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On the first day of first grade in 1976, the year of the United States Bicentennial, I stepped cautiously into my new classroom, clutching a metal Holly Hobbie lunch box that held a banana sandwich wrapped in wax paper, a can of chocolate pudding, and a small pouch in which I’d stashed a newly minted Bicentennial quarter — a gift from my great-uncle, who ran the Bank of Coleridge — to buy milk in the lunchroom.

I found a spot among the rest of the wriggling and restless and wide-eyed children, my new classmates, each of us buzzing with anticipation, nervous but excited to begin our 12-year journey together. The energy in that room could’ve powered a small town.

I took to school as if it were a second home, finding comfort in the gentle guidance of the teacher, absorbing each lesson like a sponge soaking up water. I lost myself in the stories we read aloud, in the pictures we drew, in the joyous freedom of the playground.

That fall, our class put on a play about the American Revolution. Cast as Betsy Ross, I sat in a rocking chair on the stage with a crocheted shawl around my shoulders, a bonnet on my head, and a flag draped across my lap, miming the stitching together of a symbol of our nation’s beginnings.

I don’t remember if I had any lines, but I do remember rocking in that chair with such intensity that my mom and grandmother, who were watching me from the front row, held their breath, fearing I might topple off the side of the stage. (Happy to report that I stayed upright.)

It’s been 48 Septembers since that first day of school, and each year, as summer tilts and topples into fall, I feel a familiar sense of excitement for air that turns a little brisker, carrying with it the crisp promise of a new season.

In quieter moments, I remember the classrooms of my childhood, the rows of wooden desks worn smooth by generations of elbows and arms. I can still hear the echo of youthful voices. I can still feel the weight of a lunch box in my hand, its metal sides cool against my skin, the latch clicking shut with a reassuring snap.

A few years ago, at the start of a new school year, I was invited to speak about my career as a magazine editor to a group of second graders at South Newton Elementary near Hickory. The children, fidgety and bubbly and chirpy, welcomed me into their classroom with waggling waves, their tiny hands shooting up with questions. Do you read all the stories in the magazine? How do you come up with new ideas? Have you met any famous people? What’s your favorite dinosaur?

We read a book aloud, and I joined the class for lunch in the cafeteria. No sign of the metal lunch boxes that I remembered so well, but trays still clattered, children’s sneakers still squeaked against the polished floor, and colorful posters lined the walls, pictures and projects from proud little artists.

Sometimes, I feel the weight of time, days and moments that pass so quickly they blur together, leaving a seamless quilt of memory. I know there’s no holding back the clock.

That afternoon, the bell rang, end of the school day. Mrs. Moseley, the principal, thanked me for coming, and I paused in the doorway, watching the students scatter, their backpacks bobbing, the energy of youth unencumbered. We pushed open the door, and off they flew into the open sky of their future.

Elizabeth Hudson
Editor in Chief