Our little yellow house on Elm Street. The one with the roses. He took out a mortgage on it and put the money into the bank’s reserves. Then he mortgaged his father’s farm. Two hundred acres. He put that money in too.
He told the board that if the bank went under, he’d go under with it.
“I’m not asking any farmer to risk more than I’m risking,” he said.
That night, he came home and sat on the edge of our bed in the dark.
“Dot,” he said. “I think we’re going to lose it.”
I held his hand.
“Then we’ll lose it together,” I said.
We didn’t lose it.
The next spring, the rains came. The crops were good. The farmers paid what they could. Some of them paid late. Some of them paid in installments for ten years. A few never paid at all.
