This winding, endless network of backroads is mocking me. Once, it called to me with the promise of adventure and the solace of solitude. But now, as the weight of illness bears down on me, it feels more like an endless path to nowhere. The strength that once fueled my wanderings has been siphoned away, leaving me hollow and adrift.

Yesterday, I dared to set out again, thinking perhaps the open air would chase away the shadows lurking in my lungs. The sky was a pale expanse, and the wind carried with it a hint of chill. I should have heeded the signs, but stubbornness has always ridden shotgun while my better angels haggle for the choice seat. By nightfall, I paid for my hubris with torturous bouts of coughing, each one tearing through me like a tempest. I spat up god-knows-what from the depths of my lungs, remnants of some internal battle I was losing.

Stubbornness has always ridden shotgun
while my better angels haggle for the choice seat.

There's a peculiar loneliness that comes with being unwell on the road. The vastness that once brought comfort now amplifies the isolation. Weakness seeps into my bones, and with it, an insidious insecurity. I am a solitary figure against an indifferent horizon, yearning for the strength I once took for granted. The stars above, which once whispered secrets and possibilities, now seem cold and distant, their light unable to pierce this heaviness that envelops me.

I find myself longing for a quiet corner, a place to crawl into and hide until this affliction passes. The idea of seeking help tugs at the edges of my mind. Clinics and doctors bring thoughts of sterility and the clinical detachment of strangers probing at vulnerabilities I'd just as soon keep hidden. Yet, a voice within tells me that this might be a path I cannot avoid for much longer. (And it’s also the voice of my wife, half scolding, half imploring me to get some medical first aid…)

The road teaches many lessons, and perhaps this is another—to recognize one's own frailty and the need to lean on others, even when every instinct resists. The thought unsettles me. I've always found solace in self-reliance, in the quiet conversations between a man and the world he traverses alone. But now, each step feels heavier, each mile a testament to diminishing resolve.

The sky is painted with hues of gold and crimson, a fleeting beauty
that offers a momentary reprieve from my discomfort.

As I sit by the roadside, the dust settling around my cheap Walmart trail boots, I watch the sun dip below the distant rolling hills in the “just inside Kansas” small town of Wamego. The sky is painted with hues of gold and crimson, a fleeting beauty that offers a momentary reprieve from my discomfort. I realize that despite the vastness around me, I am but a small part of this world, subject to its whims and frailties.

Perhaps tomorrow I will find the courage to seek the help I need. To admit that strength sometimes lies not in endurance alone, but in the willingness to face one's own limitations. For now, I will rest and let the quiet of the night wrap around me, hoping that sleep will bring some relief.

The road will remain, stretching onward, a silent companion to my journey. And maybe, when I am whole again, it will once more beckon with the promise of discovery, and the weight of this sickness will be nothing more than a distant memory left behind with the fading dust.

And I apologize to every good editor I’ve ever had (that would be all three of you; you know who you are). This post could have been reduced to: “Being sick sucks… in every way.” But I am too tired and blurry-eyed to edit properly just now…

In the quiet folds of Missouri, where the land rolls gently and the towns are small enough that everyone knows the color of your front door, lives a woman named Michaela Cate, in Clarksburg. Its the kind of place where the horizon meets the cornfields, and the population sign reads a modest "245"—though some say it's optimistic by a few souls. It's a town where the dogs wander as freely as the winds that rustle the oak trees, and where the concept of an animal shelter is as foreign as a skyscraper.

Michaela didn't set out to be a Savior. She was, by all accounts, an ordinary woman with an ordinary life. But fate has a way of twisting the mundane into the extraordinary when least expected. It was in the cracked asphalt of a shopping center parking lot that she first felt the pull of a new destiny. A stray dog, all ribs and hope, looked up at her with eyes that spoke of a thousand silent pleas. She couldn't walk away. Not then, not ever again.

She brought the dog home, adding a fifth to her already lively household of four canines. A metal kennel in the garage became a makeshift sanctuary. It wasn't much, but it was safe, and it was hers to give. Word traveled fast in places like Clarksburg and neighboring California, a slightly larger dot on the map with 4,400 souls but no place for the unwanted animals either. Soon, more dogs found their way to her door, guided perhaps by some invisible beacon of kindness.

The local authorities did what they could when complaints came in—rounding up strays and delivering them to the local vet. But resources were thin, and space even thinner. Unclaimed dogs met a swift and unforgiving end, a practice that settled like a stone in Michaela's stomach. She couldn't accept that life and death hinged on such a brittle system. So, she did the only thing she knew how to do: she opened her door wider.

Each new dog meant another mouth to feed, another set of shots, another spay or neuter surgery—all expenses she shouldered without hesitation. She became a one-woman crusade, finding homes for twenty-seven dogs to date. Her garage is all neat, chainlink, state-approved kennels, and wagging tails, a symphony of barks echoes her unwavering commitment.

Why does she do it? She smiles softly, eyes distant as if gazing at something only she could see. "They didn't ask to be born," she says. "We brought them into this world. We owe them a chance to live their best lives."

Her narrative weaves through the harsh fabric of reality—a tapestry of confrontation, misunderstanding, and often, raw hostility. “I wouldn’t say I’ve been attacked,” she muses, and yet her days are spent in the trenches, defending the defenseless, her spirit as unyielding as the weathered, majestic oak in her front yard. Her adversaries are not the flesh-and-blood figures that walk the streets but the shadows of ignorance and cruelty that haunt the lives of her charges.

She is a solitary figure against a vast landscape of apathy. Her voice carries the weight of her cause, echoing the cries of those she protects. “They can't voice their own issues or concerns,” she says, standing as their steward in a world often deaf to their suffering. Her life is a testament to the enduring battle between care and neglect, between compassion and indifference.

In her fight, she encounters the raw edges of humanity—individuals who abandon their animals, confrontations that escalate into threats; her Kriptonite is the ceaseless tug-of-war between her advocacy and the public’s misunderstanding. Her mission is as unrelenting as it is tender, as unforgiving as it is filled with love. “And if I need to be ruthless about that, I will,” she says, her resolve as firm as the earth beneath her feet.

Yet, through the brambles of her journey, her heart remains open—not just to the animals she saves but to the people she wishes could understand her cause. “I wish that people, like, had some more grace for me,” she confides, her plea not for herself but for the grace to continue her mission unimpeded by scorn or derision.

Encouraged by those who saw the fire in her, Michaela decided to make it official. She ventured into the tangled woods of bureaucracy to get licensed, a journey fraught with more obstacles than she'd ever imagined. Paperwork piled high like the haystacks dotting the Missouri fields, and fees gnawed at her savings. The first inspection came, and she failed miserably—not because of lack of effort, but because the rules were as rigid as the winter ground.

But Michaela was not one to be easily deterred. Instead of succumbing to frustration, she rolled up her sleeves alongside her partner, Cade. Together, they built kennels that met the state's stern specifications; it was all angles, steel pipe, and chain link. They lifted the dog food off the floor, hung meticulous dog cards on each kennel, and checked every item off the daunting list. The second inspection passed like a long-awaited spring, and "Mission Monipaw" was born—the only licensed dog shelter in Moniteau County.

Cade is the quiet pillar beside her, a man whose support is as steady as the Missouri River. When they first came together, the idea of running a rescue shelter hadn't even been a whisper between them. Yet, here he was, embracing the chaos with rarely a word of complaint. Not that they haven’t had their quarrels about the dogs, “but he’s never told me ‘no,’” she says. 

Between her full-time job, a part-time gig, and volunteering as the treasurer for the local food bank, Michaela's days were a relentless march. Yet, she never turned away a dog in need. Three dogs are up for adoption now, but she knows more will come, appearing at her doorstep like wayward children seeking refuge.

In a world that often moved too fast to notice the small lives at its feet, Michaela chose to stop and kneel down. Her mission wasn't just about saving dogs; it was about acknowledging the threads of responsibility that bind us all. In the quiet nights of Clarksburg, when the stars spread across the sky like scattered seeds, one can almost hear the whisper of gratitude from the souls she has saved.

"We did this," she says, not in accusation, but in a simple statement of fact. "We made this happen. We owe them."

And so, in a modest town tucked away in rural Missouri, Michaela Cate became a beacon—not just for the lost dogs who found solace in her care, but for anyone who believed that compassion could carve out a sanctuary in even the harshest landscapes. Her story is not one of grand gestures or sweeping movements, but of steady, unyielding kindness—the kind that changes worlds, one small life at a time.

In the heartland of Missouri, where the fields stretch out like vast, green oceans and the horizon is a distant dream, lies the small town of Clarksburg. It's a place unmarked by the grand strokes of history, yet rich with the quiet dignity of everyday life. The town nestles gently against the land, as if mindful not to disturb the rolling plains that have cradled it for over a century.

Clarksburg is a modest cluster of homes and buildings, where the population hovers around two hundred. It's the kind of place where each face is familiar, and every name carries a story that threads through the fabric of the community. The town sprang up around the turn of the century, named after a merchant whose legacy has faded into the whispers of time. Yet, his spirit lingers in the streets and the simple architecture that speaks of an era unhurried by the relentless march of progress.

The post office, established in 1897, stands as a silent guardian of the town's memories. Its weathered walls have seen generations come and go—farmers with soil-stained hands, children with eyes wide to the possibilities of the world, and elders whose wisdom is etched in the lines of their faces. The building is more than brick and mortar; it's a repository of the town's heartbeat, collecting the hopes and sorrows carried in letters and parcels.

The town sprang up around the turn of the century, named after
a merchant whose legacy has faded into the whispers of time.

Walking along the main road, you can hear the soft murmur of life—dogs barking lazily in backyards, the distant hum of a tractor, and the gentle clink of a spoon against a coffee cup at the local diner. There's a simplicity here that's almost poetic, a rhythm to the days that flows with the changing seasons. In spring, the fields burst forth with new life, and the scent of fresh earth fills the air. Summers are a tapestry of golden sunlight and the laughter of children chasing fireflies at dusk.

The people of Clarksburg are stitched together by shared experiences and mutual reliance. They understand the value of a helping hand and the comfort of a neighborly chat over a white picket fence. Their lives may seem ordinary to those who chase the glittering allure of cities, but within the small gestures and daily routines lies a profound sense of purpose.

There's a school where the voices of young scholars echo with questions and discoveries, a church where hymns rise each Sunday, weaving faith into the very sky, and a cemetery where generations rest beneath simple stones, their stories woven into the town's enduring narrative. Life here is an unbroken circle, honoring the past while quietly nurturing the future.

Clarksburg doesn't boast grand attractions or claim fame beyond its borders. Instead, it offers something far more substantial—a glimpse into the essence of community and the enduring spirit of those who find contentment in the embrace of the familiar. It's a place where the extraordinary is crafted from the ordinary, where the measure of success is found not in wealth or recognition, but in the richness of human connection.

It's a place where the extraordinary is crafted from the ordinary.

As evening settles and the sun dips below the endless expanse of fields, casting a warm glow that bounces from rooftops to silos, there's a moment of profound peace. In that tranquil hush, Clarksburg reveals its true self—a testament to the resilience and quiet nobility of small-town America. It's a reminder that even in the most unassuming places, there's a depth of life and meaning waiting to be discovered by those willing to pause and listen.

Gloria Evans stands like an oak in the heart of Marshall, Missouri, a quiet figure of strength in a town where time moves slow and folks rely on one another more than anything else. At 82, she’s known most simply as “Grandma,” a name that carries with it a sense of warmth and reliability. It’s a name earned through years of service, of showing up when others might not, of giving when it seems there’s little left to give.

Gloria has been part of the Foster Grandparents program for 17 years now, making her the longest-serving volunteer in the area. She found the program after her husband passed 22 years ago, at a time when grief had left a hollow space in her days and nights. “I was just lonely and needed something to do,” she says, though there’s a softness in her voice that tells a different story—one of a woman searching not for activity, but for meaning, for a way to matter again in a world that had taken so much from her.

She found that meaning in the children that became her charges in the Foster Grandparents program, and most recently at Spainhower Primary School, where she spends most of her time. The program, a part of a national initiative, pairs seniors with children who need extra guidance, patience, and a gentle hand. It’s a job that requires the kind of endurance only someone who has lived through decades of life’s highs and lows can provide. Gloria has always loved children, and in this role, she has found a way to give them something they may not find elsewhere—a quiet constancy, a person who shows up day after day, ready to help them grow.

I watched her work one day in the kindergarten class, where she sat beside a small child, flashcards in hand, gently helping the little one identify upper and lower case letters. Her patience was remarkable—the kind of patience that doesn’t fray when the child stumbles over the same card three or four times. She leaned in close, her face softened with a smile that seemed to erase the years, and coaxed the child forward. There was no rush, no push for perfection—just the quiet encouragement that allowed the child to believe they could succeed.

At one point, a child began to draw, and Gloria, curious, asked, “Oh, what’s that?” The child, without hesitation, responded, “It’s a gun, and it’s going to shoot...” Without breaking her calm, Gloria redirected the moment. “Oh my, no,” she said, her voice firm but kind, “we don’t want to draw any guns now.” The child erased the picture without protest; Gloria shot me a look, half wide-eyed, half grimaced, but with a twinkle of humor. In that moment, it was clear that her magic lies not in what she says, but in the deep well of love and patience from which she draws.

All the children call her “Grandma,” as do the teachers and staff. She fits the role so perfectly, you’d think she had been cast in it by some unseen director of life’s drama. With her grey hair and gentle demeanor, she’s the image of what you think a grandmother should be—full of warmth and soft words, always with time to listen, always with a hand to help. If her hair turned white, you could imagine her stepping in as a stand-in for Mrs. Claus without anyone batting an eye.

Gloria’s work doesn’t end in the classroom. As she moves about town—at the grocery store, on the sidewalk—children from current crop and years past will spot her, and in a heartbeat, they’re running toward her with arms wide open, ready for a hug. “We’re huggers around here,” she says with a smile. But there are rules in the classroom, and while the hugs are frequent outside school walls, inside the classroom, she respects the boundaries.

The Foster Grandparents program is built on the idea that seniors, with their vast life experience, have something invaluable to offer children. It’s not just about teaching letters or helping with math—it’s about offering a steady presence in a world that, for many children, is anything but stable. For some of these kids, “Grandma” Gloria is the one constant in their lives. She’s the one they know they can count on, the one who shows up without fail. There’s a reverence in that, a reverence that seeps into the community as a whole.

Martin Tichenor, the project director in the area, tells a story that speaks to this reverence. When the Foster Grandparents visit the local correctional facility, something remarkable happens. “The whole institution takes on a different tenor,” he says, it’s a whole different vibe. The officers, the inmates, everyone seems to soften in the presence of the “grandmas.” Many of the inmates were raised by their grandmothers, and the respect they hold for these women is palpable. “You don’t disrespect grandma,” Tichenor adds. It’s as if these women carry with them the authority of love, the kind of love that can quiet even the hardest of hearts.

At 82, there are days when the work leaves Gloria tired and drained, but she’s always back at it the next day, bright-eyed and smiling, ready to give more of herself. It’s a giving that doesn’t come from obligation, but from something deeper, something that can’t be easily explained. Her mother and her grandmother had it, Gloria says. With two stalwart, giving role models front and center in her life, there’s little wonder that Gloria is now passing along lessons honed through decades of observation and practice. 

It’s the kind of giving that sustains the soul, both hers and those she serves. Gloria doesn’t seek recognition—her joy is in the work itself, in the smiles of the children, in the hugs from the kids she helped years ago.

There’s a saying that the greatest among us are those who serve, and by that measure, Gloria Evans stands among the greatest. She may not think of herself in those terms—she’s far too humble for that—but the community knows. They know the power of her presence, the way her kindness has touched so many lives. She’s more than just a volunteer; she’s a pillar, a rock that stands firm in the shifting tides of life in a small town.

In the end, it’s not the big gestures that matter most—it’s the quiet, steady acts of love and service. And in those acts, Gloria has found her place, her purpose. She’s not just “Grandma” to the kids at Spainhower Primary; she’s Grandma to a whole town, and Marshall, Missouri, is richer for it.

I rolled into Marshall, Missouri, looking for someone I hadn’t met… yet.

Marshall, like many small towns nestled in the Midwest, wears its history with a quiet dignity. It is a place shaped by time and toil, where the land is as much a part of the town’s identity as the people who’ve worked it for generations. Established in 1839, Marshall was named in honor of John Marshall, the revered fourth Chief Justice of the United States. At its heart, the town is a reflection of the larger American story—a place of growth, hardship, and quiet perseverance, where each generation leaves its mark, even if the world outside pays little notice.

From the beginning, agriculture defined Marshall. The rich, fertile soils of Saline County made it an ideal location for farming, and the town quickly grew into a bustling center for the region’s agricultural output. Crops like corn and soybeans thrived in the surrounding fields, and with the arrival of the railroad, Marshall became a key shipping hub. It was a town where the rhythms of life were dictated by the land—by the planting and harvesting seasons, by the rains and the droughts.

It was a town where the rhythms of life were dictated
by the land—by the planting and harvesting seasons,
by the rains and the droughts.

Marshall’s early years were not without struggle. During the Civil War, the town, like much of Missouri, was divided between Union and Confederate loyalties. In 1863, the Battle of Marshall took place just north of the town, a brief but violent clash between Union forces and Confederate raiders. The scars of the war left brilliant traces in Marshall, as they did in much of the divided state, but in the years that followed, the town found a way to heal and rebuild, its people resilient in the face of hardship.

The heart of Marshall lies in its small-town charm, a place where life moves at a slower pace, like its residents have permanently shifted into a lower gear, where neighbors know each other by name, and where community events are a point of pride. The town square, with its brick-lined streets and historic courthouse, stands as a reminder of Marshall’s enduring connection to its past. It is the kind of place where a walk down Main Street feels like stepping back in time—where the buildings hold stories of those who came before, and where the local diner still serves up hot coffee and conversation in equal measure.

But Marshall isn’t only about history. The town has long had a strong connection to education, with Missouri Valley College being one of its pillars. Founded in 1889, the college brought a different kind of life to Marshall—the warp and woof that comes with young people learning and growing. Missouri Valley College has become a main part of the community, not just as a center of learning, but as a symbol of the town’s ongoing commitment to looking forward even while honoring its past.

The town square, with its brick-lined streets and
historic courthouse, stands as a reminder of Marshall’s
enduring connection to its past.

The town is also known for its connections to notable figures. Perhaps most famous is Jim the Wonder Dog, a Llewellin Setter who became a local legend in the 1930s for his uncanny ability to follow complex instructions and seemingly predict future events. Jim’s fame spread far beyond Marshall, and today, the town honors him with a memorial park. It’s a quirky story, the kind that can only come from a place like Marshall—a town where stories linger, passed down from one generation to the next, growing a little more unbelievable with each telling, but always grounded in the sense of wonder that small towns seem to hold onto better than most.

Marshall has never been a place of grand ambitions or rapid growth, but that’s precisely its charm. It is a town that takes pride in the small things—in its parks and schools, in its local businesses, and in the steady hum of life that keeps it going year after year. The people of Marshall understand the value of hard work and the importance of community. They know that a town’s true wealth isn’t measured in numbers, but in the quality of life it offers those who call it home.

Today, Marshall is much like it has always been—a place where the past is never far away, where the fields still stretch out in every direction, and where the people take care of one another in the way small-town folk always have. It is a place where history lives not in museums or textbooks, but in the everyday lives of the people who inhabit it. Marshall may not be a place that draws headlines or attention from afar, but for those who know it, it is as rich and full of life as any town in America.

It’s also the place called “home,” by Gloria Evans, a saint of woman who performs miracles on a daily basis…