McAllister, Montana, does not take long to drive through. We have a post office, a cabinet shop, and an empty lot where the old bar and restaurant once stood.
Yet there it was. The American flag hung at half-staff.
Somewhere between the Carolina foothills and a tiny town in southwest Montana, I was reminded that no matter how far life carries us, the places that formed us never quite let us go.
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It was not for someone from Montana. It was for a boy from upstate South Carolina.
Standing in the parking lot of that tiny post office, I found myself thinking that southwest Montana might as well be another country from the red clay, pines, and dogwoods of northwest South Carolina.
Yet one lowered flag carried me back more
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