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 making announcements from the front office couldn’t help but join in over the loudspeaker. The innocence of it all still makes me smile.
We didn’t have active shooter drills — we had “disaster drills.” The fifth and sixth graders would crouch together in one hallway, first through fourth in another. It was routine, not rooted in fear.
At 3:06 p.m., the bell rang — and that’s when the real joy began. Kids would race out the door, some sliding down the metal banisters for fun, faces lit up with freedom. We’d burst into the fresh air with one thing on our minds: play. Kickball in the street. Tag in the yard. Riding bikes until the sky turned gold, porch lights flickered on, and the fire whistle blew.
On my block alone, we had about 30 kids, give or take, all in the same age bracket. And mostly we were friends. We had arguments, sure. But we also had sleepovers, backyard games, scraped knees, and belly laughs. Our lives were rich with imagination and face-to-face connection.
Today? Things look — and feel — different.
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Jesus Christ is King
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