I was born in the very early 50's. I grew up in a new suburban neighborhood in an all white town in NJ that had 230+ houses. Dad was a WWII combat vet.
The neighborhood was almost all skilled blue collar. There were lots of kids, and clothes and toys got passed around as we grew. We didn't have play dates; we just went outside and "called for" our friends by knocking on their doors. Our streets were safe and we had a wooded area ("the woods") at the edge of the development. Everyone had a bicycle, and we got around the neighborhood just fine. As kids, we were always busy with something, even if it was just digging a big hole. We went to school on a school bus. When it snowed, we had to listen for the siren at 7:00 AM. If there was a siren, there was no school.
None of the mothers worked or drove. The milkman brought milk to us, and there was an endless parade of produce, meat, fish, and other vendors in trucks or old school buses. In the summer, 3 different ice cream trucks came every day at different times. On Friday night, a truck with a whip ride came, as did a little 3 wheeled vehicle with a cotton candy machine on the back. Once a week, a knife sharpening guy would come around. Each vendor had a signature bell or horn on his vehicle.
When someone's car broke down, it became a neighborhood project for the dads to fix it. Parts were obtained from a junkyard ("the junky's") where they had to remove parts from junked cars themselves. When someone's TV broke, a few dads would get together to try to diagnose the problem (and have a beer or 2), and they always ended up taking out all of the tubes and going to Walgreens, where there was a tube tester.
On weekends, city dwelling relatives would visit and we'd have cookouts, sometimes including neighbors and their extended families.
There were several Jewish families in the neighborhood, and we often went to events at their synagogue and were invited into their homes for holiday celebrations, as were they into ours.
A day that's burned into my memory is October 24, 1962. My mom was crying as she sent us off to school with instructions to stay there if we had to shelter until she or our dad came for us. The school had a supply of cots, drums of water, food and Geiger counters. She already had a blanket over the kitchen table to shelter under when the bombs started falling.
I had it pretty good. I have no tales of childhood woe. I grew up in an environment of strong traditional families, and it worked well for us. We didn't have a lot of money, and our parents did the best they could with what they worked hard for. I truly believe that their generation is deserving of the Greatest Generation label.
Holy crap, we could have been neighbors! Except I spent most of my early years shuttling between the UK and Long Island. And no synagogue visits. But the rest is spot on - and who can forget duck and cover drills during the missile crisis in preparation for when they dropped "the big one". As if hiding under a school desk would do a lick of good against a nuclear attack.