My first three years of school were in a little French farm village [0] — even in kindergarten, we wrote in longhand with (literally) pen and ink: We used wooden dowels, about the size of a pencil, with a steel nib at one end, which we dipped into an inkwell in the desk. The teacher would periodically refill the inkwells from a big bottle of ink.

[0] My dad was in the U.S. Air Force and was stationed at a nearby NATO air base; we lived "on the economy" about 30 miles outside the base. My parents always regarded that tour as the best years of their lives. I've been told that when speaking French I still sound like a local (as in, a faint Berrichon accent).