Yes, quite the comprehensive list. I experienced many of those events, although, being born in 1947, I missed many. My father was a Marine in WWII, serving two tours in the Pacifc but did not see any combat. He was among the troops amassing for the invasion of Japan. Had that happened, I might not be here. I have been acutely aware of that ever since becoming aware of it and am highly respectful and appreciative of all Veterans but especially for all who lost their lives defending out country. I visited Normandy in 1998 and am still deeply moved by how many died then and through the rest of the war.
My family (parents and older brother, 1944) lived in southern California during the war and then again permanently beginning in 1948. I was born in Dayton, OH. When going through my father's things as we got him out of his house and into assisted living (his demise), we found a page from a note pad with a list of life events. About item seven was:
"Moved back to California under threat of divorce".
My mother loved SoCal (and probably hated Ohio, where they grew up) so much she made my father move us back to SoCal in 1948. They made that trip with a 4-yr and 1-yr old in a surplus Jeep towing a surplus Jeep trailer. Hard to image that trip, primarily on two-lane roads, etc. "The Good Old Days".
I grew up in a small beach town just north of San Diego, Solana Beach. It was idyllic, to us kids at least. We played "army" by digging implacements in dirt banks and drove our toy army vehicles on dirt roads we constructed, etc. We did battle with our toy "army men". We didn't know why we did this, we just did it. Our milk man, John, actually entered out house and put the milk in our refrigerator, as we sat at the breakfast table. He later opened the first convenience market, a "Speedy Mart", that later became a 7-11. He lived across the street from me then. He died from "Lock-Jaw", from an injury to a hand by reaching under a running power mower.
I walked barefooted to the beach and hiked over the small hill behind town and shoot my 22 rifle at anything that moved. I wandered through fallow bean fields and sagebrush hills. I later learned that those bean fields were fallow because they had been farmed by Japanese families who were incarcerated during the "internment" during WWII. My older brother had classmates who were born in the internment camps. I had classmates whos families had been. I was unaware of any of this until adulthood.
I experienced the dawn of the "surfing craze" in the mid-50s. I was too little, however, as I could not reach across or lift my brother's 12ft balsa wood surfboard, so I eschewed surfing and became a body surfer. I don't know, but expect those surfboards were larger than those now used by "stand on" boards.
We played in an abandoned concrete bunker on the hill above where I lived. We weren't supposed to, but we did. It was called the "Pill Box". I believe it was never a gun implacement. Rather probably an observation bunker for Japanese airplanes and ships during the WWII. I know there were adults who did watch duty when I was a kid, I think as part of the Civil Air Patrol, so that may have been during the Korean War.
My father was extremely conservative and very concerned about invasion and/or attach by atomic bombs. Beginning in 1961, we (he, my older brother and I) hand-dug a huge hole in our back yard and layed tons of concrete, rebar and concrete blocks building a fallout shelter. My father tried to keep it a secret. Didn't want the neighbors invading our shelter in a time of crisis. He was outed, however, after late one night, around 2:30 am, as he entered the house after finish troweling the top "patio" slab over the shelter. He noticed an odd reddish glow to the west. It was the lumber yard, two blocks away, on fire. He reported it and that was reported in the newspaper, that he was up at that hour "finishing a fallout shelter". It never got totally finished. The water table was amazingly present and filled the bottom with a couple feet of water. Prior to that, he used it to store his "home brew" beer.
Yes, that was a special time and I am very fortunate to have lived it. I now live in a tiny ranching town in NE Oregon, to be near my granddaughter. It is nearer to those old times/places than any in my personal experience.
"Quality is like buying oats. If you want nice, clean, fresh oats, you must pay a fair price. However, if you can be satisfied with oats that have already been through the horse, that comes a bit cheaper."