In September, I attended our church’s annual harvest potluck. There I met Dale Moody, a retired Army first sergeant who had served in Desert Storm and Iraq. He explained that he had stopped hunting because crowded public hunting grounds made him uncomfortable. Another veteran, Tim Seger, had served two tours in Afghanistan but hadn’t hunted since losing his uncle. The third, Wes Hanna, was an Army National Guard veteran raising two children and struggling with the cost of hunting leases. Their stories reminded me of Grandpa’s green notebook.

I looked at the three men and remembered his favorite words: “These men already paid.” I told them about my eighty acres and offered them the entire November hunting season for free. Dale immediately reached for his wallet, offering me $1,000. I gently stopped him. “My grandfather never charged veterans to hunt here, and neither will I.” Dale became emotional when he recognized my grandfather’s name. His own father had hunted that ridge decades earlier. Suddenly, the land wasn’t just property. It was a family promise.