Learning to survive as a latchkey kid

I think it was back when I had to cover my first presidential campaign and the Secret Service took a halfway decent pocket knife, a really good Swiss Army knife and a fairly new canister of pepper spray in a leather holster from me that first made me realize my generation just wasn't like the other kids. That was the same day I learned the Secret Service does not give much consideration to whether you got at least one of those knives from your daddy and it was sentimental (yeah, OK, maybe I tried it) or that you had carried the other across more than 12,000 miles of cross-country moves (OK, that was a Hail Mary) and that you offered to come back when the candidate rally was over and pick everything up on your way out. I just knew that walking into a huge crowd with nothing but a pen, notebook and a cellphone I felt … naked. What if I was rushed by a wildcat? Needed to lash together ropes to swing out over quicksand? Fend off an assassin or cut an apple? The mind boggles. If you are reading this and thinking any one of these scenarios seems a little unlikely, or in any event they wouldn't require the tiny arsenal I carried with me on a regular basis, I'm not going to say you're wrong but I am going to say there's a good chance you might not be in my age bracket. People my age? We are the Lost Latchkey Kids. We raised ourselves for the most part, coming home to empty houses after school, fishing out that cold house key we wore on a piece of yarn around our neck like an alley cat that was just sorta adopted by a kindly but distracted family to let ourselves in. It was up to us to feed ourselves, do our chores and make sure our own homework was done hours before any adult showed up, maybe not until after dark. This is what happens when you're raised on "Little House on the Prairie" and "Unsolved Mysteries," "Scooby Doo" and "In Search Of." You believe quicksand, falling down an old mine shaft or being sealed inside the wall of a haunted mansion while searching for a lost treasure are going to be much bigger threats than, so far, they've turned out to be. We knew how to do laundry by fifth grade and who snuck out at night by sixth grade and kids spent whole summers drifting from house to house, watching ourselves. We nursed ourselves, tended our own wounds, swapped our own knowledge around. Streetlights told time and you knew where your friends were by the piles of bikes on the tree lawn. You tracked your friends by the piles of bikes left behind and the collective adults, assuming someone had eyes on us, didn't panic until your face showed up on the back of the milk carton, the precursor of the Amber Alert. They call us Gen X but they also call us the "forgotten" generation because we are legendary for being self-reliant. My pockets, and the back of my truck, will tell on me and my whole generation. There's usually rope, and extra water and nearly always matches. For years I carried a hatchet until the handle dry-rotted off, but I've always got knives. I know people that carry MREs, or dehydrated meals-ready-to-eat like the military gives to soldiers in the field and field kit toilets. They are ladies who brunch, not soldiers or survivalists. They just grew up like I did and people underestimate X-ers at their peril. I like keeping an extra blanket or two around, in case you drive into a snowstorm or an impromptu picnic or beach situation, a disposable and sealable container for vomit and extra plastic bags and straps to adjustable ratchet straps. When my kids were little I taught them that if we ever got separated to find someone like me to help them. Ultimately I hoped they would find another mom, but truthfully I think it's not terrible advice. Sometimes I think if the worst thing happened, if an apocalypse happened tomorrow and most of the earth was wiped out, who would still be here? I know the Gen-X'ers don't have youth on their side, but I still wouldn't count them out. Nobody notices them. They could run a silent network for a long time, like the way they kept E.T. in a closet and nobody noticed. Plus, we have all the gear. Contact Chronicle-Telegram columnist Rini Jeffers at rinijeffers@gmail.com.