Imagine you could go back.
Not forever. Not even for a day.
Just long enough to feel the carpet under your feet in one of the houses you grew up in. To hear the screen door creak shut, the house phone ringing from the kitchen, and the buzz of the TV filling the room with Nickelodeon’s “95 Days of Summer.” No texts, no emails—just a landline and the freedom to be a kid.
That’s nostalgia.
And lately, it’s been hitting me hard. I don’t know why. Maybe life’s gotten too loud. Maybe I’ve just started realizing what I didn’t see back then.
But it stops me in my tracks—randomly, out of nowhere.
A song. A commercial. A smell.
And boom—I’m back.
I see my old neighborhood.
I remember summer nights that felt endless.
I feel what it was like to be home. At mom’s house, or dad’s. Two different worlds, both filled with moments that stitched me together. I didn’t have a perfect setup. But I had core memories—ones I wouldn’t trade for anything.
One I’ll never forget:
I was in 8th grade, walking up the steps at the Butte Civic Center with my dad. We found our seats for a Butte High basketball game. I looked down and saw Cole Salo running the offense. My dad leaned in and said, “You’ll be part of that next year.”
And he was right.
The next year, I wasn’t sitting next to him—I was in the student section, yelling, jumping, living it.
And what I didn’t realize then…
That was the last time I sat beside my dad at a varsity game.
Not because anything bad happened—but because life changed. I grew up.
And maybe that took a little something from him.
His little boy wasn’t so little anymore.
We didn’t know we were in the good old days.
Turns out… we were.
Back when scraped knees were a trophy.
When mismatched clothes meant you got ready in a hurry because you were too excited to play.
When weekends meant games, cartoons, and cookouts—not errands, deadlines, and notifications.
Even boredom back then meant freedom.
And the Fourth of July? That used to feel sacred.
Backyard fireworks, barefoot runs down the street, your cousin lighting off a mortar way too close to the garage. Smoke in the air. Kids with sparklers. Someone bringing Shasta in a cooler.
Now?
Firework bans. Noise complaints. People trying to shut it all down.
We used to blow stuff up just to celebrate being alive.
Now we tiptoe through holidays hoping we don’t bother anyone.
And maybe that’s what nostalgia really is—a hunger for when joy was loud, imperfect, and honest.
Back then, we didn’t see the weight our parents carried.
We didn’t notice the quiet looks, the tired eyes, the sacrifices made behind the scenes.
They made sure we felt safe, even when life was messy.
Now we’re the ones carrying it, and we get it.
We understand why they looked that way.
We understand why moments were fleeting.
And we understand, painfully, why they said: “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Because it doesn’t.
Now we scroll. We chase old feelings in photos, videos, vintage gear, old TV themes, hoping to feel something that reminds us of us.
Not the version life shaped—
But the one that existed before the world got loud.
So yeah… nostalgia’s been heavy lately.
And maybe that’s okay.
Maybe it’s just a sign we remember what real joy felt like.
Back when everything didn’t come with warnings.
When people showed up. When days were full.
When the Civic Center was packed, the fireworks lit the sky, and mom’s house or dad’s house didn’t matter—because both had love in the walls.
Turns out…
Those were the good old days.
And now that we know…
Maybe we can start making more of them—on purpose.
