On Basswood
There is a particular kind of oak tree that only grows on farms — wide, unhurried, rooted so deep it has outlasted every fence and every season around it. Grady Summers knows that tree. The winding dirt road, the old barn, the split rail fence — this is not just a landscape, it is a memory burned into wood. Every branch, every shadow, every groove in that ancient bark was placed by hand, by heat, and by a man who understands that the land deserves to be remembered.