It was late July in the wheatland community of Ritzville. Grandma and I had taken the 30-minute drive to town to get a needed machine part for the tractor. We always passed the cemetery on our way home. But this time, we were slowed by a procession of vehicles following a black hearse. American flags lined the cemetery fence. Grandma pulled the car over and simply said, “We need to get out.” Leaving the comfort of our air-conditioned car on a 95-degree day wasn’t something I

“You have to first believe you can do it.” Those words, spoken by my fifth grade teacher, changed the trajectory of my school life. Before that, I was a struggling student—failing in math, falling behind in reading comprehension, and, as a result, struggling in nearly every subject. I didn’t just suspect I wasn’t capable; I believed it. After all, my fourth-grade report card had all but confirmed it. Extra work at home didn’t seem to help. Having smart friends encouraged me,

When Mom moved out to the woods and carved out not just her log cabin, but a small patch of yard, she decided she wanted her favorite blooming plant. So she went and got a permit to dig up a native rhododendron. The state officials gave her the specific boundary, and she drove a couple hours over a washboard gravel road to reach the designated spot. With a shovel in hand and a small backpack carrying her lunch, she set out in search of the right one. Being a librarian, she’d

I’ll be the first to admit that our signs are a bit amateurish. Hand-drawn and then carved out. It started simply, marking our woodland trails with driftwood signs. Functional, not fancy. Then our son raised the bar by gifting us carving tools. Suddenly, our rustic signs began to look a little more intentional. We won’t be winning any blue ribbons at the fair—but they are definitely a step up from my old Sharpie pen. Somewhere along the way, I had an idea to make some signs j