by Kathleen M. Brosius

Today, being Mother’s Day, I thought that I would post a story that I wrote some time ago. I wish all moms a very Happy Mother’s Day. This special day set aside just for them. God bless all of you.

With her long pointer, Mrs. May struck the large map of the world. A boot-shaped country angled down into the Mediterranean Sea. She slid the pointer the length of the country as she spoke. “Can anyone tell the class what the name of this country is?” She turned and looked out at her class.

 Of the dozen or more students, only two were in fourth grade geography—Esther Mitchell and me. We both raised our hands eager to give the answer. Esther was chosen; she smiled and quietly said, “Italy.” I nodded in agreement and grinned.

“Thank you, Esther, that is correct.” Mrs. May smiled at my classmate. She glanced at me with a hint of a smile recognizing that I also knew the answer. Geography class continued for another ten minutes. The recess bell rang, and the small room of students filed to the door and outside.

 Attending school in the country was an experience that I have never regretted. My two brothers and I were given permission by the County Superintendent of Schools to attend a one-room school in a lonely valley called Sand Cove in Northeast Iowa. For two years, we joined only a few other families of students in that small corner of Allamakee County. Mrs. May was my mother.

 The school grounds were surrounded by hills and cornfields. Nearby, a creek gurgled over pebbles worn smooth by the continuing rush of water. The hillside was covered with an array of trees making a perfect home for forest creatures. A path led through the midst of the woodland to a homestead just over the hill.

My favorite school activity was exploring. During recess, we students followed our teacher, listening as she pointed out the marvelous things that surrounded us. We learned about the flora and fauna of the region. Often, Mrs. May stopped and whispered, “Hark, I hear a Chickadee,” or “Look, there’s a Morel mushroom.” Without realizing it, we were learning valuable information through Mrs. May’s unique way of teaching. Rocks and leaves were collected and hauled back to school where we spent hours poring through encyclopedias searching to identify our find.

While exploring the woods, a fun game was invented. Someone hid a trinket then drew a map to where the treasure was buried. Soon everyone’s pockets were full of buttons, prizes from Cracker Jack boxes, and even precious coins, all prepared for burial somewhere in the woods. Maps were handed out and away we went, our teacher included. What a thrill it was to find a grand treasure buried deep in the forest.

Looking back at that time in the mid-1950s, I often think of the treasure hunt, and I wonder if somewhere in that woods, a small trinket of years past waits to be discovered.

Mrs. May, my mother, my teacher, also hid a treasure way back then. As I have passed through my life, I continually realize that treasure. From the Iowa countryside to the Cascade Mountains of the Pacific Northwest, I discover wonderful things and remember that my teacher taught me to watch for those things, to study them and learn. “Thanks, Mom.”