While I was trolling the Internet for story ideas recently, I came across a humorous article I could certainly relate to: “28 Reasons Children of the ’70s Should All Be Dead.”

The piece detailed an era when things were a little looser when it came to raising children, especially when it came to safety.

“Lawn darts were a popular toy, choking hazards filled your toy box, helmets were for losers and kids got to play with fireworks,” the article on offbeat.topix.com extolled. “Secondhand smoke was everywhere. Sunblock was a rarity and parents did NOT watch their kids all the time.”

Somehow most of us made it out of the ’70s alive. The 1960s probably weren’t much safer.

Mattel’s Creepy Crawlers debuted in 1964. We molded our own bug-shaped creatures out of some liquid substance called Plastigoop, no doubt inhaling toxic fumes while using a hot plate that reached a scalding 390 degrees.

My brothers and I played with cap guns and BB guns and never “put out” an eye. We played with fireworks, too, setting off bottle rockets, smoke bombs and various other pyrotechnics without losing a limb.

Our family cars didn’t have seat belts for most of my childhood. It was 1968 when the government began requiring safety restraints in passenger vehicles. Mom was our seat belt. Her right arm was lightning fast if she had to slam on the brakes, to hold back whichever one of us was sitting in the front seat and keep us from going through the windshield. For years after our vehicles had seat belts, her arm automatically went out to protect us.

As for sunscreen, there was never any around our house; not a good thing for a family of fair-skinned Scandinavians. When I was in college and should have known better, I laid out in the sun with my roommate on some kind of aluminum sheets, slathered only in baby oil. My roommate was dark, with olive skin. The tanning session didn’t faze her. I was burned to a crisp and got a touch of sunstroke that caused me to pass out while I was talking to my mother on the phone. Mom raced over and hauled me to the ER. I was miserable and never again purposely laid out in the sun without sunscreen.

Supervision during play time was minimal during my formative years, not because my parents were negligent. It’s just the way things were. My brothers and I played in trees we could have easily fallen out of. We spent hours upon hours by ourselves, coming home only when it was time to do our chores.

My middle brother loves to tell the story about how he secretly roasted marshmallows, holding a fork full of the gooey treat over the flames of our gas range. That was one childhood activity that was starkly forbidden. He thought he’d gotten away with his covert snacking and was shocked when Mom knew exactly what he’d been up to. His big mistake, Mom told him: “You forgot to wash the fork.”

Farm work was another bastion of hazardous activities. I drove a tractor by myself when I was 9. We swung from ropes in the hayloft and made hay forts for years without breaking a bone or suffocating.

I can’t say I would have wanted my own children to do half the things I did as a kid. And I’ll probably be even more protective when my first grandchild arrives in less than a month. Every generation has its “good old days,” it seems. I’m just glad I lived through mine without being maimed for life.

Features editor Lynnette Hintze may be reached at 758-4421 or by email at lhintze@dailyinterlake.com.