Sabine “Sab” Moreau arrived in Livingston from Willow Bunch, Saskatchewan in 1978, intending to stay six months at the grain elevator. She stayed thirty-five years, eventually running the scale house and knowing every truck’s tare weight by heart before the driver rolled across.

She measured the wind in layers — “three-shirt day,” “carhartt-and-a-half” — and distrusted the anemometer at the airport. When the turbines went up on the ridge, she said they looked like knitting needles dropped in a hayfield, but she liked the check they sent each winter.

Her daughter Clare teaches second grade in Belgrade and drives the interstate at dawn. Her son Luc welds pipeline in North Dakota and comes home when the ground thaws. Both grew up in the yellow house on 6th Street where the rent never matched what the realtor later called “vintage character.”

Sab could coax a stubborn Ford 9N through a November start with a prayer and a can of ether. She never learned to text, but her flip phone held three hundred photos of the Crazy Mountains at sunset, each labeled only with the date.