There were old tax receipts from the county, fertilizer bills from the co-op, and several letters on heavy cream paper from the Oakhaven Bank. I noticed the signature at the bottom of the bank letters was bold and sprawling, written in the black ink Richard always used.
“These are from 1971,” Daniel said, his thumb tracing the edge of a bank notice. “The year my father started having trouble with the north pasture mortgage.”
“He owed four hundred and twelve dollars,” Daniel said, reading from the yellowed page. “Richard wrote to him three times that autumn, warning him that the bank would seize the timber rights if the payment did not arrive by the first of November.”
“Four hundred and twelve dollars was a lot of money back then,” I said. “But your father had the timber. He could have sold the oak trees to pay it.”
“He did not sell them,” Daniel said. “The bank took them anyway.”
Daniel did not reply further. He dug deeper into the box, his hand emerging with a small, stiff rectangle of cardboard that had been tucked between two farm ledgers. It was a picture postcard of the lighthouse at St. Simons, the colors faded to a dull, watery gray.
