The world was slower then.
The air hums with cicadas and static from the baseball game on the garage radio. The street light flickers to life — the soft, orange glow meant it was almost time to head inside.
But not yet.
Dad is under the hood of his blue Mitsubishi pickup,
a beer sweating on the workbench,
the smell of cut grass drifting in from the yard.
You and the neighbor kids chase lightning bugs until the sky turns ink-blue, until your lungs burn from laughing.
There was no need to plan fun — it just found you. No phones, no filters. Just heart. Just home.
Just Nebraska in the ’90s.
STAMPED IN THE 90s
A Bacon Lettuce Collection
Movie nights had their own kind of magic.
The car windows down, warm air rushing in as you pull into the glow of Blockbuster. The familiar blue and yellow buzzing against the dark.
Mom reminds everyone to hurry up, but no one ever does. You wander the aisles, boxes lining the shelves like library books, hoping the one you wanted wasn’t already checked out.
A stop at the snack rack in the checkout line…
a box of Buncha Crunch, a two-liter of pop, and
a few bags of microwave popcorn.
The drive home felt quiet and easy,
the kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling.
Back at the house, lights go off one by one.
Blankets pile up. The VCR clicks and whirs to life.
The room glows blue.
For a while, nobody moves.
Nobody scrolls.
Nobody leaves.
Just the hum of the TV,
a handful of candy,
and everyone you love
watching the same story unfold.
Just Nebraska in the ’90s.