Prattville in the â40s and early â50s was like any other small town or village in America. It had its own identity, its own character everyone knew that defined it, and its own rhythm.
Everyone knew everyone, even greeted complete strangers with a smile and a wave as they passed, and crime was virtually non-existent. Life was simple, but satisfying. It was a place where people left their doors unlocked and never for a minute thought there should ever be a reason to do otherwise. Some never even had a key in this hamlet where in the â40s young men went off to war, women worked in factories because it was the thing to do to support the war effort, and on the home front anxious mothers ran to the door every time they heard a car slow down, fearing the worst. A number of Prattvilleâs young men were indeed lost, but many more came home and immediately went to work, marrying their sweethearts and raising families.