By Monday, Kevin and Hank were at the timber buyer’s yard. Luck had given us one final chance: the mill was behind schedule, so all three trunks remained untouched beneath a tarp. Kevin sold his bass boat, and I used Grandpa’s passbook to cover the remaining cost and Kevin’s three overdue skid-steer payments. The buyer returned every log. I made Kevin understand that the money wasn’t a gift. He would repay it by working weekends in Hank’s shop. Before I could finish explaining the arrangement, Kevin agreed.

That winter, a neighbor milled Grandpa’s trees into thick wooden boards. Kevin spent weeks turning them into a long dining table, carefully preserving the rings visible across every plank. Instead of disappearing forever, the three memorial trees became the place where our family gathered. The dog tags now hang beside the door as a reminder of Eddie, Walt, and Sonny. Last April, we walked down to the creek carrying three young seedlings inside a damp feed sack. Kevin dug three holes beside the old stumps and carefully planted each tree. Ellie watched him work before asking who would someday sit beneath their shade. Kevin stopped digging and looked at the new trees. “Whoever needs it,” he answered. Grandpa had buried more than a box beneath those trees. Years later, his words had saved both his memorial and our family.