Dear Editor: I write this letter not to you, but to my mother, Lynn Padgett. One of my earliest memories is holding her hand as we walked through Ouray, knocking on doors and meeting residents. I didn’t understand why we were meeting strangers or why my mom asked for their votes. Years later, I came home from college to signs along our driveway with her hand lifting a cartoon log cabin, reading: “Padgett, she’s coming for your house.”