Barrett Rainey: These are just kids, or so it would seem

About the writer: Barrett Rainey is an Air Force veteran, longtime pilot and former reporter for radio and TV stations from Cheyenne, Wyoming to Washington, D.C. After previous stints in Oregon, Idaho and Arizona, he retired to McMinnville with his wife, Barbara. He is a regular contributor to the Carlton-based Ridenbaugh Press, where this column originated.

At my age of going on 90, it’s too late for a mid-life crisis. So, it must be a “late-life crisis,” coupled with occasional “senior interludes.”

This is normally recognized in two ways. First, I’m getting more daily offers of assistance.

For a while, I figured it was just living in Oregon where nice people look out for each other.

“Great,” I thought. “Beats the ol’ big city life any time.”

Then I noticed some of the people offering assistance appeared to be older than me! That brought on pangs of guilt and a rush to the nearest mirror for assurance. Well, so much for assurance.

The other form of this affliction comes when suddenly realizing you are dealing with so many younger people. Children, it seems. Even worse, a lot of them are people in whom you must trust your life.

Take airline travel.

Time was you felt comfortable with a gray-haired crew up front. That meant thousands of hours in the air, experience with lots of emergencies, calm assurance of command. The Chesley Sullenberger type.

Well, look around now.

The pilots are Skippy and Ginger and some guy in a uniform running up and down the aisle is named Randy.

Wait a minute. I’m as much for equality and advancement as the next guy.

But some of these kids haven’t started shaving yet, and such gray hair as may be on the flight is all in the seats. I’ve got more pilot-in-command time in a Cessna 172 than these guys have in airliners.

We recently needed some legal assistance.

Because I’ve managed to stay out of trouble during our current residency, we hadn’t needed an attorney. So I relied on a friend’s referral.

At the office, I filled out the obligatory “how-are-you-going-to-pay” form and was ushered to the inner sanctum. I thought the young fella behind the desk was an intern who’d do pre-meeting legal screening.

No way! This prepubescent kid in a golf shirt was going to get me through the local county legal briar patch? He should’ve been home cramming for a chemistry exam.

Don’t even ask me about my barber. Every time he jumps up on his little chair-side stool I tell him playtime is over and I’m here to see his dad.

My flight safety, hair care and legal concerns are being handled by kids who’ve never lived without computers, have no concept of 45 RPM records or 8-track tapes, never saw Ed Sullivan, Jack Parr or Huntley-Brinkley, or even watched a black and white TV set.

Ask them about fender skirts and you get a blank look. Same for 25-cent gas, party line phones and transistor radios. They don’t know life before credit and debit cards, microwave ovens or radio before it became talk radio. FM? What’s that?

Oh, I’m sure they have all the proper credentials and accompanying education and training. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be where they are doing what they’re doing.

But two things they haven’t got are miles on the odometer of life and real-time experiences that make us who we are. They’re just beginning the professional evolution process that will make them into what the rest of us have become.:

Older. Much older.

Oh well, I guess it’s up to me to relax and get used to it. But I’d like to be there the day Skippy-the-pilot gets on a flight as a gray-haired passenger and is told via the intercom: “Good morning. Your captain today is computer 2-4-3-7. We’re no longer using co-pilots — human or otherwise.”

Yep. Love to see that.