Cherish the first day of school, year after year.

Byline: Write On By Nancy Arthur Hoskins For The Register-Guard

Today is the first day of school, again. I had the customary restless sleep but not the typical nervous nightmare - not being prepared, not being dressed, not being there on time - that usually precedes the return to the classroom. After all of those years as a student and 40 years as a teacher, I deserve to skip the dreadful dreams.

I remember some days in kindergarten, but not the first day. I was only 4 - always the youngest and smallest in my class from kindergarten to college. In class photos where we are all lined up together, I look like I got in the wrong group.

I do remember the rare treat of painting at the easel, the disappointing watery, wimpy colors and the drippy, running paint. I still have a prejudice against watercolor. My kindergarten students painted often and had good, thick paint rich with pigment.

The other prominent kindergarten memory is the mat that Mother made for rest time or restless time. That was Mother's kind of project. She loved to sew. I know that it was soft and padded and embroidered with my name.

I also remember that it wasn't quite like anyone else's, but then Mother was an original and never did anything quite like anyone else's mother.

I had four first days in the fourth grade as we moved from Skaneateles, New York, to Washington state - Tumwater, Tacoma and finally Puyallup. For me and for my family, it was a traumatic year. I was too young to understand it, but old enough to experience the pain of my parents' faltering marriage. But that's another tale.

I can visualize sitting in my newly assigned seat in each room amid my curious classmates who teased me for my New York accent. I don't remember any difficulty with the schoolwork - that was always easy for me - but I do remember the loneliness of the playground and cafeteria.

What to wear the first day - not fear - became the focus in junior and senior high school. My friends and I would debate endlessly our outfit for the event as we picked our way down the row of berry bushes - earning enough money so that there would be a new, first-day outfit.

My first day at the University of Washington was disappointing. Not at all like the collegiate movies. Soaked through my yellow slicker to the skin, I stood in line after line registering for courses suggested by my adviser that I had no aptitude for, or interest in. We freshmen were told that most of us wouldn't last and the campus attitude seemed to be "good riddance."

I had 43 first-graders in an inner-city school in a California Navy town for my first day as a first-grade teacher. Most of the day is a blur, but I'll never forget dismissal time.

I stood at the door, happy to have survived, saying goodbye to each little person as they politely filed by. Tiny, tow-headed Tommy tugged at my sleeve and said, "Ain't you going to wake up Maceo?"

Maceo was asleep at his desk, had been since story time, and I hadn't even missed him. I went to his desk and said, "Maceo, time to go home." No response. "Maceo, wake up!" No response. I thought, "Oh, no! A child has died in my room during my first day of teaching, and I didn't even notice!"

I shook Maceo's shoulder, and to my everlasting relief, he slowly lifted his head and said, "Where's the kids?" Maceo napped every afternoon and with that large class, I looked forward to it.

I teared as each of my own went off to that first day of school, and now the cycle begins again. Yesterday, Katie, my granddaughter, reported on her first day of preschool. She held hands with a new friend, there is another Katie in the class, they rested. Her mommy, who is much like mine, made her a special mat, and she brought home an A for apple.

Now, I face another first day. I slept fitfully last night and finally got up at 4 a.m. full of thoughts about facing this new group of students.

Nancy Arthur Hoskins lives in Eugene.

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Mail your typed, double-spaced, 500- to 800-word manuscript to Write On, The Register-Guard, P.O. Box 10188, Eugene, OR 97440. There is no payment for a published column.