My 85th birthday just kind of whizzed by earlier this month. It was a surprise party. This octogenarian was the party who was certainly surprised at being this age with no major problems — lots of minor ones, but nothing major.

Where did all this time go?

I’ve stayed in good old Warren all these years — except for the U.S. Army and college at Ohio U. and Kent State. During those times, I still called Warren my home.

So, what have I got to show for it? I have two sons and four grandchildren — two grandchildren in smoky California, and two in Fujian Province, China.

I’ve seen the California kids maybe about a dozen times and the China kids no more than four. My role as a grandfather has been limited to those all-too-brief and few visits, so I can’t slip into the role of the doting, hard-of-hearing, opinionated, nosy old codger who tells everyone what to do and how to do it.

I don’t try this role on my friends — it doesn’t work. Besides, with this pandemic, travel to California or China is out of the question. Even without the pandemic, traveling great airline distances becomes a worrisome proposition. Simple things like figuring out how to pack, dealing with the TSA, getting to the right gate, or finding the baggage claim become tasks filled with anxiety.

I’d like to share with you some of the highlights of my 8 1/2 decades of living in this place of sometimes lousy but never too dangerous weather and, with few exceptions, other acts of God that are mild in comparison to other parts of the country.

First of all, I must ask you not to criticize my memories too much for accuracy. I want to tell you about Warren the way I remember it and felt about it — not so much of how it really was.

One of my earlier memories is when I was standing on the bench seat of our ’38 Buick between Mom and Dad. We were driving west along South Street near the Erie Railroad station. I began screaming as I saw an eastbound steam locomotive coming our way on a collision course with us on rails set right in the middle of the street.

It missed us, and Dad had no real explanation as to why a train was running down the middle of South Street. That arrangement must have caused a lot of anxiety among many drivers and their passengers.

Years later, the tracks were moved from that dangerous position.

Before the rails were moved, though, right at the beginning of World War II, there was a horrific head-on collision of two freight trains along that same set of tracks. The contents of shattered box cars was everywhere. One box car had the shattered remnants of a fighter plane fuselage, and another had the wings of that same plane. It had British roundel insignia. It was fascinating for this 7-year-old to see a real combat airplane before my very eyes.

Perhaps this was evidence enough that something had to be done about those rails set in the middle of the street.

World War II was a fascinating and scary time with air raid sirens and blackouts as part of the drills we had to deal with. Sometimes, without our notice, when Mom and Dad were away, Grandma and I would be home alone when the sirens began. We sat in fear in the dark wondering whether this one was just practice or whether it was for real.

In my next column, to be published Friday, Oct. 30, I’ll be telling you more about my memories of good old Warren.

Mumford, of Warren, can be reached at columns@tribtoday.co