts were the talk of the neighborhood. Deep-fried and laid out on brown paper to cool, she dipped them in sugar, and we ate them while they were still warm. It was one of Mom’s ways of showing us love: one delicious donut at a time! My mom’s early life was less typical. Born in 1921 in Saskatchewan, she was a child of the Dust Bowl era. The middle child of six kids, she had a pleasing personality and was known as a hard worker. Perhaps that explains why, when she was just nine years old, she was sent to her Aunt Kate, where she helped in the Red and White store that Kate managed. Mom cried her eyes out for a year after she arrived because she missed home. Seven years later, she cried her eyes out when she was sent back home. My mom met those challenging years away from home with realism that helped to shape her resolve and solidified her perseverance. Her way of handling hardships and setbacks helped shape my understanding of how to approach life’s highs and lows. Looking back, it’s hard not to appreciate Mom’s handling of her early life challenges. At a time when most children are living with their parents and siblings, she learned to adapt, work, and endure separation. The tears marked her sadness, but the fact that she endured it speaks to her strength and courage. As she aged, life asked more of her, not less. She met aging the only way she knew: steadily and cheerfully. Aging didn’t soften her resolve; it strengthened it. My mother was lucky in many important ways. She was surrounded by her family and wonderful caregivers that went above and beyond the call of duty. In the last chapter of her life, she lived with my sister Gail and her partner Andrew. Helped by my other siblings, she was given something money can’t buy: a life that felt like hers. One special caregiver, Helen, understood that caring for another is more than schedules and medications. She would play one of Mom’s favourite songs, and the two would dance, smiling and giggling as they moved to the rhythm of the song. And God only knows why Mom had a parrot for a pet; a parrot that hated everyone but Mom. That bird squawked and tried to attack anyone who entered: except my mom. Strange as it may seem, that annoying parrot triggered my mom’s lifelong ability to tolerate difficult personalities. It seems to me that Mom’s life may have slowed, but it remained rich. Hearing my mom’s stories showed me that tears do not mean fragility. Tears mark courage, determination, and boldness. Now, as I grow older, I begin to see these same qualities as the core to aging. Aging hasn’t softened me: it has required me to stand more firmly, speak more directly, and, like Mom, to keep moving forward with resolve. “Do not go gentle into the night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” (Dylan Thomas) For most of my life, I believe I have been considered outspoken. But with aging, I have honed that characteristic to a fine point. Not long ago, I was part of a conversation about “the state of the world.” All of us were well into our seventies. We lamented days gone by and talked about how chaotic and fractured everything seems and how our reality is disturbing and disconcerting. The group represented different points of view, and the talk moved rather awkwardly but cautiously into politics. Definitive statements were made as if all would agree. Boldness took over me! I spoke up, standing my ground without apology. I felt something in me shift. It would have been easy to try to smooth things over, but instead, I chose to be bold and stand my ground. I am older now and believe aging is not about retreating from the world. It’s about resolve and courage in the face of opposition. Aging, of course, isn’t just philosophical. It shows up in physical ways. Knees and hips need replacing, bodies that don’t bounce back the way they used to, medications and vitamins galore to swallow. And tragically for some, illnesses occur that can be life-threatening. There is no bravery in pretending otherwise. But boldness and courage still have a place here. They help in deciding to face head-on what lies ahead, to ask the right questions, and to endure treatment and recovery. Aging asks us to be realistic, accepting the challenges aging can present. Aging isn’t always about changes to ones body but the evolving nature of our character. Inspired by my mother, I now feel that I am entering a period of my life where I am more determined to uphold my principles and stand up for the things that I believe. Time won’t always be on your side. It’s the simple truth, and it’s no surprise. But now and then, like my mom, there is still time for a dance!! “The years teach much which the days never know.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)