Fingerprints

April 29, 2026 I By Katie Cox, Executive Director

Dear Friends,

There are moments in this work where someone steps forward so quietly, so naturally, that you almost miss the significance of what is unfolding—until one day you look around and realize their fingerprints are everywhere.

I met John Elsa this fall at Get Plowed. It wasn’t a grand introduction. Just a simple conversation, the kind that happens easily when you’re surrounded by good people and a shared purpose. He asked if we might need help with electrical work at the new office. My response came quick, “Absolutely.” And just like that, the next morning, John was there.

And he hasn’t really left since.

What he walked into was not simple. A former logging mechanic truck shop with wires that seemed to have stories of their own—twisting, disappearing, reappearing without logic or labels. The kind of work that requires patience, curiosity, and a willingness to sit with the unknown. John approached it all with a quiet determination, tracing each wire to its beginning and end, figuring out how to put the puzzle together. But that was just the beginning.

Now, when I walk through the space, I see his work everywhere.

The lights that turn on (and off!) just as they should. The electrical cord that keeps water from pooling where it shouldn’t (right in the middle of the parking lot). Cabinets that sit square and true. A beautiful key cabinet that feels as thoughtful as it is functional. And most recently, a barn door that slides with a kind of ease that makes you stop and appreciate the simple beauty of something done well.

But if you really want to see John’s artistry, you step into the small gift shop nestled into the nursery. There, he created something entirely unique—a copper pipe and pegboard system that allows the space to shift and evolve with us. It holds not just inventory, but possibility. The wood, carefully stained. The copper, gently aged to a soft green. It is both practical and beautiful, and it feels alive in a way that only something handmade can.

And then there are the details you might not notice unless you slow down.

A gutter that keeps the rain from falling on your head as you step inside. A chain that guides that water down into a barrel. And from there, a small board with holes—just deep enough for the tiniest visitors. Bees. Butterflies. Life, welcomed in.

It’s all of it. The visible and the invisible. The big projects and the smallest gestures.

And somewhere along the way, in the midst of all that work, something else was built too.

Friendship.

I’ve come to look forward to John’s visits in a way that is hard to put into words. There’s a steadiness to his presence, and always a mint in his pocket to offer. A generosity of spirit. And when a few days pass and he’s not there, I feel it—a small absence in the rhythm of the place. Of course, he has his own projects, his own life, but I am always quietly grateful when he walks back through the door.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about a chapter from Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer called Allegiance to Gratitude. In it, she writes about gratitude not as a feeling that comes and goes, but as a practice—something we live into, something we choose again and again. A way of recognizing that what we have, what we build, what we are able to do in this world, is never done alone.

John, you are a living expression of that.

Your willingness to show up. To share your time, your talent, your care. To see what is needed and simply begin. It has shaped this place in ways that will last far beyond any single project.

And for that—for all of it—I am, and we are, deeply grateful.

In service,

Katie