Nate appeared in the doorway.
Opal looked toward the old porch.
“My father, Henry Brandt, built part of this house himself.”
She pointed toward a small bedroom beside the kitchen.
“I was born in that room in March 1937.”
I couldn’t speak.
Then Opal asked Nate to shine his headlamp against the pantry doorframe.
Beneath the dark varnish were faded pencil lines.
Beside them, handwritten dates.
Nate leaned closer.
“Opal, six years old. 1943.”
Él movió la luz.
“Opal, nueve años. Ópalo, de doce años”.
Then he noticed another mark near the bottom.
“Ronnie, four years old. 1960.”
Opal touched that line.
“I made that one myself.”
She paused.
“The following year, we lost everything.”
Her father had died in 1957, leaving the farm to her and her husband, Walt Schafer.
The property originally included 160 acres.
Walt pidió dinero prestado para comprar equipos y expandir la operación agrícola.
Por un tiempo, las cosas salieron bien.
