My Father Tossed a Blue Savings Passbook into the Mud at Cedar Ridge
Early the next morning, I drove downtown to the Riverfront County Courthouse.
I needed to find out exactly what the red stamp meant, and I needed to read the terms of the trust for myself.
The records office was in the basement, lit by humming fluorescent tubes that cast a harsh green tint over the speckled tile floor.
I took a numbered paper ticket from a red dispenser and sat down on a hard wooden bench by the wall.
Twenty minutes later, a clerk with silver hair called my number.
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