“That Bank Closed in the ’80s,” My Father Scoffed—The Account Was Very Much Still There

on the porch if the weather was nice, in the kitchen if it wasn’t, and we’d talk for hours. He told me stories about growing up during the Depression, about meeting Grandma Rose in her yellow dress, about working at the steel mill where every day you came home grateful to be alive. “You learn something working in a place like that,” he told me once.continue reading …