Summer 1957

"Time," wrote contemplative Henry David Thoreau (1817-62), "is but the stream I go a-fishing in." Recluse Thoreau (Walden, 1854), who lived for 26 months in a spare, do-it-yourself hut (cost: $28.12) in the serene wilderness of Massachusetts' Walden Pond, might have locked his creaky door had he caught a glimpse of the U.S. last week. It was a remarkable sight. In the heat of this midsummer, the nation looked upon time not as a quiet stream but as a bubbling spring from which it might satisfy an endless thirst for motion.

Unquenchable millions of Americans packed their children into sedans and station wagons and hit the road. For the moment, at least, summertime rites seemed more important than civil rights; personal clouds were fluffier than the faraway blossom of the latest atomic shot; disarmament was something for Harold Stassen to worry about; and international problems, from Arabs to Zhukov, all belonged to Ike.

Snakes & Rest Rooms. Across the nation, 75 million people roamed, crisscrossing 34 billion vacation miles in 24 million vehicles, thirsting for new sights and the old familiar places. They crowded the cities in meetings and conventions (in Minneapolis 50,000 members of the Ancient Arabic Order of the Nobles of the Mystic Shrine marched for three hours). They poured by the thousands over the central plains, coursing over highways that shouted with signs ("See Harold Warp's Pioneer Village at Minden, Nebraska," and "SNAKES!"), conjured up technicolor dreams as they stood in the weed-grown parade ground of Fort Laramie, Wyo. under the flapping flag of the most important post of Western frontier days. And few who took highway 340 through the staid Amish community of Intercourse, Pa. (just three miles this side of Paradise--pop. 549) missed the chance to mail some sure-laugh postcards.

The Howard Johnson's restaurant chain doubled the number of high chairs and junior chairs as whole families bore down in record numbers to comb the menus--and take advantage of the rest rooms. The fanciest Miami Beach hotels waited hand and foot--and charged an arm and a leg--on folks from What Cheer, Iowa and Rough and Ready, Calif. Nearby motels turned away road-tired hordes at the rate of 50 a night. In Washington, D.C., tourists from Calamine, Ark. and Hurricane, Utah scrambled to the monuments and parks, bought foam-rubber hats and doused them with water to get cool. And Washington's Manger Hamilton Hotel, one of thousands of hotels offering family plans (children free), was caught in a dither when a couple from Kentucky showed up with eleven youngsters.

Souvenirs & Diapers. The Commonwealth of Virginia profited handsomely from the ever-growing fascination with U.S. history. Junior-grade tourist armies swarmed the Civil War battlegrounds along the Rappahannock, the Chickahominy, the Mattaponi and the Pamunkey, at Bull Run, Chancellorsville, Appomattox. Down the Colonial Parkway, out-of-staters fell back another century as they rolled into Jamestown, Yorktown and Williamsburg. But once out of the historical area, they were back in the modern swing, with mothers navigating from well-folded road maps and children racing the heat to finish their ice cream, with the head of the family snaking along the parkways and turnpikes, spiraling down cloverleafs that weren't there last year, digging deep for tolls, for souvenir pillows and plaques (MOTHER . . . OHIO TURNPIKE).

Luggage-heavy families carrying the latest in equipment (snakeproof tents, portable martini coolers, portable toilets, disposable diapers), charged into the national parks, found that the camping grounds and cabins were booked till Labor Day. So they packed up and headed into the wily West to watch hipless cowboys yipping in the rodeos and whole families of Indians listening with stoical rapture to Elvis on the jukebox.

Ice Cubes & Walden. In the water (houseboats, cabin cruisers, outboards, canoes) and in the air (private single-and twin-engined craft), Americans were on the move, exploring the Mississippi like

Huck Finns, or breasting the currents of Puget Sound, or flitting over green farmland and forest. Yet there were millions more who stayed home; lawns and patios were spotted with portable grills, plastic-and-steel swimming pools, croquet wickets, while retail merchants fought to restock midst the clamor for more. On chaises and hammocks, from Embarrass, Wis. to Ninety Six, S.C., the stay-at-homes, draped in shorts and sandals, sipped at time, and ice cubes clinked off the minutes in the hourglasses.

They marked time, too, for gentle Henry David Thoreau. For last week in suburban Concord, Mass., a fight brewed between the city fathers and the Committee to Save Walden. The committee set out to stop the town's "destructive" program for enlarging beach, picnic and parking facilities in Walden's once-quiet wilderness. They were, alas, playing a losing game. It is 1957.

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