When I was proud to be an American screen doors slammed, cricket's chirruped lullabyes outside open windows on hot summer nights, their voices and the occasional baby's cry wafting from the neighbor's house 3 doors down sang America to sleep, and coal smoke could be seen streaming from chimneys on nearly every building in town on cold winter mornings.
The cumbersome box with the tiny glass screen sitting atop the Philco radio presented a world "out there" that came only in shades of grey. Though called black & white the only white that could be found was the "snow" and the only black, the too oft noticed horizontal line that fell slowly from top to bottom until someone jumped up to fiddle with the rabbit ears perched precariously on whatever surface might offer the best reception.
When I was proud to be an American kids might actually FAIL a grade in school and have to repeat it, and parents weren't arrested for using the form of discipline known as a sift kick in the pants.