This old house, nestled in the dry hills above the Columbia River, speaks to me of children playing, bread baking in an old wood stove, chickens pecking in the yard, and cowboys riding the fencelines. The lonely house now sits askew, its windows reminiscent of a sad human face. While I photographed this house, a car with four older passengers pulled up—one of them had been born in the house some 80 years ago. That serendipitous contact brought the house alive.

Lee Rentz