Old enough so that when I went downtown with my parents during the winter holidays to a movie, there was a floor show with singers and dancers before the movie actually began, a holdover from vaudeville. Old enough that the neighbors owned the early American compact car the Crosley station wagon with a four-banger cast iron engine. Old enough that my grandma had an old gray Plymouth she named "Hercules" that had fold up hood flaps over the engine, a three-speed stick shift out of the floor that waggled when the car idled, and a little defroster fan near the windshield that had leather fan blades (really). So, that's how old I am.