I grew up in the '80s in what many today might call a “Mayberry” kind of world. It was the last breath of something simple, safe, and rooted in values that now feel more like folklore than fact. We lived in neighborhoods where you knew every family on the block -- and they knew you. I went to the last true neighborhood school in our city. It wasn’t a magnet program or an overcrowded complex across town. It was a short walk away, and most days, that’s exactly what we did -- walked.

We’d stroll in each morning, no buses, no metal detectors, no pick-up lines wrapping around the block. We walked home for lunch, too -- every single day. The town fire whistle would blow at noon sharp, like clockwork, and that was our cue: we had ten to fifteen minutes to finish our sandwich, maybe a cookie, hug Mom or Dad, and get back to class. That same whistle would ring again at 9 p.m. every night -- a gentle, familiar reminder that it was time to head home, wrap up the games, and call it a day.

We don’t hear those whistles anymore. Just like we don’t hear church bells ringing on Sunday mornings -- silenced by noise ordinances and a culture sprinting toward convenience.

Each morning started with the Pledge of Allegiance. At the end of the day, we’d sing “God Bless the USA” by Lee Greenwood. And every Friday, we closed out the week with the whole school joining in to sing “Rainbow Connection” by the Muppets -- even the students........

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