Chicago trips opened up the world

To the editor: This column is being reprinted from Aug. 13, 2008. Jack was a traveler all of his life, including his trips to Belarus, Afghanistan, Myanmar and a variety of other spots to teach journalists in places where freedom of the press had not previously existed. It’s easy to imagine that the trips of his youth led him down that path.

When did we start treating our children like hothouse plants?

And was that decision related to a more dangerous environment or simply fear that the environment had become more dangerous?

Those questions have been on my mind for weeks, and I still don’t have the answers.

All I know is, it changed.

From my childhood to my approaching decrepitude, it changed. And I don’t think kids are better off for that change.

Step into my time machine and zip back with me to about 1963 or 1964. I was a paperboy in those days, instead of a publisher. And for a kid of 15 years old or so, I was making pretty good money, thanks to some generous Christmas tips.

My big brother Steve was living in Evanston, Illinois, in those days. He was working for United Press International and getting his master’s degree in journalism at Northwestern. His wife, Beth, was teaching elementary school. They lived in an apartment on the top floor of an old house.

I loved Chicago in those days, having stopped there on family vacations several times while my sister Linda was working at a summer camp for handicapped children in the area.

So, obviously, I wanted to visit Chicago on my own.

That may have seemed obvious in the early to mid 60s. It’s far from obvious to parents today.

Here’s how it worked.

On what we used to call “Teachers’ Institute” weekend, now known as Fall Break, I would get a good substitute for my paper route — my buddy Don Starr as I recall.

Then, on Thursday morning, I’d say goodbye to my parents, walk down North Street to Vernie Schmidt’s garage, and wait for the ABC Busline behemoth to roll into town.

I’d take the ABC to Fort Wayne, disembarking about two or three blocks from the train station, then I’d walk to the train station with my bag.

From there, it was the train to Chicago — an aging, flea-ridden, claptrap piece of work in the era before Amtrak.

The train would arrive at Union Station about 2 p.m.

I would take a short cab ride to the Loop, stopping at Marshall Field, the department store giant.

Marshall Field had lockers where you could check a bag, so that’s what I did.

Today, those lockers are probably long gone; they pose too great a threat for potential terrorism.

After checking my bag, I would spend the next several hours hanging out. On the Loop. In Chicago.

I’d go to movies that hadn’t yet made it to the Hines or maybe never would. I window shopped. I girl-watched. I walked. I soaked up everything that was possible to soak up.

Then, about 5 or 6 p.m., I’d get my bag out of the locker. It had only cost me a quarter to check it. Then I’d take the El north to Evanston.

Once there, I’d walk about four blocks to the old house where Steve and Beth had their apartment.

OK, I admit that even by 1963 or 1964 standards, that’s kind of an unusual excursion.

It took amazing amounts of trust on the part of my parents, so much so that it’s virtually impossible imagining a high school kid in 2008 making the same trek.

Is Chicago more dangerous? Probably not.

Were my parents derelict in allowing me that freedom? Of course not.

But would parents today hesitate before signing off on such a trip? You bet they would.

I would too.

So, what has changed?

If the world was dangerous then and continues to be dangerous now, what has changed in our perceptions?

And, ultimately, what will be the cost for our own children of this new culture of security and protection?

As I said, I still don’t have the answers.

But I do know the world has changed, and I don’t think it has changed for the better.

Those Chicago trips opened up the world to me.