Silverton in late fall is a study in patience. Everything is brown—fields, hills, rooftops. The town holds its breath, waiting for snow, for the season to shift. I’m busy, restless, reflective. There’s a quiet that hums louder than the usual clatter of summer, and it makes me notice the small things: the way light hits the mountains, the bark on the aspens, the promise in the air.

When I think of Silverton, I think of the mountains, the seasons, and our library.

For years, Jackie was our librarian, and we used to joke that we had the loudest librarian ever. Jackie retired not long ago, but her spirit of welcome still lingers in the stacks. Our new librarian, Misti, has stepped in with her own kind of magic—energy, creativity, and a spark that lights up the building every day.

When people ask what it’s like to live in Silverton, I usually start with the obvious: winter lasts about nine months. Snow comes early and lingers long. Our kids ride bikes on the only paved road in town, but for most of the year those bikes lean in the shed, waiting for a stretch of bare ground.

At 9,318 feet, life is both beautiful and brutal. On a clear morning, the peaks glow pink, and it feels like we’re living inside a postcard. On a stormy one, we’re shoveling for the third time before breakfast, and I wonder if we’ve lost our minds.