Some lessons don’t come from books.

They come from school hallways that smelled like pencil shavings, from parents who said “be home by dark,” from radios that had to warm up, and from teachers who wrote in perfect cursive across a creaking chalkboard.

I grew up in the 70s and came of age in the 80s.

I’m in my sixties now—granddad, chronic walker of Lottie the dog, volunteer at the community tool library—and I still notice how the world I was raised in shapes the choices I make without thinking.

A lot has changed (thank goodness for better seatbelts and better coffee), but some of the best parts are worth carrying forward.

If you grew up in that same two-decade window, I’d bet these ten “forgotten” principles are still quietly running your life.

1) You fix it before you toss it

Back then, replacement wasn’t the first answer; a screwdriver was.

My dad kept a coffee can full of bent nails he’d straighten with a hammer and reuse.

We mended jeans. We patched bike tires. There’s a kind of pride that comes from rescuing a thing from the trash and giving it another round.

I see the same instinct now at the community tool library. Someone brings in a wobbly chair thinking it’s over; ten minutes with a clamp and a dab of wood glue, it’s steady as Sunday.

The point isn’t to be cheap—it’s to be capable. When you know you can fix what breaks, the world feels less fragile.

Carry-forward habit: before you buy, ask, “Can I repair, sharpen, mend, or repurpose this?” Often you can, and your future self grins.

2) You show up early and you mean your word

The 70s/80s kid grew up without “I’m five minutes away” texts. If you said 7 p.m., you meant 6:55 standing by the pay phone. Being on time wasn’t a personality quirk; it was respect.

These days, my calendar is lighter, but the principle is heavier: show up when you say you will, do what you said you’d do, and let your reputation arrive in the room a minute before you—quiet, trustworthy, on the dot.

Carry-forward habit: add a 10% buffer to everything. It turns “running late” into “arrived calm,” and people remember calm.

3) You say thank you—properly

We wrote notes. Even when the handwriting leaned left and the ink blobbed.

A teacher returned a book I’d lost; my mother stood there while I wrote a thank-you and addressed it. Did I groan? Absolutely. Did I learn that gratitude should land in a tangible way? Also yes.

Now I keep a small stack of cards in the kitchen drawer. After a neighbor drops off tomatoes, I scrawl two lines and walk it over before the day ends. In a world of breezy thumbs-ups, a real thank you feels like a handshake.

Carry-forward habit: send one thank-you note a week. Short, sincere, mailed. You’ll be shocked at the doors it opens—mostly inside you.

4) You respect the commons

We rode the bus, used the library, shared fields, waited our turn at the water fountain. You didn’t leave messes for the next person. You returned the shopping cart. You kept the noise down after ten.

A small memory: a rainy night in the 80s, my dad guiding our cart through a darkening lot while people sprinted for dry cars.

His hair was a disaster, his grin was not. “Leave it better than you found it,” he said, sliding the cart into the corral. That sentence fits almost everything.

Carry-forward habit: pick up trash that isn’t yours. Wipe the gym machine. Stack the chairs. Your small stewardship teaches more than any speech.

5) You make your own fun (no batteries required)

Boredom was a teacher. We built ramps in the driveway. We made mixtapes off the radio with one finger hovering over the record button to kill the DJ’s voice.

We rode around with no plan and discovered rope swings and corner stores with penny candy. When entertainment isn’t prepackaged, resourcefulness grows muscles.

Last month my grandkids announced they were “bored bored bored.” I handed them a shoebox of odd junk: string, clothespins, a few rubber bands, some popsicle sticks.

They built a ridiculous catapult that knocked a grape off a bowl across the kitchen. I haven’t heard better laughter in years.

Carry-forward habit: build a boredom box. No screens. Just bits and pieces. Let the brain remember how to invent.

6) You talk to people—even strangers—with a baseline of kindness

We learned to look cashiers in the eye and say hello, to write down phone messages with the right spelling, to “use your words” before your volume.

In the 80s, I got my first after-school job at a hardware store. The owner was a philosopher with a tape measure.

He told me, “Every person who walks in is carrying something heavy you can’t see. Lift what you can.” That has aged better than any gadget.

Now, even when the line at the pharmacy stretches forever, I try to be the voice that lowers the room’s temperature. “Take your time—we’re not going anywhere.” The speed doesn’t change; the air does.

Carry-forward habit: adopt one calming sentence you use in public. You’ll be surprised how often it’s the thing everyone needed.

7) You keep private things private (and you protect other people’s stories)

We didn’t live like everything was content. You didn’t broadcast a friend’s struggle. You didn’t blast a family argument onto a public stage. There was dignity in a closed door and wisdom in sharing selectively.

I’m not anti-social-media; I’m pro-boundary. I ask before posting someone’s photo. I keep my grandkids’ stories off the megaphone. I treat confidences like valuables: locked, labeled “not mine,” opened only with permission.

Carry-forward habit: before posting, ask, “Does this belong to me? Will this embarrass future me—or somebody I love?” If yes, let it stay a memory instead of a feed.

8) You take your lumps, learn, and move on

We fell off bikes without helmets (not our smartest era), missed free throws, flubbed book reports, and got called on it.

Most of us didn’t get participation trophies; we got a second try. The lesson wasn’t “failure is fatal.” It was “failure is feedback.”

The other day, I made a hash of an apology. I had the right intention and the wrong sentence.

In the 80s I might have doubled down from pride. The older version of me sent a second note: “I meant to own my part and instead made yours heavier. I’m sorry. Trying again.” Repair is a craft. The sooner you start, the better it cures.

Carry-forward habit: keep a 24-hour repair rule with yourself and others. When you mess up, fix it quick. Don’t let the mold grow.

9) You know the value of analog

We had paper maps. Pay phones. Rolodexes with smudged thumbprints.

Music you could hold. I love a GPS as much as the next pair of aging knees, but analog taught me to get lost and still get home, to read a room without a notification, to sit across from someone and hold the silence long enough for their real thought to arrive.

My house still has a landline. The number’s printed and taped by the kitchen phone because emergencies don’t ask if you remember passwords.

I keep recipes on cards in my mother’s handwriting. When I place a card on the counter, it’s like she enters the kitchen with me. There’s a steadiness to the physical world that no cloud can replace.

Carry-forward habit: keep a small analog layer—paper calendar, address book, a folder with the “if something happens” information. You’re building resilience, not nostalgia.

10) You take care of your own—and extend the circle out

Neighborhoods used to feel smaller and larger at the same time: fewer houses you didn’t know, more people you did.

We shoveled each other’s sidewalks and returned borrowed tools and brought over casseroles in dishes that took a month to migrate back. Yes, we were nosy. We were also available.

A couple winters ago, the power went out. My wife and I knocked on doors with thermoses.

We ended up playing cards by candlelight with a guy two houses down I’d only waved at for years. We traded numbers.

A week later he helped me lift a stubborn snowblower into my truck; now he’s the reason my tomatoes don’t die. Community starts with someone deciding to be the first to knock.

Carry-forward habit: keep a tiny “mutual aid” list on your fridge: who you can call for a jump-start, who might need soup on rough weeks, who has a key to your place. Put your name on someone else’s list, too.

Two small scenes from the era that still steer me

The blue bike and the back fence.
I was twelve, and my friend Mike’s chain snapped on the way home. He kicked the bike, swore a word we only said when adults were not around, and started to walk it. An older neighbor stepped outside with a rag in his pocket like he’d heard a bat signal. No lecture. He flipped the bike, threaded the chain, wiped his hands, and said, “Next time, lube it.” He gave Mike a little bottle. That was the whole scene. Skill handed down without a speech. I carry that bottle in spirit.

The cinnamon rolls in the storm.
Blizzard of ’78, our street disappeared. My mother baked cinnamon rolls “for morale.” My father shoveled the block and then knocked on three doors with a plate, saying, “Trade you for coffee.” The storm didn’t end, but the day got warmer. I learned that hospitality isn’t about centerpieces. It’s about remembering you’re not alone and making it a fact.

A quick self-inventory (no shame, just alignment)

• Did I repair something today—object or relationship—before replacing it?

• Did I keep a promise (including one I made to myself)?

• Did I thank someone in a way that took a little effort?

• Did I leave a shared space better than I found it?

• Did I turn boredom into making, not scrolling?

• Did I choose calm language in a tense moment?

• Did I treat a private story like a trust, not content?

• Did I learn from a mistake quickly instead of defending it slowly?

• Did I keep one analog habit alive?

• Did I check on (or help) a person within walking distance?

Some final thoughts 

If you answered “yes” to most, the 70s and 80s are still doing their quiet work in you.

The world moves on. That’s its job. We have better tools, safer cars, and a million ways to reach each other without leaving the couch.

But the old principles still hold: fix what you can, show up on time, say thank you, share the commons, make your own fun, be kind to strangers, protect privacy, repair fast, keep something analog, and take care of your own.

They’re not just “forgotten.” They’re waiting at the back of the drawer like the good scissors—easy to overlook, better than anything new, and always up to the task when you reach for them.

If you grew up when I did, you probably still reach. And if you didn’t, well—borrow ours. The fit is generous, and the instructions are short: leave it better than you found it.