Wisdom from a One-Room Schoolhouse Teacher—March 2025

Written by MSTA President Lana Moore

I dislike the cold, bleak days of winter, where nature is devoid of color, appearing as various shades of dull brown and gray, bringing stagnation to hopes and dreams. A dreariness sets in, freezing the soul with a threat of never feeling the warmth of the spring sunshine or watching the vibrant colors of flowers dancing in the sunlight.

And then, finally, along comes spring: a time for cultivating and planting, a rejuvenation and the rebirth of Mother Earth and our soul, showering us with emotional resilience. Daffodils and dandelions raise their yellow heads heavenward, buds on trees burst forth, showing that a hopeful period of growth has returned.

If you are one to tend a garden, you know there are specific times when seeds will germinate in their proper time, growing to the plant’s potential with the rhythms of nature. Planted too early, tender shoots may succumb to late frosts. Planted too late, the seeds will not develop before the scorching rays of summer and the hardening of the soil bring their progress to an end, or early frost in fall finalizes the promise of existence. Each has its own season to see maturity.

Some gardeners plant by the phases of the moon, while others plant by the day. My husband’s grandmother planted lettuce and spinach on Valentine’s Day, no matter if she had to sow the seeds on top of the snow or not. Potatoes went into the ground on St. Patrick’s Day without fail.

Our one-room schoolhouse teacher mother would have us help plant our garden when our farmer mechanic father had the one-acre garden spot ready, regardless of what the Farmer’s Almanac said was proper.

I loved inhaling deeply the smell of freshly turned earth and walking barefoot through the cool soil, carefully looking out for the inevitable “stob” that would be sticking out, ready to slice a careless foot. I speak from experience that having the bottom of your foot sliced open makes you much more cautious in the future when going shoeless.

We learned so much from our parents, who taught us when the time was right for each type of food. We carefully dropped in the seeds that would feed our family for the next season. Corn, green beans, onions, and potatoes, each seed had its own time to be introduced to the soil, water, and sun. Onion shoots were placed with their roots pointing downward, while potatoes were dropped in with their little eyes pointing upward so they could see the sunshine, then covered up like a blanket to keep them safe and warm. The rest was up to the seeds to do their jobs and grow with proper watchfulness on our part.

What we learned spending time in that garden was not only about the perpetuation of provisions, but also about life. Seeds were not only planted in the earth, but also in our minds through the countless conversations we held. Wisdom is often passed down through generational "rhythms" rather than just technical manuals like the Farmer’s Almanac. Seeds of ideas were to be nurtured, watered, and allowed to grow, helping us reach our potential if we would just allow them to do so.

But much like the “stobs,” we were cautioned that life will also have the sharp edges of reality to watch out for. Even in the beautiful process of growth and barefoot exploration, there is inherent risk. Life and learning both require passion and caution.

Teachers have the task of planting seeds of knowledge for the purpose of cultivating wisdom for the next generation, a sacred task, an act of faith. We nurture ideas, share facts and figures, and attempt to cajole even the most reluctant student into involvement. But we are so much more than that. Teachers are the caregivers of our little gardens, and we are a fierce lot when our plots are threatened. We protect and nurture the growth of our charges to the best of our ability.

There is something sacred about tending the potential in our students. The parallels between the natural cycle of gardening and the transformative work of teaching are a deeper philosophical connection. Just as tending a physical garden, in teaching, the work is often unseen, but it shapes the vibrant futures of our students long after the initial seed is planted.

We may not always see the harvest our efforts bring, but we have cultivated the soil to the best of our ability. Occasionally, we will have the late-blooming student who requires the same patience we experience when waiting for those reluctant perennials to burst forth, while others may be like the hardy grains that race to the sun before all else.

As teachers, we find peace in planting the seeds of knowledge, setting a sturdy foundation for all that follows. We trust the environment we have cultivated, “the soil of curiosity, the water of encouragement, and the light of high expectations,” and pray that when the droughts and storms of life rear their ugly heads, we have shared enough wisdom within our classrooms to see our students through.

We find ourselves in the midst of a continuous, living cycle, a “rhythm” of the earth as we pass down the “heritage of growth,” and rejoice when we see what amazing young adults our former students have become. Our garden never truly ends; it simply expands, one seed, one student, and one season at a time.

As the seasons change and the earth warms, we shall step into our classrooms with the same hope we bring to our little gardens. We must watch for the "stobs," but we must never stop walking barefoot through the potential of our students. The possibilities are limitless. After all, the most beautiful things in life require both a handful of dirt and a heart full of faith and love.