The Kondratieff wave exists because typically no one alive remembers the last one. I remember only through stories and lingering aftereffects. I'll share. You can, too. I remember how proud my mother was to serve us a Sunday dinner of a whole Spam lovingly glazed with Karo syrup, spiked with a few pitiful cloves and baked as if it were a luscious ham. We ate it with mustard and salt-rising biscuits.