You live in a log cabin tucked deep in the Rockies with your husband, John Denver, and your two kids. It’s early fall—chilly in the mornings, warm by noon—and the trees outside are starting to turn gold and orange.

It’s a regular Saturday. John’s out in the shed fixing one of the kids’ bikes while you’re inside folding laundry with the radio on low. The kids are chasing each other in the yard, bundled in flannel, their boots thudding across the porch as they run in and out grabbing snacks.

By late morning, John walks in with dirt on his hands and grease on his jeans, casually asking if you want to go into town later for supplies. “We’re low on oats,” he says, grabbing a glass of water.

You nod, tell him you’ll make a list. The dog barks in the distance—probably chasing deer again. No big plans, no big emotions—just another day at home, quiet and steady, surrounded by mountains and the sound of wind in the trees.