I am a Charlotte native.

(Insert gasp here.)

Yes, there are a lot of us hanging around.

I operated lemonade stands along Charlotte roads, played tennis on shaded Charlotte courts and graduated high school in Cricket Arena (now Bojangles Coliseum).

I also grew up with the daily image of my parents emptying a dew-covered bag on the kitchen table and settling in to read the news, trading sections and discussing current events.

There are only a few institutions in Charlotte that everyone - young and old, newcomer and longtime resident, informed citizen and average joe - knows about.

The Charlotte Observer is one of them.

Having grown up in Charlotte, I can attest that the Observer is a loyal friend to the community. Stories were framed in schools, and features became refrigerator art and family heirlooms.

On the weekends, my parents used dog-eared, highlighted copies of the entertainment section as a guide for family nights, judging what was appropriate for my younger brothers, sister and me.

When I interned at WCCB Fox Charlotte one summer, each morning's Observer dictated the news meeting.

And after my Tar Heels won the NCAA men's basketball championship in 2009, during my senior year of college, my youngest brother gave me one of the best presents I've ever received: a collection of every Observer article, column and photo from the season.

But the Observer does more than just remind us of times we cherish. It also reminds us of poignant or painful experiences we're not supposed to forget.

I was 14 and sitting in a ninth-grade civics class at Providence High School when the two hijacked planes hit the World Trade Center.

I saved every copy of the Observer that week - each covered in bold headlines, such as "Carolinas connect in moment of pain," "Driven to faith," and "Sad nation resolves to crush terrorism."

I still pull out those yellowing pages every couple of years and am reminded of how fragile life is, how important it is to pray for those dealing with loss.

Nearly two years ago, I started working with some of the skilled Observer journalists who visited my elementary school and were treated like celebrities.

I'm now friends with the reporters and editors whose late nights of gulping coffee like water made front pages worthy of family heirlooms.

I'm now one of those journalists who savors the adrenaline rush like a good dessert.

Now that I'm behind the scenes, I can tell all of you, both supporters and skeptics: Charlotte needs the Observer and its inky fingerprint.

The workers here are informed, selfless and creative.

They memorialize hometown heroes with hidden legacies.

They expose corruption and save millions of taxpayer dollars.

They remind government officials they work for the people.

The next crop of roadside-lemonade-stand entrepreneurs will be better for it.