Remembering the 1960s

Maybe there are reasons to be a helicopter grandparent, after all

As a bit of a preface, I am retired, in my 60s and married, with two children in their 30s and four grandchildren, ages 7 to 12. I have lived in Jackson all of my life, except for five years when I was in the Navy after high school. I was never a helicopter parent. The term did not even exist when raising our kids in the 1980s. But I am definitely a hovering, helicopter, never-let-them-out-of-your-sight grandpa. Near as I can figure, I am channeling my late mother-in-law, Norma, who I used to make fun of for hovering over my children when she watched them. My state of mind is her revenge from the beyond. And she was right about telling all of us to watch out for bears, seeing as one was sighted between Cape and Jackson!

The point of the above paragraph is to say that my childhood had little to no hovering by my parents. My sister did more bossing around than hovering — at least in our view — when she was in charge of watching us three younger kids during the summer. She was all of two and a half years older than me, so we all ignored her and did what we wanted. There were only six years between the four of us.

During the summer, we roamed Jackson at will on our bicycles. On weekends we went camping, and did the same things there. Trails End, Sam A. Baker, Ferne Clyffe, Silver Mines — lots of stories there, as well. During the week, our favorite place was the Jackson City Park. It was much smaller, just what you would call the Old Park now. Everything north of the road on the north side of the creek was either farm land or the drive-In. No big pool, ball fields, band stage, paths, etc. We walked in the creek and didn’t need shoes on at the time; I would not try that now. We played in the Rock Garden, went swimming on our summer passes, etc.

One of our other favorite places was the sewage treatment plant. We just rode down their for the heck of it. I have no idea why. Another favorite spot during July was Route PP, called South Farmington now, to go to the Kinders’ house and buy fireworks before they were on sale in town. We shot them off well before the 4th. The police really didn’t care, as long as we didn’t do something stupid. Of course, it was mostly firecrackers, bottle rockets and smoke bombs, which were all we could afford. All the fancy stuff they have now was not around. Our only money was from a weekly allowance and turning in soda bottles for the deposit.

We also explored the farm fields behind our house on Randy Drive and rode our bikes virtually all over town. Now you have to remember, we were three kids from ages 7 to 10, just doing and going wherever we wanted, who just needed to be home for lunch and supper. I suspect this is unheard of now; different times. Jackson was also much smaller, a few more than 5,000 people, I believe.

One day, we were playing around the house and saw smoke to the south. I don’t remember an explosion, but the cloud of smoke was impressive. It looked to be in the area of the four-way stop, where Highways 25 and 61 cross and the police and fire station are now. So off we went. When we got there, it was even more impressive. We gathered on the north side of the highway where the entrance to the police station is now, just a field back then as I remember. In front of the pottery plant, Ceramo, was a large tanker truck. It was burning with a vengeance, and the entire tanker part of the truck had melted into a big blob. Behind it were two or three fuel storage tanks, maybe 15 feet wide and 20 feet high. One had lost its top and was belching smoke. There was fire all around the other ones. Fire engines were on that side of the street spraying water on the truck and tanks. By this time, there were a lot of people — maybe 50 or so adults and kids, I don’t really remember — on the north side of the highway.

We were all standing there watching things burn, only 50 to 60 feet away. Now a days, the highway would be closed for hundreds of feet in each direction, with no cars or people anywhere nearby. And for good reason, as you will see, but things were different then, which is the point of this story.

Suddenly, there was a loud, low boom, and the top of one of the intact tanks blew off. We were impressed and mesmerized as it went up into the air quite a ways. It went flying over our heads, spinning, looking just like a giant frisbee. It landed about 30 feet behind us, away from the highway. We were just lucky no one got squished, but most everyone was lined up along the highway, anyway. Of course, now that’s the kind of thing that would freak me out for days. At the time it was just cool. At that age, we were too ignorant of the world to be aware of how close we came to disaster, and it was a great story.

I do not remember any big reaction from anyone there, or from the police and firemen. We all went over to check it out, then went home.

I am not sure sometimes how I survived the 1960s without even a broken bone; the worst injury I ever had was running a nail through my foot when I stepped on a board exploring one of the houses L.D. Seabaugh was building in our subdivision.

So while we make fun of the helicopter parents and grandparents, we need to be aware of the real world out there in the 1960s and present day, and take off the rose-colored glasses of our youth. I, for one, will continue to hover.

Gotta admit, though, I had a blast!