I received the commentary below from the son of a WW II Marine who was killed in action on Iwo Jima and who was awarded a Purple Heart and Navy Cross posthumously. He and I exchange emails on topics of interest—most often related to the military, social issues, politics, and the state of our nation. We are both veterans who have grave concerns about the future of America.

The author of the commentary, entitled The Luckiest Generation Ever, remains anonymous, but whoever the author is, he (or she) has struck a chord that many folks of a certain age will certainly understand and appreciate.

That point became clear to me the other day when I watched a TV report about three children, ages 12, 11, and 9, playing hide-and-seek on neighborhood lawns in a small town in southwest Virginia. It was evening, nearly dusk. Within a half hour, the streetlights would come on, and the children would likely be called home for the evening.

Instead of that happening, however, a neighborhood woman, who happened to be a social worker, confronted the kids while they were playing, demanded to know why they weren’t under direct adult supervision, and threatened to “call the police and get your parents in trouble” if they didn’t go home. The children were shaken and brought home in tears while their mother watched from the kitchen window. When the mother stepped outside to address the neighbor, the woman drove off without speaking to her.

This was not an isolated incident. Over several years, Emily Fields, the children’s mother, faced four separate Child Protective Services (CPS) visits or investigations for allowing her children to play in their own yard and nearby neighborhood yards. During one visit, a caseworker even claimed that children must be supervised at all times—even in their own bedrooms—until age 13.

Because of cases like this where CPS was weaponized over routine outdoor play, advocacy groups pushed for legislative reforms. In 2023, Virginia unanimously passed a “Reasonable Childhood Independence” law (SB 1367). These laws explicitly clarify that allowing children to engage in independent, age-appropriate activities—such as playing outside, walking to school, or staying home briefly—does not constitute criminal neglect or warrant CPS investigations, provided the child is not placed in obvious, real danger. Similar laws have passed in states like Utah, Texas, Colorado, Oklahoma, and Montana.

To protect her kids from further official harassment while the local system caught up with the law, Fields gave her children laminated “licenses” to keep in their pockets while playing. They read: “MY PARENTS KNOW I’M HERE,” and cited the new Virginia statute alongside her phone number.

Stories like this strike a deep chord because they reflect a stark generational shift. Overzealous bureaucratic standards and hypervigilant neighbors have turned everyday childhood activities—like playing hide-and-seek or riding a bike down the block—into potential legal liabilities. Fortunately, the backlash has sparked legislative changes across multiple states to ensure parents can raise independent kids without fear of government intervention.

As a result of such government and CPS overreach, a national reaction has ensued, driven by people like Lenore Skenazy, a journalist, author, speaker, and activist who has launched the Free-Range Kids movement and published a book entitled Free-Range Kids: How to Raise Safe, Self-Reliant Children Without Going Nuts with Worry. Skenazy’s core argument is that overprotective “helicopter parenting,” hyper-vigilance, and exaggerated fears of “stranger danger” were depriving children of the autonomy and resilience they need to become confident adults.

In 2017, Skenazy, alongside several prominent social and evolutionary psychologists, founded “Let Grow,” a national 501 (c) (3) nonprofit organization whose stated mission is to “make it easy, normal, and legal to give kids back their independence.” Let Grow operates on the premise that children are naturally “anti-fragile”—meaning they are built to learn, adapt, and build confidence through unsupervised free play, real-world tasks, and light risk-taking without constant adult intervention.

Having grown up in the 1950s, I find stories like the one from Virginia almost impossible to imagine. Playing outside in the neighborhood was part of everyday life. After school, children were expected to gather outdoors and invent their own games. The idea of adult supervision would have seemed absurd. If it had been required, I have no doubt we would have rebelled and run off to a less “nanny-fied” neighborhood to play.

That’s one reason the following commentary rang so true and pertinent to me. For those of a “certain age,” I bet it will also. Feel free to pass it on. I think everybody should read it—even if they aren’t of a “certain age.”

The Luckiest Generation Ever

Being older today means that we are fortunate to be the luckiest generation ever. We are often called “elderly,” but that quiet label hides a truth most people rarely pause to consider—we are the last living witnesses of a world that no longer exists.

Look closely at us, and you might see gray hair, slower steps, or the quiet patience that time teaches. But if you truly listen to our story, you will realize something extraordinary. We are not simply older people moving through the final chapters of life.

We are the survivors of a breathtaking transformation in human history, a generation that walked from the slow rhythm of an analog world into the dazzling speed of a digital one without losing our sense of humanity along the way.

Our journey began in a very different world.

Many of us were born in the 1940s, 1950s, and early 1960s, when the scars of World War II were still fresh, and the world was trying to rebuild. Cities in Europe and Asia were rising again from rubble, families were learning how to hope after years of uncertainty, and childhood unfolded in ways that would feel almost unrecognizable to younger generations today.

Our toys and games were simple.

We played marbles in dusty yards and hopscotched on cracked sidewalks. Around kitchen tables, we played checkers and cards as the smell of dinner or fresh popcorn filled the house. When the streetlights came on, everyone knew the day’s adventures were over, and it was time to go home.

There were no smartphones. No streaming videos. No endless scroll of digital distractions.

Instead, we built our memories in the real world—with scraped knees, laughter echoing down neighborhood streets, and friendships that formed face-to-face, the way the natural world intended.

Music became one of the defining soundtracks of our youth.

The 1960s and 1970s arrived like a wave of color and rebellion. We watched as culture shifted around us, carried by wailing electric guitars and voices that dared to question the world.

For some of us, gatherings like the legendary Woodstock Festival of 1969 symbolized something powerful: the belief that peace, music, and community could reshape the future. Hundreds of thousands of young people stood together in muddy fields, listening to artists who poured raw emotion into towering speakers known as the Wall of Sound. Those concerts were not just entertainment—they were moments when strangers felt like a single generation singing the same hope under an open—and sometimes rainy sky.

For others of us, Woodstock—especially military veterans and conservatives—was extraneous physically, culturally, and in some cases, musically. The 1960s were an uncommon time, and the world looked different. Not all of us liked their rebelliousness and intractability, but we persevered.

Education looked different back then too.

Our notebooks were filled with handwritten notes carefully copied from chalkboards. Research required patience, libraries, and stacks of heavy books rather than a quick internet search. We learned to slow down and think through ideas because information did not arrive instantly.

Mistakes were corrected with erasers and ink, not with the click of a “delete” button.

Love also conveyed a different rhythm.

We fell in love as vinyl records spun on turntables and cassette tapes clicked softly in their players. Music set the scene for first dances, long conversations, and dreams of the future. Those relationships grew into marriages, families, and lives built step by step through the 1980s and 1990s as technology began reshaping the world around us.

Yet nothing compares to the bridge our generation has crossed. We are the only generation to have experienced an entirely analog childhood and a fully digital adulthood.

We remember waiting days—or sometimes weeks—for handwritten letters to arrive in the mail. We remember rotary telephones and party lines where neighbors could accidentally overhear conversations.

Communication required patience and anticipation.

Today, we can see the face of a loved one across the ocean instantly on a screen small enough to fit in a pocket.

The world changed in ways few could have imagined.

We watched humans land on the Moon in 1969, a moment when millions of people sat in living rooms staring at black-and-white televisions as Neil Armstrong took humanity’s first steps in another world.

We saw the rise of personal computers, the birth of the internet, and eventually the arrival of smartphones that placed entire libraries of knowledge in our hands.

Computers that once filled entire rooms now exist on devices lighter than a paperback book. We moved from punch cards and mechanical tools to artificial intelligence and global networks connecting billions of people instantly.

And through every shift, we adapted.

Our bodies carry the marks of the times we lived through as well.

We grew up during fears of polio and tuberculosis, illnesses that once terrified entire communities before vaccines helped bring them under control. We witnessed the global challenges of pandemics and health crises over decades, including the recent silence and uncertainty surrounding COVID-19, which reminded the world that resilience and resolve are still required in every generation.

Science itself transformed before our eyes.

We saw the discovery of DNA’s structure, the decoding of the human genome, and the early steps toward gene therapy and advanced medicine.

Transportation evolved from simple bicycles and internal combustion engines to hybrid vehicles and electric cars gliding almost silently through city streets.

Few generations have witnessed such sweeping change.

And yet, despite everything that has evolved around us, certain things remain unchanged. We still understand the joy of a cold glass of lemonade from a frosty bottle on a hot afternoon.

We still remember the taste of vegetables picked straight from a garden.

We still know the value of a long conversation that unfolds slowly without a keyboard or screen interrupting it. We learned that when we are talking, we aren’t learning anything. So, we learned how to listen to what others were saying. We learned that an effective conversation is one that consists of give-and-take.

Our memories stretch across decades, not just a few years.

We celebrated births, mourned losses, watched friends depart, and carried their stories forward.

Those who remain share something rare: the experience of standing at the crossroads of history, holding memories from a world that younger generations know only through photographs and stories.

But we are not relics. We are living bridges.

Our perspective reminds the modern world that progress need not erase wisdom. The speed of technology does not have to replace patience, kindness, or reflection.

We remember what life felt like before everything moved so fast—and that memory carries quiet lessons worth sharing.

So, when someone calls us “elderly,” we can smile, because behind that word lies something extraordinary.

We are the generation that crossed two centuries, witnessed eight decades of transformation, and walked from the age of handwritten letters to the era of artificial intelligence.

What a life we have lived. What a remarkable story we continue to carry.

And if you belong to this generation, take a moment today to look in the mirror and recognize something powerful.

You are not simply growing older. You are living history.

You are part of a generation that will always remain one of a kind.

And perhaps, in the quietest and most meaningful way, you are becoming legendary.

 

–30–

 

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