I’m so glad there was no internet when I was growing up. Sure, it would have made writing a term paper on the Louisiana Purchase easier. But on the other hand, when I did something embarrassing, no one was posting or texting a photo of it around for everyone I knew to see. We ruined each other’s lives face-to-face, with gossip and slander, like civilized people.
Plus—and 13-year-old me would go apeshit if he heard this—I’m not sure unfettered access to boobs would have been in my best interest. My friends and I had to really work to see a pair of breasts. We’re talking staring at a scrambled adult cable channel that would occasionally have a couple seconds of clarity. It was like playing a knocker slot machine. Maybe, if you were lucky, someone’s older brother had squirreled away an old issue of Playboy. The point is, it was probably healthier that we didn’t have an unending medley of tits at our fingertips.
Wait, what was I talking about?
Oh, right. The internet has introduced a whole new realm of danger to kids that parents have to navigate. But in other ways, things are a lot safer than they used to be.
In my day…
Expectant parents today spend a lot of time childproofing their homes. Gates are installed. Cabinets are secured. Outlets are covered. It’s all for the good.
When I was a kid, the concept of childproofing hadn’t even yet reached prescription bottles. To prevent little Tommy from downing a handful of Valium like Skittles, you had to be crafty with your hiding spots.
And if he was a curious lad who liked to climb on counters to open high cabinets, he’d pull down a double boiler on his head and fall to the floor. Then you’d tell him to walk it off, and chalked it up to a life lesson. Once he came to, I mean.
We played with Swiss Army knives. And BB guns. And lawn darts—the sharp kind that have since been banned. We had wood-burning kits, which are exactly what they sound like: a flame and a piece of kindling. And sweet Jesus, the chemistry sets. These things were laboratory-ready. I could have become a mini Walter White if I’d put my mind to it.
Our playgrounds were a collection of rusted metal behemoths sitting atop solid earth. Jungle gyms 15-feet high tested your will to live as much as your dexterity.
Not that getting to the playground was much better. If you were riding your bike, wiped out, and hit your head, your head took whatever came its way. Pavement, grass, car, whatever—it was an exciting game of concussion roulette.
Helmets weren’t a thing. They were a thing for football players and motorcyclists, but back then we had a surplus of children, so losing a few to bike accidents wasn’t as much of a concern as it is now.
I had no shortage of bike crashes, but two-wheelers were far from the most hazardous mode of transportation.
At that time, people treated seatbelts as more of a suggestion than a must. The thought process was similar to when it’s raining and you head out of the house with an umbrella. You could also stop and put on a raincoat, but you have somewhere to be and you already have this big umbrella so fuck that.
This meant the back of a car was like a combination sofa and tilt-a-whirl. Any sharp turn would send you rocketing across the seat, slamming into a door and banging your elbow on the built-in metal ashtray.
That’s right: seatbelts optional, ashtray on every door. One can imagine the race between Honda and Ford to be the first to offer a deep fryer in their center consoles.
And then there’s this. Every once in a while, my dad would borrow his friend’s pickup truck, usually for some home-landscaping project. I loved to go with him. Not because I was interested in shrubs, but because I got to spend the entire trip riding in the bed of the pickup. I was around seven.
In retrospect, it’s astounding that my mom allowed this to happen, but it wasn’t strange then. I would wave to people while truck-surfing and they’d wave back with an “Isn’t that cute” smile on their faces. Try hauling around a free-floating first-grader in the back of a pickup now and you’ll be in handcuffs before you reach the end of your driveway.
A little perspective
I’m not one of those “kids today have it so easy” kind of people. They don’t. Their set of challenges are unique to the times we live in and incredibly hard. Social media alone is an infinite field of landmines.
On the bright side, they’re at significantly less risk of taking a projectile through the chest at a family picnic. Or becoming a projectile going through a car’s windshield. Just as we were all at less risk than generations before us of getting kicked in the head by a plow horse, or dying from diphtheria.
Years from now, people will probably shake their heads at the idea that kids in the 2020’s didn’t wear full-body kevlar lacrosse uniforms.
In any era, growing up is rough business. Until recently, I never thought much about doing inner-child work. But I think it would be worth it to have a chat with the little guy. Not to see if he’s okay. To warn him to stay in there. Adulthood is so much worse.
This was awesome. Brought back so many memories. Hitchhiking was safe back then.
I always wanted to ride in the bed of a pick-up! Luckkkkkkkky!!! Did your mom use her outstretched arm as a seatbelt? Ahhhhh memories!