People made a fuss recently when an air traffic controller at New York’s JFK Airport, which is busy as a beehive on overdrive, let his kid relay a few directives to departing jetliners.

  Apparently the boy controller repeated what his dad was saying, and there was no freelancing involved. I don’t think he made anything up, like “Just pick any runway, mister.” Or, “Runway three! That’s my favorite!”
  As for me, I’m a little scared of flying, which has never seemed a natural act. It’s not only being airborne, it’s being airborne while being scrunched in a hard seat that has just enough legroom to avoid being declared an instrument of torture by the U.N. High Commission on Passenger Rights and Airline Snacks.
I squirm, listening to jet engines groan as if the plane is wildly overloaded, and landing gear thump like an old car smacking frost heaves. I await the turbulence that makes the Earth-bound part of me want to shout, “See, fools! I knew this thing couldn’t fly!” (But I restrain myself). During all of this I’d like to think that adults — experienced adults — are in charge.
  Our collective craving for maturity is one reason Capt. Chesley “Sully” Sullenberger, the pilot who gracefully glided a wounded jetliner onto the Hudson, became such a hero. In a time when many adults act younger and younger, he seemed right-aged.
  You have to be good to go as far as he has with a name like Chesley, but more importantly, he seemed to be someone who could look disaster in the eye and announce in a calm, almost-sleepy pilot voice, “Uhh, passengers, you might experience just a little bit of bumpiness as we make a water landing right now. On your right, and your left, is the skyline of New York. Enjoy the view and please fly with us again.”
  Sully has clipped gray hair and a moustache that would suit an admiral in a World War II movie. The late actor David Niven comes to mind, although not to the Twitter generation.

  There’s a place for adults, and a place for children, but that notion has grown fuzzier. Cultural trends too big for me to understand have landed us in waters where we work hard to make enough money to send our kids to daycare. Then we fill our office cubicles with guilt and worry. Parents feel pressured to create “quality time” with a determination that resembles preparations for a Himalayan trek. They take exhausting journeys to the Boston Museum of Science with young kids when the Montshire in Norwich would do as well, not to mention a pack of Mentos and a bottle of Diet Coke. (To me, much of the appeal of kid science is to make a mess, and Mentos/Coke will do it.)

  Since family time is compressed, it gets more intense. Sometimes you see parents who look like they are emotionally joined at the hip with their kid. They follow a child like a chattering shadow, talking too much and too fast, fawning over small triumphs. “You opened that door very well! You are such a good door opener, Tiffany!”

  If I had to make a list of places kids don’t quite belong, a control tower at one of the world’s busiest airports might be on it. Likewise, I wouldn’t want a surgeon to let a child tag along, since you wouldn’t want to hear “ewwww” as you went under the scalpel. Kids Day in Congress would probably be all right, because (insert your own wisecrack here).

  But in many workplaces, I suppose, having kids around is all right, within limits. Noisy ones should breeze through, but quiet kids who read or color can stay a while. (I loved the Harry Potter obsession years.) A dose of kiddie energy can cure workplace fatigue, and that’s a good thing. One day years ago my wife stopped at the office and our kids entertained my co-workers without even entering the building. They pulled a prank that many a child thinks is hilarious — once. They locked Dede out of the car and giggled and roared as she demanded that they open the door. Alas, it went on too long, because hijinks are not self-limiting. I had to storm out and make dramatic threats, yelling in my lunatic voice to be heard through the locked windows.

  When I was very young, my dad owned a gas station. It was a cool place to visit, because it had grease, cashews and an old-fashioned soda machine. It also had a mechanic’s pit — a hole they went into to work under a car. It must have been seven feet deep — so of course I went near and tempted fate. But my father never asked me to fix the brakes on a Nash Rambler.

  Mostly I wasn’t tempted to bring my kids along to the newsroom, since the office lacked grease and cashews, and soda is so commonplace it isn’t the attraction it once was. If they could have written stories and headlines, that would have been another thing.

  No, I was always happy to finish my work and get home to them. When they yelled “Daaaaaaady!” as I entered, it was a erfect homecoming.
The writer lives in West Lebanon. He can be reached at dan.mackie@yahoo.com.