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Fire drills were a familiar part of my school years. Several times annually, including during Fire Prevention Week in October, we stopped our work, left our belongings behind and followed the teacher calmly toward a designated exit.

Once outside, we waited—sometimes cold and impatient—while adults checked that everyone had safely cleared the building.

At James Whitcomb Riley Elementary, Fire Prevention Week posters appeared on classroom bulletin boards before the annual drill. On the chosen day, our principal, Miss Marsh, manually rang the fire bell from her office. By then, we had practiced so often that leaving the building felt almost automatic.

The fire chief attended to time and grade our performance. If everyone evacuated within 15 minutes, the school earned an A. A slower result meant more drills, a prospect that became especially motivating as the weather turned colder.

The exercises took on new meaning after I learned about the devastating fire at Our Lady of the Angels School in Chicago. Dozens of children died in the blaze or after jumping from windows in panic. Suddenly, practicing an orderly evacuation no longer seemed pointless.

We were also taught to “Stop, Drop and Roll” if our clothes caught fire. An instructional film emphasized that running was the worst response because it could fan the flames.

Other drills reflected a different fear of the era: nuclear attack. Students were instructed to get beneath their desks, curl into a tight ball and cover the backs of their heads with their arms.

At the time, the idea that school itself might not be safe seemed almost unimaginable. Today, suggestions circulate for securing classroom doors when an armed attacker is in a school, and students may be taught what to do if violence begins while they are outside their classrooms.

Looking back, those inconvenient fire drills—even the ones held in freezing weather—seem tame beside the threats behind modern school safety exercises. They also serve as a reminder of how fortunate we were.