Those Magical 1960s

The ‘60s were a magical time—if you were even somewhat conscious during those carefree days and nights.

I hadn’t really thought about it in years, until this week when I heard from someone I knew back then. In the mid-60s, I managed a “singles only” apartment complex near downtown Dallas. I was in my mid-20s, still figuring out who I was, and suddenly I was the unofficial social director for 250 young adults looking for jobs, fun, love, or a better roommate.

The Moors Apartments had multiple one and two-bedroom units—most shared by two or three twenty-somethings, many newly arrived from out of state. They were engineers, teachers, secretaries, architects, salespeople. They wore skinny ties or mini skirts, and they were experiencing the flush of their adult lives—with just enough money to pay rent, buy beer, and host a decent patio party.

And me? I was technically in charge, but the truth is, I was swept up in it. We built a community of sorts, a social swirl that revolved around potlucks, poolside chats, weekend dance parties, and the romantic entanglements that ended… dramatically. I learned to be diplomatic, resourceful, occasionally bossy, and often amused.

I became acutely aware of how many toilet incidents can occur in 131 apartments, how to keep swimming pools cleaned, the most convincing way to collect rent, the art of mixing daiquaris for a crowd of eager drinkers, and existing on less sleep than during finals in college.

People talk about the ‘60s like it was a revolution—and in many ways, it was. But our little corner hadn’t yet been touched by protest signs or psychedelic haze. The drug culture hadn’t quite reached us. If anyone was experimenting with “maryjane,” they were keeping it quieter than their record players. I had no idea what the term even meant at the time. (Still not entirely sure.) We weren’t the Baby Boomers. We were the ones just ahead of them—straddling the gap between postwar tradition and the counterculture coming up fast behind us. Looking back, I think we were the last innocents. We weren’t yet angry or awakened. We were busy getting jobs, paying bills, falling in and out of love and beds, learning how to make casseroles, and wondering if we were doing life right.

The man who emailed me this week filled me in on several couples who met at the Moors and are still married—nearly 60 years later. That floored me. At the time, it felt like nothing we did was permanent. But somehow, love rooted itself anyway, beneath all the orange shag carpeting and avocado appliances.

Now, viewed through trifocals and decades of living, I can see just how unique it was. We didn’t yet know about AIDS, school shootings, terrorism, fentanyl, or 24/7 panic cycles. And when those things did come, we did our best to protect our children from the world we never had to survive.

It was a simpler time. Not perfect, not entirely innocent, but magical all the same. And for a while, I had a front-row seat—and a master key.

Another slice of life—burnt edges and all.