were letters.
Hundreds of them. Some on nice stationery. Most on notebook paper. Some on the backs of feed store receipts and seed catalogs. All different handwriting. Some in pencil. Some in pen. Some so shaky they were hard to read.
“These came to our house,” I said. “Over fifty years. From customers.”
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I pulled one out at random. It was on a piece of lined paper torn out of a spiral notebook. Pencil. I read it out loud.
Mr. Whitaker. You gave my husband a loan in 1985 when nobody else would.






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