I grew up in a small town, and my grandmother lived just a couple of blocks away. My sister and my cousins and I spent a lot of time with her. She was a fun grandmother; she was divorced and worked full-time as a nurse until her retirement, but she enjoyed socializing and was always interested in what we were doing. Our friends thought she was “cool.” We loved to ask her about “the olden days,” and hear her talk about her childhood.

Time is passing so quickly, and some things change a lot; some don't. Some change for better; some for worse. I could have done without ever taking a math class, but I loved history and English - reading about how things were in the past. Now that I'm a grandmother, I'm waiting for my own grandchildren to ask about my “olden days” and often think about how much things have changed.

Working in a high school, I've occasionally related stories to my students about growing up in the '50s and '60s, and look at their expressions when they hear some of the things I tell. My own three children were always skeptical of some of my stories. They still don't believe that I walked to school and home again every single day for 13 years, rain or shine, through thunder, lightning or snow.

My mother never drove a car, my father went to work by 6 a.m., and if you lived in town, there wasn't a bus.

It was a rare teenager who had his own car then, and just as rare for a family to have two cars. So we walked. And after school - which got out at 3:30 p.m. - we walked home by way of downtown, crowding into one of the four small booths at Jay's for nickel cokes and lime phosphates, served in paper cones in silver cups by the guy in the white paper hat who knew our names.

That was the hub of our social life, where plans were made and gossip passed. McDonald's and Applebee's just can't offer the same atmosphere (or prices). Sadly, now it's almost a necessity to drive kids everywhere.

In 1966, we never heard of children being stalked or abducted; now it's a constant worry for parents.

At my 40th reunion this summer, we were nostalgic about the loss of our old high school. They built a new one in the '90s, and the old one is used for other purposes now. We loved the building; most of our parents and grandparents had gone there.

In some of the rooms, you could prove that by the initials carved on the desks. The three-story brick building stood in the middle of town on one square block, with no athletic fields.

For outdoor gym, we ran one block to a big field. And yes, in our gym suits. My daughters' reaction was one of horror when I described them - the girls' uniforms were blue one-piece, snap-front sleeveless jumpsuits with bloomers. Really. We had to wear them, and we hated them. The boys wore white T-shirts and shorts.

There wasn't a lot to do in our small town, and much of our social life revolved around school, especially during football and basketball season. At Tyburn this year, our sports program has really taken off, with both boys' and girls' soccer teams playing actual games against other high schools. Next week, we're having the school's first pep rally. The band's been practicing to play, and we're working on a mascot. It all takes me back to my own high school days, when we had pep rallies in the auditorium on game days and that night everyone in town crowded in to watch the games and the neighboring towns brought busloads of fans.

Football games were held at the veterans' stadium near the elementary school across town, and after the games, we had victory dances in the gym back at the high school, whether we won or not.

We walked to those, too, singing school songs and enjoying the smell of leaves burning. I guess now there's a problem with toxic fumes and you're not allowed to do that any more in most places; I miss that.

That smell meant autumn is here. Now it means vandalism.

I watch the kids with their cell phones now and shake my head in amazement. I can barely work mine to make a phone call; my son took it out of my hands last year to take a picture with it. I didn't even know it could do that, and I haven't the faintest idea now how to find the picture that he left inside.

We had one phone in our house; it was black, weighed a ton, had a very loud bell, and sat in the front hall, where everyone in the house could hear every word. We had to ask permission to use it, and give a reason.

And if my father said yes, he'd remind us from the living room when he thought we'd been on long enough - usually about five minutes. We had a party line - another story my children thought I made up - and you might have to wait to make the call until the other people finished.

Our number was 2019-J, and until we were in high school, we had to give numbers to the operator, who knew who we were and made the connection for us. In fact, it was kind of like Mayberry - sometimes you could say “could you connect me to Sandy, please,” and she knew who you meant.

A long distance call was an event, and you watched the clock while you talked to far-away relatives. My father probably turned over in his grave when I got 400 free minutes a month on my new cell. Again, it's a big change.

When cell phones first came out, no one thought children needed them. Now, parents don't feel safe unless their children are carrying one. My parents never worried much about where we were; parents now panic if their children are 10 minutes late, and unfortunately, the reality of today's world makes their fears well-founded.

So ... better? Worse? I'm nostalgic for some things, but not many. If I were typing this article 40 years ago, I'd write it by hand on a yellow pad first, and then I'd have a sheet of carbon paper between two pages, pounding hard on my Smith-Corona manual so that it would go through both layers, praying that I didn't make a mistake.

Now I can use that “delete” button and change my mind at random. And when I finish, I don't even have to drive to The Citizen - I just hit “send.”

Barbara Murphy is the school

nurse and does publicity for

Tyburn Academy