On Monday, August 17, 2026, Grant County Schools staff joined together at Grant County High School to welcome in a new school year. Assistant Superintendent, Dustin Plunkett welcomed staff and offered an exciting introduction for Superintendent, Todd Moody.
Mr. Moody's address to the district was poignant and relative, his speech entitled, A Story About Some Trees can be read below.
A Story About Some Trees
An image of the middle school before the June storm.
That storm caused us to have to make some decisions.
There was an emotional response.
Principal Morris observed a parent who was dropping off a student for an event get out and place his hand on what was left of a recently fallen tree.
To that parent, and to many others, those trees were more than trees. They were the symbols, and perhaps even the keepers, of some incredible stories… and I would like to share with you the story that I saw in those trees…
The opening of Grant County Highs School in 1954 marked the first consolidated school in the county and it was a BIG deal.
Just a couple of years ago, I was fortunate enough to attend the 70th anniversary of that opening and was able to visit with many of the graduates who attended the school in those early years.
We have had several distinguished alumni that were a part of that early consolidation, and they would say that there were many things they had to figure out.
They had to learn how to come together.
They had to manage a whole new world, after WWII.
They had to learn who they were and what they would do in the world.
There are some in this audience today who are descendants of those who planted those trees in front of that shiny new school building on the ridge top.
Trees are remarkable things.
Long before they pierce the sky, they grow roots deep into the soil, which allows them to be fully grounded, stable, secure, and develop a system of nourishment.
I guess trees are like people, real growth isn’t immediately noticeable, but occurs when things are moving inside us, when our architecture for growth is growing roots and we are building the pathways that will sustain us through the changing of the seasons and through extreme weather conditions.
Then the tree begins to grow upward.
Its aim is up. Something higher than itself.
As it realizes this aim, some incredible things begin to happen.
The tree becomes increasingly resilient, for one, and doesn’t need the kind of care that it did when it was still young and tender.
Each year, the oak trees grow a new ring, resulting in its expansion, and thus providing it with more strength and stability. Favorable years are marked by wide rings, while harsh years will result in narrow ones. Nonetheless, the tree continues to expand.
Before long, the tree begins to offer shade, a place of comfort.
I think of what it must have been like to sit in that front hallway, before air conditioning, on hot September days, and the shade they offered. Or how they invited young minds to wonder as the breeze passed and the leaves sang with their resistance.
I think of how many picnics likely occurred, senior photos, and how many played and laughed.
I think of the moments of triumph, turmoil, and uncertainty that those who sought their shelter encountered:
· The assassination of a sitting president
· The Vietnam War
· The Nuclear Arms Race
· The Civil Rights Movement
· Manned missions into space, including a walk on the moon
· The resignation of a sitting president
· Multiple economic crises
· A technological boom
· Foreign and domestic terrorism
And certainly, those trees were there for hard times that never made the evening news.
· The ending of a treasured relationship
· The yielding to the temptation of a self-destructive behavior
· The witness of an injustice
Yet through it all… those trees remained. And whether they were green with leaves or barren and covered with ice, they were a reminder to keep aiming up, and endure, to remain rooted and reach for the sky.
I have talked about the shade and stability that those trees offered, but there is something else that I would like to point out…those trees became a resting place…a sanctuary for the birds of the air.
The birds, particularly blue jays, find the oak trees especially suitable for shelter, rest, and nesting.
I cannot help but be reminded of an ancient story about a mustard seed and a tree. A small seed, when full grown, the mustard tree grows large enough that the birds of the air rest in its branches.
There is something about that story that has stayed with me.
Like the mustard seed, an acorn, contains all of the information and genetic material necessary to produce a mighty oak that withstands all manner of hardship and grows upward, and in doing so provides shelter, not only to those below, but also to those above.
It makes me think of our students. A mentor of mine once taught me the power of a simple phrase that our students don’t hear often enough: You have everything you need to be whatever you choose to be.
I have to admit that it took me several years to fully understand what that phrase is saying.
On its surface, I interpreted it to mean that students can grow up and become teachers, doctors, or scientists.
Certainly, there is an element of truth in that.
But there came a subtle, yet important shift in my understanding.
We spend a great deal of time talking about preparing students for what comes next—and we should. Postsecondary readiness matters. It gives us an aim. And that aim is up.
But we are preparing children for a world none of us can fully predict.
We don't know every job they will hold. Some of those jobs probably don't exist yet. We don't know every technology they will encounter or every storm they will face.
So, our responsibility cannot simply be to tell them what to do.
We have to help them discover who they are.
We are human beings before we are human doings.
And that's why I have come to understand that phrase differently: You have everything you need to become whatever you choose to become.
Our job is to provide the soil, nourishment, challenge, encouragement, and opportunity that help what is already inside them begin to grow.
And finally, I want to come back to those birds, nesting in the trees.
You see, the birds provide a wonderful service to the trees.
Blue jays will take the acorns and bury them in the soil and come back to them later for food.
But they don’t always remember all of the places, or don’t always have the opportunity to reclaim every acorn.
And something beautiful happens.
Those acorns, buried beneath the soil, spring forth with life. And roots start to grow, and before long, a shoot breaks free from the ground and stretches upward, and the cycle starts over again.
I can tell you that I never attended Grant County High School.
I never sat beneath the shade of those oak trees as a student. I never walked those halls or experienced that school in the way so many of you did.
But some of its acorns were planted in my backyard.
You see, I grew up in Harrison County. And some of the teachers who taught me—some of the people who encouraged me, challenged me, believed in me, and helped shape the person I would become—grew up right here in Grant County.
They were nurtured here.
They grew here.
And then, like those acorns carried beyond the reach of the original tree, they went somewhere else.
They went to Harrison County.
And they planted something in me.
I doubt any of them could have known where those seeds would eventually lead. I certainly didn't.
But all these years later, one of the children they invested in somehow found his way back here—to serve as superintendent of the very school district that helped shape them.
Think about that.
That's how far the influence of a school can travel.
That's how far the influence of a teacher can travel.
We don't get to know where every acorn will land.
We don't get to see every tree that grows from something we planted.
And we certainly don't get to predict where its seeds might someday return.
But we plant anyway.
I don't know where you find yourself in this story today.
Maybe you're the soil, quietly creating the conditions for somebody else to grow.
Maybe you're the young tree, still putting down roots and discovering who you are.
Maybe you've been at this long enough that your branches provide shade for everyone around you.
Or maybe you're the bird.
Maybe you're carrying something that was given to you by a teacher, a coach, a parent, a colleague, or this community—and you're about to plant it in a place you may never see again.
The truth is, if we stay in this work long enough, we will probably be all of them.
So yes, the loss of those oak trees marks the end of an era.
And I understand why that hurts.
They were keepers of stories that stretched across generations.
But perhaps the story of a great tree doesn't end when the tree comes down.
Maybe its story continues in the shelter it provided.
In the lives that grew beneath its branches.
In the birds that rested there.
And in the acorns that were carried away and planted somewhere else.
Look around this room.
Maybe this is where some of those acorns landed.
We inherited roots that we did not plant.
We carry rings formed by both good years and difficult ones.
We have been given the privilege of providing shade and shelter for the young people entrusted to us.
And every day, whether we realize it or not, we are planting seeds that will grow in places we may never see.
So, this year, stay rooted.
Keep growing.
Aim up.
Give somebody shade.
Carry some seeds.
And trust that long after our time here is finished, something we planted will still be growing.
That's the story I see in those trees.
And I cannot wait to see the next chapter we write together.
Welcome back, Grant County Schools. Let's have a great year.
