She had no idea what was coming.
The loans for farmers in the bad years. The fights in the back room. The bank examiners from Des Moines with their briefcases and their frowns. The winter of 1985, when half the farms in the county were going under, and the big banks were calling in every note, and George came home at two in the morning and sat on the edge of our bed in the dark.
“Dot,” he said. “I think we’re going to lose it.”
We didn’t lose it.
But it was close. Lord, it was close.
I turned back to the glass.
The young man was watching me. Waiting. I think he expected me to argue. Or cry. Or march home in a huff and never come back. I think that’s what usually happened with “people like me.”
“I appreciate careful,” I said.
He looked surprised.
