The dawn of a new year always brings a sense of reflection, a moment to pause and consider the year that has passed before eagerly anticipating the one to come. For my parents, as 1970 drew to a close and 1971 peeked over the horizon, this New Year’s was undoubtedly unlike any other.
Just two months prior, on a crisp late November morning – the day after Thanksgiving, to be exact – I made my grand entrance into the world at 10:00 am.
Born in the mountainous region of northern Arizona, in the town of Flagstaff, my tiny existence was a new chapter unfolding against a backdrop of global events and local life. Flagstaff, nestled at a significant elevation of around 7,500 feet with the majestic San Francisco Peaks as a stunning backdrop, was our home.
This wasn't the arid desert landscape often associated with Arizona; instead, we were surrounded by the cool, pine-scented air of the mountains. For my dad, 1970 marked a period of transition. Having returned from the tumultuous battlefields of Vietnam in 1969, he had built a new life with my mom, their love blossoming into marriage and now, the arrival of their second child. Earlier in 1970, they had experienced the profound loss of their first child, my stillborn sister. Mom became pregnant with me soon after, around late March, and my arrival in November brought a mix of joy and healing to our family. His days were now spent working at the Navajo Army Depot, a world away from the jungles he had once navigated. Located about fifteen miles west of Flagstaff, towards Williams, the route wasn't some dusty dirt track but the historic Route 66, a vital artery connecting communities long before the later construction of Interstate 40 (which would eventually bypass sections of the Mother Road). The depot was a symbol of a different kind of service, a steady rhythm in a world still grappling with conflict.
As a mere two-month-old, my understanding of the world was limited to the warmth of my mother’s embrace, the sound of my father’s voice, and the comforting familiarity of our home in the crisp mountain air of Flagstaff. Yet, even in my infant state, I was a silent witness to the currents of the time. The Vietnam War, though miles away, cast a long shadow over the nation. Discussions about President Nixon’s “Vietnamization” policy, the slow progress of peace talks in Paris, and the ongoing debates about troop withdrawal likely echoed in our living room. Headlines in the local papers probably spoke of these distant battles, alongside the more immediate concerns of life in northern Arizona. Perhaps there were reports on the aftermath of the Cambodian incursion earlier in the year, or discussions about the role of the United States in Southeast Asia.
Locally, life in and around Flagstaff had its own rhythm. The cool mountain air of late 1970 would have carried news of community events, perhaps preparations for the holiday season in a town often dusted with early snow. Northern Arizona University would have been bustling with students, and the economic activity around the Navajo Army Depot would have been a significant part of the local landscape. Maybe the Flagstaff newspaper featured stories about local politics, school events, or the early winter weather patterns that paint the mountainous region. For my parents, these local happenings would have formed the fabric of their daily lives as they navigated the joys and challenges of new parenthood, the second time in one year.
The world of entertainment in 1970 offered a vibrant escape. The airwaves were filled with the poignant melodies of Simon & Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” the sweet harmonies of The Carpenters’ "(They Long to Be) Close to You," and the powerful anti-war anthem "War" by Edwin Starr. Other top hits of the year included B.J. Thomas’s “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head,” Diana Ross’s soaring “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” and The Jackson 5’s heartfelt “I’ll Be There.” Perhaps my mom hummed these tunes as she rocked me to sleep. On the silver screen, movies like the tragic romance of "Love Story" and the gripping drama of "Airport" captivated audiences. Other notable films included the satirical war comedy "M*A*S*H" and the historical epic "Patton." And on television, families gathered to watch popular shows like "Marcus Welby, M.D." and the musical sitcom "The Partridge Family," alongside enduring favorites like "Gunsmoke" and the newly popular "The Odd Couple."
Even the world of games was evolving. The year 1970 saw the release of the now-classic game Connect Four, a simple yet engaging pastime that might have found its way into households looking for new ways to spend time together. Othello, a game of strategic flips, was also gaining popularity, offering a more intellectual challenge. Long-standing favorites like Battleship also continued to provide entertainment.
But as 1970 drew to a close and the calendar turned to January 1971, another significant event was unfolding in the world of popular culture – one that would even impact the legendary Superman. With a cover date of January 1971, Superman #233 hit the newsstands, ushering in a bold new era for the Man of Steel in the "Kryptonite Nevermore!" storyline, also known as the "Sandman Saga." Written by Dennis O'Neil with art primarily by Curt Swan, this issue marked a dramatic shift in the Superman mythos.
In a surprising twist, an accident involving a Kryptonite energy-harnessing machine created a duplicate Superman from the dimension of Quarm. More significantly, this very accident rendered all Kryptonite on Earth completely inert, turning his traditional weakness into harmless iron. This was a monumental change, shaking up decades of established lore. The storyline also introduced a power-draining plot as the duplicate began to siphon Superman's abilities, with the imposter eventually aiming to take over. Adding another layer to Clark Kent's life, this era saw him take on a role as a news anchor for WGBS News, alongside his reporting duties at the Daily Planet – a dual career he would maintain for many years. The issue also featured a backup story, "Jor-El's Golden Folly," which kicked off the "Fabulous World of Krypton" mini-series, delving deeper into Superman's origins.
So, as I lay in my crib in Flagstaff, a tiny inhabitant of a world grappling with war and change, the world of comic books was undergoing its own transformation. The removal of Kryptonite as Superman's weakness was a major event for fans, signaling a new direction for the iconic hero. It's fascinating to think that as my own story was just beginning, so too was a significant new chapter in the long and storied history of Superman.
As 1970 turned into 1971, the world held a mix of uncertainty and hope. For my parents, their focus was undoubtedly on the tiny new life that had joined their world, their second child after the heartbreaking loss earlier in the year. My first New Year’s Day was likely filled with the quiet wonder of a new family, the gentle coos of a baby, and the unspoken dreams for the future, tinged with the bittersweet memory of what might have been. While the world outside continued its complex journey, and even Superman was facing a world without Kryptonite, within our home nestled in the mountains near Flagstaff, a new adventure was just beginning. The year ahead held countless firsts for me, and for my parents, it was the start of a lifelong journey of raising their little one in a world shaped by the events of the time.
This New Year’s Day of 1971 wasn’t just the turning of a calendar page; it was a marker of new beginnings, a testament to love overcoming loss, and a quiet promise of the future unfolding, one tiny baby step at a time, high in the Arizona mountains – a world where even Superman was experiencing a fundamental change.
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