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Every September, my thoughts return to the classroom and the happy rituals that once marked the beginning of a new school year.

I liked school. The first day meant reuniting with friends I had not seen all summer and meeting a new teacher. Before classes began, Mom and I went shopping for school clothes. I enjoyed it initially, but my enthusiasm usually faded long before she found the best bargain on the most practical outfit.

Girls were not allowed to wear pants to school then. Still, I insisted on debuting new clothes on the first day, even if that meant sweating through the southern Indiana heat.

Fresh school supplies were another thrill. An art gum eraser stood ready to fix mistakes beside unsharpened No. 2 pencils. My Crayola crayons were unbroken and carefully arranged, my Prang paint tin was spotless, and my Le Page’s glue came with its memorable rubber applicator tip.

If supplies ran short during the year, we could visit the school store before class. Selected students staffed it, selling classroom necessities alongside Smith Brothers cough drops in licorice and cherry. I faked more than one cough to win permission to enjoy those sweet treats during a lesson.

Classroom parties were just as exciting. Two Room Mothers organized them, and I was especially proud when my mother served as one in first grade. We celebrated holidays and every birthday during the school year with sweets, festive plates and napkins, and sometimes crepe-paper decorations. We toasted the occasion—or the birthday child—with plenty of juice.

By junior high, a less enjoyable tradition had arrived: covering textbooks. I bought stylish covers but could never decipher the elaborate folding and tucking directions. Most attempts ended as crumpled failures headed for the trash. More resourceful classmates, including those spending less money, repurposed brown paper bags instead.

School taught lessons far beyond the formal curriculum. It operated like a miniature city, complete with familiar characters—the princess, the baby, the bully and the jock. Somehow, those of us from the old school found our positions in its pecking order and learned to make the best of them.

In more ways than we realized at the time, it was useful training for life.