Editor’s note: The following column is from the Crumbs of Candor 2022 archive.

As students are released for summer break, memories take me back to my early school days in the hills of Appalachia.

Anticipation was high to attend with all my cousins. You see, even the teacher was related to me.

Primer (pronounced primmer) was sort of like kindergarten, but not really. It was much more like first grade in my memory bank. There were no special mats for naps or snacks or other activities which singled out Primer students. After all, Miss Ruby Joyce Osborne, my mother’s first cousin once removed, taught Primer through eighth grade in that classroom.

The curriculum is sketchy in my mind, because before the first day of classes I could read and write the entire alphabet in lower and upper case, count to 25 and write the numbers correctly (thanks in part to nursery rhymes like One Two, buckle my shoe …), write my full name and more.

Learning to read was the single most exciting thing ever anticipated. With the cousins, we had rehearsed and played “school” for a long time, but actually being able to read instead of making up tales to match illustrations in books was a big deal.

The smallest desks were placed near the front of the class. Perching in mine, on the left side of the classroom behind just one other desk, gave me a great view of the rest of the enormous room with just a turn of my head to the right.

Miss Osborne, as I had trouble remembering to call Ruby Joyce, sat at her desk smack dab in the middle facing us right in front of the wall-to-wall chalkboard. Ooh, how my little fingers itched to grab that chalk and write on that board! It was a fantasy, as was being the teacher myself.

Our day began by assembling ourselves and reciting the Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag, which stood near the teacher’s desk. We then had a moment of silent prayer confusing me a bit, as I was used to the preachers who shouted loudly even during their lengthy prayers. Instead I stood with my eyes barely open so as to observe everyone else. Imagine the surprise at meeting a few pairs of other eyes doing the same.

Then it was class time where the itinerary got a bit muddled. Quickly, Ruby Joyce put the older kids onto various assignments with their noses stuck into books or the lip biting began as they squeezed their No. 2 pencils nearly in two as they scribbled on their nickel lined tablets.

When she got to the Primer kids (about eight of us) she spoke softly, so as not to disturb the others and started us out writing our letters and numbers. Later, she got us in a little circle on the floor. She sat on a chair and read an illustrated book to us. The characters were quickly part of the curriculum as Dick, Jane, Sally, Mother, Father, Spot and Puff became household names.

We raised our hands before speaking perhaps my greatest challenge. We raised our hands or walked to the teacher’s desk to grab the crudely formed stick of wood that granted permission to trek to the outhouse or use the fascinating pencil sharpener.

Ruby Joyce remained mostly at her desk, shuffling papers and making marks on them. She kept an eagle eye on her students, missing nothing. Often, a student would approach her with a question, which she patiently answered.

Soaking all this in, I finally got a bit antsy. When was I ever going to get to play outside with Janet? There were only a few students that were strangers to me, but they were several grades older.

One boy brought Ruby Joyce the prettiest apple ever imagined one morning. She thanked him and sat it on the corner of her desk. My eye rarely left it.

When lunch time finally arrived, we dug into our various bags and buckets, including some lard buckets, and ate our lunches hungrily. Compared to some, my bologna sandwich looked pretty tasty, but it didn’t measure up to the girl with saltines and a can of Vienna sausages.

As for me, I kept eyeing that exquisite red apple on the teacher’s desk. Unable to stand it any longer, I said, “Ruby Joyce!” She quickly corrected me so I tried again, “Miss Osborne, aren’t you going to eat that apple?”

Without a word she removed a bottle of rubbing alcohol from her desk drawer, poured it liberally over the apple and dried it with her white hanky. When satisfied, she took a big bite. Later I tried that technique to sterilize one at home. It was nasty!