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Kicked Out by Her Own Daughter, She Bought a $30 Farmhouse — Her Late Husband Left Something Inside — Transcript

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0:00Beth Kessler was 62 when her own
0:02daughter locked her out. Her son-in-law
0:04laughed when she spent 30 of her last
0:07dollars on an abandoned Iowa farmhouse.
0:10"There's nothing in that dump but
0:11termites," he said. But that night, at
0:14the top of the stairs, Beth found a door
0:17nailed shut 45 years ago. Pinned to it,
0:20in her late husband's teenage
0:22handwriting, was her maiden name. She
0:25didn't know it yet, but behind that door
0:27was the one secret he had kept from her
0:29for their entire marriage. And if there
0:31was nothing in that house, why had
0:34someone in her own family already tried
0:36to pry that door open? The farmhouse sat
0:39at the end of a gravel lane off Larkspur
0:42Road, 8 miles south of Albia, Iowa. Beth
0:46stopped the Buick at the bottom of the
0:47lane and sat with both hands on the
0:50wheel. It was a tall white house, or it
0:53had been once. Two stories, a wide front
0:56porch with half its spindles missing.
0:59Windows boarded with plywood gone gray,
1:02a lightning-split oak in the yard.
1:05Behind it, a red barn had folded in on
1:07itself like a tired animal lying down.
1:10On the porch rail, someone had stapled a
1:13yellow notice. Monroe County Land Bank
1:16Dollar Homes Program, sold. Beth reached
1:19into her coat pocket and took out an
1:21envelope. It was old and soft as cloth,
1:25folded so many times the creases had
1:27worn through. She had found it in her
1:30husband's wallet the day he died, 18
1:32months ago, behind his driver's license,
1:36where he must have carried it for
1:37decades. There was nothing inside, just
1:40an address on the front in a boy's
1:43handwriting, 217 Larkspur Road. She had
1:48asked herself a hundred times what it
1:50meant.
1:51Lyle had never once mentioned a Larkspur
1:53Road, not in 42 years.
1:56Then, 3 weeks ago, sitting in her
1:59daughter's kitchen with nowhere to go,
2:01she had opened the county newspaper to a
2:03list of abandoned houses the land bank
2:06was selling for almost nothing.
2:09The fourth one down was 2187 Larkspur
2:12Road. Minimum bid, $30. Beth looked at
2:16the house now. At the sagging porch. At
2:19the dark upstairs windows. She had never
2:22been here in her life. But her husband
2:24had carried this address next to his
2:26heart for 45 years.
2:29Three weeks ago, she had been standing
2:30on a very different porch. Her
2:32daughter's porch in a cul-de-sac in
2:35Ottumwa. A garbage bag of clothes at her
2:38feet. Her coffee maker under one arm.
2:41Denise hadn't come to the door. Rick
2:43had. "Tenant moves in tomorrow, Beth."
2:46He said. "We gave you 30 days. That's
2:49more than fair."
2:51"I paid for that apartment." Beth said.
2:53"Every board of it. And you lived in it
2:55for free for a year." Rick shrugged.
2:58"Call it even." Over his shoulder, Beth
3:01could see her daughter in the kitchen.
3:03Standing at the sink with her back
3:05turned. Not moving. "Denny?" Beth
3:08called. "Denise? Honey?"
3:11Denise didn't turn around. Rick closed
3:13the door and Beth heard the deadbolt
3:16slide home. A small, ordinary sound. The
3:20loudest sound she had ever heard. She
3:22sat in the Buick in a grocery store
3:24parking lot that night. With her coffee
3:27maker on the passenger seat. And did the
3:29math on $1900.
3:32It didn't come out to anything. The key
3:34from the land bank fit the back door.
3:37Inside the house smelled of dust and
3:39mouse nests and damp plaster. A kitchen
3:42with a cracked linoleum floor. A wood
3:45stove. A pantry with empty shelves. And
3:49underneath all of it, faint but
3:51unmistakable, another smell.
3:54Cherry pipe tobacco.
3:56Beth stood perfectly still in the
3:58kitchen. Lyle smoked a pipe for 40
4:01years. Always the same tobacco. Cherry.
4:05From a red tin he bought at the
4:06drugstore in Albia every Saturday.
4:09After he died, she kept his pipe on the
4:12windowsill so the kitchen would still
4:14smell like him. When Denise moved her
4:16into the apartment over the garage, the
4:19pipe disappeared in the shuffle. She had
4:21cried over that pipe more than she would
4:23admit to anyone. And now, in a house she
4:26had never seen, that smell was in the
4:29air. It was stronger near the stairs.
4:32Beth climbed slowly, one hand on the
4:35rail.
4:36The steps groaned. At the top was a
4:38narrow hallway with three doors. Two
4:40stood open on empty bedrooms. The third
4:43door was closed. It was nailed shut, not
4:46boarded, nailed. Eight long nails driven
4:49through the door into the frame by hand,
4:52at a slant, the way a farm boy drives a
4:55nail when he's angry.
4:57The heads had rusted orange. And
4:59thumbtacked to the door at eye level was
5:02a square of paper, yellow with age. Beth
5:05leaned close. The handwriting was the
5:07same as on the envelope. A boy's
5:10handwriting. Pressed so hard the pencil
5:12had dug grooves. For Beth Harmon. Not
5:15for the bank. Beth Harmon. Her maiden
5:18name. The name she hadn't used since
5:201984.
5:22Beth sank onto the top step of the
5:23stairs and pressed her hand flat against
5:26her chest. Then she noticed something
5:28else. Around three of the nails, the
5:31wood of the door frame was splintered.
5:33Fresh. Pale yellow wood, not gray.
5:36Someone had jammed a pry bar into the
5:38gap and tried to force the door. They
5:41had given up before it opened. But they
5:44had been here. Recently.
5:46Beth had been married to Lyle Kessler
5:48for 42 years. She had loved him for 45.
5:52They met in 1979
5:54when she was 15 and he was 16 on a hay
5:58wagon at the Monroe County Fair.
6:00He was tall and quiet with big careful
6:03hands and a laugh that came out of
6:05nowhere and surprised even him.
6:08>> [clears throat]
6:08>> For 2 years they were inseparable.
6:12Then in the fall of 1981, everything
6:15changed. It was the beginning of the
6:17farm crisis. Interest rates were 20%.
6:21Land prices were falling. All across
6:24Iowa, families who had farmed the same
6:26ground for a hundred years were losing
6:29everything. Lyle never talked about his
6:31family's farm. Beth knew they were
6:33struggling. She didn't know how much.
6:36One night in October, he drove to her
6:38parents' house and asked her to come out
6:40to his truck. He didn't look at her.
6:43"I'm leaving." he said. "I signed up for
6:46the army. I ship out Monday." "Lyle,
6:49what? Why?" "Because there's nothing
6:52here." His voice was flat and strange.
6:55"Don't wait for me, Beth. I mean it.
6:58Find somebody who has something to give
7:00you." Then he drove away. She cried for
7:03a month. She wrote him letters. He never
7:05answered one.
7:06Three years later he walked into the
7:08diner where she worked, in uniform,
7:11thinner and older. He ordered coffee. He
7:14didn't say a word about that night.
7:17Six months later they were married. And
7:19for 42 years he never told her why. It
7:23was the only thing they ever fought
7:24about. Every few years Beth would ask,
7:28"What happened that night? Why did you
7:30leave?" And Lyle would get up from the
7:33table, go out to the machine shed, and
7:36stay there until dark. "There's one room
7:38in that man I'll never get into." she
7:40told her sister once. "I've stopped
7:43knocking."
7:44Now she sat on the stairs of a
7:46stranger's farmhouse, looking at a
7:48nailed door with her maiden name on it.
7:51She had a feeling she had finally found
7:53that room. She had no hammer, no pry
7:56bar, nothing in the Buick but a tire
7:59iron. She tried the tire iron on the
8:01first nail until her hands were raw. It
8:05didn't move. That night Beth slept on
8:08the kitchen floor in her winter coat
8:10beside the cold wood stove
8:12with the smell of cherry tobacco
8:14drifting down the stairs. She dreamed of
8:17a boy on a hay wagon. In the morning, a
8:20pickup with a county seal on the door
8:22came up the lane. A young man got out,
8:2630-something in a canvas coat with a
8:29clipboard and a box of yellow notices.
8:32His name tag said Tomas Reyes, Monroe
8:35County Land Bank. "Mrs. Kessler?
8:38I came to post the transfer papers." He
8:41looked at her face, at the coat she had
8:43obviously slept in, and his voice
8:46softened. "Are you okay, ma'am?"
8:49"There's a door upstairs," Beth said.
8:52"It's nailed shut. I can't open it."
8:54Tomas followed her up the stairs. He
8:57looked at the nails, at the paper tag,
9:00at the fresh splinters around the frame.
9:03He read the tag twice. Then he looked at
9:05her very differently. "Kessler," he said
9:08slowly, "your husband was Lyle Kessler?"
9:12"Yes. Did you know him?" "Not in
9:14person." Tomas set down his clipboard.
9:18"Ma'am, I've worked at the Land Bank for
9:2011 years. Every January, the second week
9:24of January, the same man called our
9:26office. Every single year." Beth stared
9:29at him. He'd ask if 2187 Larkspur Road
9:33was for sale yet.
9:35"It never was. The bank that took it in
9:371981 got tangled up in lawsuits. Then
9:41the owner of record died. It sat in
9:43limbo for 40 years." Tomas swallowed.
9:47"Every year, I'd say no. And every year
9:50he'd say, 'Thank you, son. I'll call
9:53again next January.' He never told me,"
9:56Beth whispered.
9:57"Last year he didn't call," Tomas said.
10:00"I wondered about him."
10:02He was quiet for a moment. "This was his
10:04family's house, Mrs. Kessler. The bank
10:07took it in November of 1981.
10:10The Kesslers had farmed this ground
10:11since 1890. November 1981,
10:151 [clears throat] month after the night
10:16Lyle told her not to wait.
10:19Tomas went to his truck and came back
10:21with a long iron pry bar.
10:23He held it out to her. Not to the door,
10:26to her.
10:27"I think he'd want you to do this part."
10:29he said. Beth took the bar. She fitted
10:32it under the first nail head. She
10:34pulled. The nail screeched out of the
10:37wood. It took her 20 minutes to pull all
10:40eight.
10:41Tomas didn't help. He just stood in the
10:43hallway and held the flashlight. When
10:45the last nail came out, Beth put her
10:48hand on the knob.
10:50The door opened inward with a long dry
10:52groan, and a wave of cherry tobacco
10:55rolled out to meet her. It was a teenage
10:57boy's bedroom, frozen in the autumn of
11:001981.
11:01A narrow bed with a brown plaid blanket,
11:05a Chicago Cubs pennant on the wall, a
11:07poster of a John Deere tractor, a stack
11:10of Field and Stream magazines, a
11:13transistor radio on the windowsill.
11:16On the dresser sat a red tobacco tin,
11:18its lid rusted half open. Lyle's brand,
11:22cherry.
11:23That was the smell.
11:2545 years leaking through the crack under
11:28a nailed door.
11:30Beth stepped inside slowly, like walking
11:32into church.
11:34On the little desk under the window, two
11:36things sat side by side. A small blue
11:39velvet box and a sealed envelope. The
11:43envelope had one word on it, Beth. She
11:46opened the velvet box first.
11:49Inside was a ring, a thin gold band with
11:52the tiniest diamond she had ever seen,
11:55barely a chip. The kind of ring a farm
11:58boy could almost afford. Tucked into the
12:00lid was a receipt from a jeweler in
12:02Albia, layaway.
12:04One lady's engagement ring, paid
12:07[clears throat] in weekly installments,
12:08$1 at a time. September 1979 to October
12:131981.
12:14Total price $30 paid in full October
12:1823rd, 1981. Beth's hands began to shake.
12:22October 23rd, 1981.
12:25The night he drove to her house and told
12:28her not to wait. She sat down on the
12:30edge of his narrow bed and opened the
12:32letter. Beth, I paid off your ring
12:35today.
12:36Two years of mowing lawns and walking
12:38beans. I was going to ask you tonight.
12:41Then I came home and the man from the
12:43bank was at our kitchen table. Dad was
12:46crying. I've never seen him cry.
12:49We have 30 days to get out. I can't ask
12:52you to marry a boy with no farm, no
12:55house, and no future. I won't make you
12:58poor because I love you. So, I'm going
13:00to tell you to forget me. It'll be the
13:02worst thing I ever do. I'm nailing this
13:05door shut so the bank can't have this
13:07room.
13:08This is the room where I loved you. They
13:10can take the land and the barn and the
13:13house. They can't have this. If I ever
13:16come back with something to give you,
13:18I'll bring you here and open it myself.
13:20Lyle Beth read it three times. Then she
13:23lay down on the narrow bed of a
13:2517-year-old boy and wept for the girl
13:28who had cried for a month in 1981 and
13:31for the woman who had spent 42 years
13:34knocking on a door she didn't know
13:35existed. He hadn't left because he
13:38stopped loving her. He left because he
13:40loved her too much to let her be poor.
13:43And then he came back with nothing,
13:45married her anyway, and never found the
13:47courage to bring her here. Thomas stood
13:49quietly in the hallway. After a while,
13:52he went downstairs and left her alone.
13:54Beth sat in that little room until the
13:56window went gray, then dark. She thought
14:00about every October 23rd of her
14:02marriage. Every year, on that date, Lyle
14:05went quiet. He'd do his chores, eat his
14:08supper, then he'd get in the truck
14:10without a word and drive off alone. He
14:13came back after midnight smelling of
14:16cold air and cherry tobacco. For 42
14:19years, Beth thought it had something to
14:21do with the army.
14:23Some sad memory from the service he
14:25never talked about. She had even asked
14:27him once, the year they turned 50,
14:30"Where do you go on the 23rd, Lyle?"
14:33He had looked at her across the kitchen
14:34table for a long moment. "Somewhere I
14:37left something," he said. "Someday I'll
14:40show you." Then he had gone out to the
14:42machine shed. Now she knew. Every
14:45October 23rd for 42 years, her husband
14:49had driven to the bottom of this gravel
14:51lane. He had sat in his truck in the
14:53dark, looking up at this window. The
14:56night he paid off a $30 ring, the night
14:59he lost everything. And every year he
15:02had driven home without going in. If
15:04you've ever waited your whole life for
15:06someone to explain the one thing they
15:08never could, please subscribe and stay
15:11with Beth.
15:12Because that letter wasn't the only
15:14thing Lyle left in that room. And
15:17whoever tried to pry open that door knew
15:19exactly what they were looking for. It
15:21was dark when Beth finally sat up. She
15:24read the letter one more time by
15:25flashlight. And this time she noticed
15:28the back of the page. There was a
15:31postscript, small,
15:33written in a hurry. P.S. Grandpa's card
15:37is under the third board from the
15:38window. He always said it was worth more
15:41than the farm. I don't believe him. But
15:44if you ever need it, it's yours. Don't
15:46let the bank have that, either.
15:48Grandpa's card. Beth knelt on the floor
15:51by the window. She counted. One, two,
15:55three.
15:56The third board was shorter than the
15:58others. She worked her fingernails under
16:01its edge. It lifted. Underneath, in the
16:04dust between the joists, lay a flat tin
16:07box, the kind that once held throat
16:10lozenges. It was rusted shut. Beth pried
16:14it open with Tomas's bar. Inside,
16:17wrapped in waxed paper, was a baseball
16:20card. She held it up to the flashlight.
16:23A young man with blond hair and a
16:24crooked smile in a New York Yankees cap
16:28against a pale blue sky. The corners
16:31were soft. One had a small crease. At
16:34the bottom, in a little box, was a name,
16:37Mickey Mantle. On the back, in faded red
16:41print, Topps 1952.
16:44Beth knew nothing about baseball cards.
16:47She knew Lyle had loved his grandfather,
16:50who taught him to fish and died when
16:52Lyle was 12.
16:54She wrapped the card back in its waxed
16:56paper and put it in her coat pocket.
16:59Then she sat very still and thought
17:01about the splintered door frame.
17:03Somebody had tried to get into this
17:05room. Somebody knew something was in
17:08here.
17:09And besides Lyle, only one person had
17:12ever heard the name of this road from
17:14her, her daughter. The next morning,
17:17Beth drove into Albia with the velvet
17:19box in her coat pocket. On the square,
17:22between the hardware store and a
17:24shuttered bank, was a narrow jewelry
17:26shop with a faded sign, Fenwick and Son,
17:30since 1952.
17:32A man in his 40s stood behind the
17:34counter. When Beth set the receipt in
17:37front of him, he picked it up and
17:39laughed in surprise.
17:41"That's my grandfather's handwriting,"
17:42he said. "He ran this place for 50
17:45years. He kept every layaway card he
17:48ever wrote." He disappeared into the
17:50back. He came out with a green ledger
17:53book, so old the spine was held together
17:56with tape. He ran his finger down a
17:58page, then another. Here, Lyle Kessler,
18:03$30 ring. He turned the book toward her.
18:06Look at this. Down the page ran a column
18:09of tiny entries. $1, $1, every Saturday
18:15for 2 years. Not a single week missed.
18:19And at the bottom, in a different ink, a
18:21note in the old jeweler's hand. Nov
18:241981.
18:26Bank took the Kessler farm. Offered to
18:29refund the boy his $30. He said no. Said
18:33keep it paid. She'll need it someday.
18:36Beth put her hand flat on the old
18:38ledger.
18:39He was 18, she said. His family had just
18:42lost everything and he wouldn't take $30
18:46back. The jeweler closed the book
18:48gently. My grandfather used to tell a
18:50story about a farm boy who paid for a
18:52ring a dollar at a time and never came
18:55back for it, he said.
18:57I always thought he made it up. He
18:59looked at the velvet box in Beth's hand.
19:02I guess he didn't. Three days later,
19:04Denise came. She drove up the gravel
19:07lane in her white SUV with her husband
19:09Rick in the passenger seat. Their kids
19:12sat in the back. Caleb, 11. Lily, eight.
19:17Beth met them on the porch. Denise was
19:2041. She had her father's height and her
19:23father's careful hands. She hadn't
19:25looked her mother in the eye since the
19:27day she changed the locks. Mom. Denise
19:30looked at the sagging porch. The boarded
19:33windows. You can't live like this. It's
19:36freezing.
19:37There's no heat. There's a wood stove.
19:40Mom.
19:41Beth looked at her daughter. 18 months
19:44ago, after Lyle died, Denise had come to
19:47her with a plan. Sell the house, Mom.
19:50Move in with us. Give us $60,000 to
19:54build you an apartment over the garage.
19:56You'll be with your grandkids. You'll
19:58never be alone. Beth had done every bit
20:01of it. She lived in that apartment for
20:0311 months. Then, one evening in
20:07September, Rick knocked on her door with
20:09a printed lease. We found a renter for
20:12the apartment, Beth. $1,100 a month. We
20:15need the income. You understand. 30
20:18days.
20:20Now, Rick was walking around the side of
20:22the farmhouse, looking up at the second
20:24floor windows. He was a big man with a
20:27contractor's truck he couldn't afford
20:30and a smile that never reached his eyes.
20:32Find anything interesting in the old
20:34place, Beth? He asked lightly. Like
20:37what? Oh, I don't know. He shrugged.
20:40Old farmhouses, people hide stuff in the
20:43walls. Beth said nothing. Behind her,
20:46Caleb had wandered up the porch steps.
20:49He was a skinny, quiet boy who loved his
20:51grandmother more than anyone in that
20:53family. He stood close to her and looked
20:56at the door. Then he leaned in and
20:58whispered, so softly only she could
21:00hear.
21:02Grandma, Dad came here before. In
21:05August. He made me wait in the truck. He
21:08had the big crowbar. Beth's heart went
21:10cold. August, two months before the
21:13house was ever listed. Two months before
21:16she ever knew what 2187 Larkspur Road
21:19was. So, how had Rick known? Denise was
21:23watching her.
21:24And for 1 second before she looked away,
21:27Beth saw something in her daughter's
21:28face she had never seen there before.
21:31Guilt. We should go. Denise said
21:34quickly. Caleb car.
21:36As the SUV backed down the lane, Beth
21:39stood on the porch with her hand in her
21:40coat pocket holding the wax paper and
21:43the card inside it.
21:45She didn't know yet what it was worth.
21:47But she knew now that her son-in-law
21:49did. The next morning, Tomas drove her
21:52to Des Moines.
21:54He knew a man there.
21:55Harold Price ran a small shop on
21:58Ingersoll Avenue that sold coins and
22:00sports memorabilia.
22:02He had been doing it for 40 years.
22:05Harold took the card into his back
22:07office. He came out 15 minutes later
22:10without it. Mrs. Kessler, please sit
22:13down.
22:14Beth sat. That's a 1952 Topps Mickey
22:17Mantle, Harold said.
22:19It's the most famous baseball card in
22:21the world. Perfect one sell for
22:23millions. Yours isn't perfect.
22:26Soft corners, one crease, but it's real.
22:30I've checked everything. What's it
22:32worth? Harold took off his glasses. At
22:35auction, in that condition, somewhere
22:38between 150
22:40and 200,000 dollars. Beth didn't move.
22:44Grandpa always said it was worth more
22:46than the farm.
22:47I don't believe him. Lyle had been right
22:50not to believe it in 1981.
22:52It wasn't worth more than the farm then.
22:55It was now. Harold put it in a hard
22:58plastic case for her. He wouldn't take a
23:00dollar. On the drive home, Beth's phone
23:03rang.
23:04It was her bank. A courtesy call, the
23:07young man said.
23:08Did she want to set up online access to
23:11the old joint account? It still had a
23:13small balance after the $60,000 transfer
23:16to her daughter last year. Can you tell
23:18me where that transfer went? Beth asked.
23:21After it reached my daughter's account,
23:23I can only see your side, ma'am.
23:26But the memo says Kessler apartment
23:28construction.
23:30And it was sent to a business account,
23:32Mercer Contracting, Rick's company.
23:36When Beth got back to the farmhouse, she
23:38found Denise's old Christmas card in her
23:41box of papers. A photo of the four of
23:43them in front of the new garage
23:45apartment. She looked at it under the
23:47lamp.
23:49There were no permits posted, no
23:51contractor sign, just Rick grinning with
23:55his arm around Denise. She called the
23:57county building office in the morning.
23:59There was no permit on file for an
24:01apartment, ever. Rick had built it with
24:04cheap labor in 3 weeks. The rest of her
24:07$60,000 was gone. That night, a text
24:11arrived from Denise's number. Harold
24:13Price is Rick's poker buddy, Mom. We
24:16know about the card. Beth read it twice.
24:19Then she went upstairs to Lyle's room
24:21and slid the plastic case back under the
24:24third board, where it had been safe for
24:2645 years. Not for the bank, not for
24:30Rick.
24:31Two days later, Beth drove into Albia
24:33for groceries. She was gone 90 minutes.
24:37When she came back up the lane, the back
24:39door was standing open. She ran inside,
24:42up the stairs, into Lyle's room. The
24:46third board had been pried up and thrown
24:48aside. The space underneath was empty.
24:51The card was gone.
24:52Beth sat down on the floor of her
24:54husband's boyhood bedroom and pressed
24:57both hands over her mouth. She hadn't
24:59cried when Denise changed the locks. She
25:02hadn't cried when she slept on a kitchen
25:04floor. She cried now. Not for the money,
25:08for the boy who hid it there for her,
25:10who believed no one would ever take it.
25:13Tomas found her there an hour later. He
25:15had stopped by with a space heater. He
25:17saw the board, the empty hole, her face.
25:21He didn't ask a single question. He just
25:23took out his phone. Who are you calling?
25:26A friend of mine. Ellen Barta. She's a
25:29lawyer in Ottumwa. She does estates. He
25:32looked at her.
25:33Mrs. Kessler,
25:35things that are stolen have to be sold
25:37somewhere. And something like that card
25:39can't be sold quietly. He was right.
25:43Four days later, Ellen Barta called Beth
25:46at 7:00 in the morning. Beth, a 1952
25:49Topps Mantle in fair condition just
25:52showed up on a Chicago auction house's
25:54online listings. Consigned yesterday.
25:58Bidding closes Friday. The seller is
26:01listed as R. Mercer, Iowa. Beth gripped
26:04the phone. Can we stop it? Maybe.
26:07Auction houses are very careful about
26:09stolen property. But we have to prove
26:12it's yours, not your husband's, not his
26:15family's, yours. That afternoon, Ellen
26:18drove up the gravel lane with a
26:20briefcase.
26:21Beth spread everything on the kitchen
26:23table. Lyle's will, which left
26:25everything he owned to his wife. The
26:28letter, "If you ever need it, it's
26:30yours." The $30 layaway receipt with the
26:33date. And something Beth had found that
26:35morning tucked in the back of the Field
26:38& Stream magazines in Lyle's room, a
26:40photograph. A boy of about 10,
26:43gap-toothed, standing on the same porch
26:46beside an old man in overalls. The old
26:49man was holding up a baseball card in a
26:51waxed paper sleeve. On the back, in
26:54faded ink, "Grandpa and Lyle." "Larkspur
26:58Road, summer 1973."
27:01"Grandpa says the Mick is for Lyle."
27:03Ellen studied the photo. Then she smiled
27:06for the first time. "Beth, the auction
27:09house is going to love this," she said.
27:12She was right. By Thursday morning,
27:15Ellen had sent the documents to Chicago.
27:18By Thursday afternoon, the auction house
27:20pulled the listing. They sent a letter
27:22to Rick Mercer.
27:24The card would be held in their vault
27:26until ownership was resolved. If Mr.
27:29Mercer believed he had a legal claim, he
27:31was welcome to present it. Rick didn't
27:34have one. "So, what happens now?"
27:37Beth asked Ellen at the kitchen table
27:39that night. "Now, the card stays locked
27:41in Chicago until Rick gives up," Ellen
27:44said.
27:45"And legally, there's nothing for him to
27:47argue.
27:49Lyle's will left everything he owned to
27:51you.
27:52That card was his property, given to him
27:55by his grandfather in a house his family
27:57lost. It never belonged to the bank. It
28:01never belonged to the county.
28:03It certainly never belonged to Rick
28:04Mercer."
28:06"And the break-in?" Ellen folded her
28:08hands. "That's your choice. You could
28:11file a police report. It would be a
28:13felony." Beth thought about Caleb's face
28:15at the truck window, about Lily, about
28:18Denise standing at the sink with her
28:20back turned. "Not yet," she said. "Give
28:23him a chance to give it back."
28:25Ellen studied her. "That's more than
28:28fair, Beth." "It's not for him," Beth
28:31said. "It's for my grandchildren.
28:33They're going to have to live with
28:35whatever happens to their father. But
28:37Rick wasn't interested in fair. That
28:40Friday night, his truck roared up the
28:42gravel lane with its high beams on.
28:45He slammed the door and came up the
28:47porch steps two at a time.
28:49Tomas happened to be in the kitchen
28:51fixing a broken pipe under the sink. He
28:54stood up slowly and came to stand in the
28:56doorway behind Beth. "You got a lawyer
28:59to call Chicago on me?"
29:01Rick shouted. "That card was in a house
29:03nobody owned for 40 years.
29:06Finders keepers, Beth. Lyle's dead. You
29:10think a dead man gets to decide?"
29:12"He did decide," Beth said. "He wrote it
29:15down in 1981.
29:18It's a scrap of paper written by a kid."
29:21"It's my husband's handwriting," Beth
29:23said. Her voice was very calm.
29:26"And you broke into my house and stole
29:28it."
29:29Rick's face went dark red. He took a
29:31step forward. Tomas took one, too. "Mr.
29:35Mercer," Tomas said quietly, "I'm a
29:37county employee and I've got the land
29:40bank's transfer records in my truck
29:42showing exactly who owns this house. If
29:45you'd like the sheriff to look at them
29:46tonight, I'm happy to call."
29:49Rick stared at him, then at Beth. In the
29:52truck behind him, Beth could see a small
29:55pale face pressed to the passenger
29:57window, Caleb, watching everything.
30:00Rick saw her looking.
30:02Something in his shoulders dropped.
30:04"This isn't over," he muttered. "Yes,"
30:08Beth said. "It is." He drove away,
30:11slower this time.
30:13Beth stood on the porch with her heart
30:15pounding. She had never in her life
30:17stood up to Rick Mercer. She had spent
30:2011 months over his garage making herself
30:23small, apologizing for the noise of her
30:26own television. She found she wasn't
30:28shaking at all. That evening, a white
30:31SUV came up the gravel lane. Denise was
30:35alone. She sat in the car with the
30:37engine running until the windows fogged.
30:40Then she turned it off and came up the
30:42porch steps holding a hard plastic case
30:45in both hands. The card. Rick pulled it
30:48from the auction this afternoon, she
30:50said. Ellen's letter scared him.
30:53The auction house shipped it back to our
30:55house. Her voice cracked. I took it out
30:58of the box before he got home. He
31:00doesn't know I'm here. Beth took the
31:02case. Denise didn't leave. She stood on
31:05the porch shaking. Not from the cold.
31:09Mom, I have to tell you something and
31:11you're going to hate me. Beth waited. I
31:14knew about this house, Denise said. I've
31:17known since I was 16. The wind moved
31:20through the broken porch spindles.
31:22Dad brought me here once, Denise said.
31:25One Sunday, he said we were going for a
31:28drive. He parked at the bottom of the
31:30lane and we sat there for an hour. Then
31:33he told me everything. The farm, the
31:36bank, the ring, the room. She was crying
31:39now. He said, "Denny, if anything ever
31:42happens to me, you bring your mother
31:44here. Upstairs before anybody else.
31:48Promise me." And I promised. Beth
31:50couldn't speak. When he died, I didn't
31:53bring you. Denise's voice broke
31:55completely.
31:57I was so angry, Mom. He'd kept this one
31:59secret his whole life and he gave it to
32:02me. Not to you. And then his last wish
32:05was still all about you. Always about
32:08you. She pressed her hands to her face.
32:11And Rick was drowning in debt. And I
32:13thought, "If Mom's got nothing, if Mom
32:16needs us, then she'll stay.
32:19Then I'll matter."
32:20She looked up. I told Rick about the
32:23room. I told him Dad said there was
32:25something valuable. He came out here in
32:27August with a crowbar. He couldn't get
32:30in. He thought there was cash. And the
32:33$60,000?
32:34Beth said quietly. Denise flinched. It
32:37went to his debts.
32:39All of it except what the apartment
32:41cost. I knew. I let it happen. She could
32:45barely get the words out. And then he
32:48wanted to rent your apartment to pay
32:49more debts, and I let that happen, too.
32:53I changed the locks on my own mother.
32:55The porch was silent. Beth looked at her
32:58daughter. 41 years old. Her father's
33:02height. Her father's hands. Her father's
33:05terrible habit of burying the things
33:07that mattered most. She thought of a boy
33:10nailing a door shut because he was
33:12ashamed. She thought of a man who never
33:14found the courage to open it. Silence
33:17had already cost this family 45 years.
33:20She would not give it one more day. Come
33:23upstairs, Beth said. She led her
33:26daughter up the creaking stairs and into
33:28the little room that smelled of cherry
33:30tobacco. She sat Denise on the narrow
33:33bed. She put the letter in her hands.
33:36Denise read it. Then she read it again.
33:39When she looked up, her face was wet. He
33:42was going to bring you here himself, she
33:44whispered. If he ever had something to
33:47give you, he did have something, Beth
33:50said. He had you. He gave you this
33:53secret because he trusted you to bring
33:55me home. I didn't. No, Beth said. But
33:59you did today. Denise broke down
34:02completely. Beth put her arms around her
34:05and held her. The way she had when
34:07Denise was small and woke up from bad
34:09dreams. It didn't fix anything. $60,000
34:14was still gone. A deadbolt had still
34:16turned. But for the first time in a long
34:19time, nothing was nailed shut between
34:21them. I'm not coming back to your house,
34:24Beth said finally. Not ever. And Rick
34:27doesn't set foot on this land. But you
34:30and the kids can come every Sunday, if
34:32you want. Denise nodded against her
34:35shoulder. And Danny, Beth said, your
34:38father's last wish wasn't all about me.
34:41You were in it, too.
34:43You were the one he trusted.
34:45Beth sold the car in March at the same
34:48Chicago auction house under her own
34:50name.
34:51It brought $182,000.
34:55She didn't buy a new car. She didn't
34:57take a cruise. She hired two carpenters
35:00from Albia to rebuild the porch spindles
35:03one by one.
35:04She put new glass in every window.
35:07She had the wood stove relined and a
35:09furnace put in. She had the lightning
35:11split oak trimmed but not cut down. She
35:14did not let anyone touch Lyle's room.
35:17The Cubs pennant stayed on the wall. The
35:20tractor poster stayed. The radio stayed
35:22on the windowsill. The tobacco tin
35:25stayed on the dresser, lid half open.
35:28She wore the $30 ring on her right hand.
35:31It fit.
35:32Every Sunday, Denise's white SUV came up
35:35the gravel lane with Caleb and Lily in
35:37the back. Rick never came.
35:40Denise had filed for divorce in
35:42February. Lily, who was eight, was
35:44fascinated by the little room upstairs.
35:47She wanted to know everything. Who Lyle
35:50was when he was a boy.
35:52Why the door had been nailed. Why there
35:54was a tractor poster.
35:56One Sunday, Beth found her sitting on
35:58the narrow bed holding the old letter
36:01carefully in both hands sounding out the
36:03words.
36:05"Grandma," Lily said seriously, "what
36:08does 'I won't make you poor because I
36:10love you' mean?"
36:11Beth sat down beside her.
36:14"It means Grandpa thought being poor
36:16would make me stop loving him," she
36:18said. "He was wrong." Lily thought about
36:21it.
36:22"Did you tell him he was wrong?"
36:24Beth looked at the nailed door standing
36:26open now. The eight rusty nails lined up
36:29on the dresser where she had set them.
36:32"Not soon enough," she said. "So I'm
36:34telling you
36:36in case you ever need to hear it." Caleb
36:38took over the old barn.
36:40Beth paid a man to stabilize what was
36:42left, and Caleb turned one corner of it
36:45into a workshop. He was 11. He was going
36:48to be a carpenter, he said, like Grandpa
36:50would have been if he'd had a chance.
36:53One Sunday in May, he called his
36:55grandmother out to the barn.
36:57On his workbench sat a small wooden box,
37:00a little crooked, sanded smooth. He had
37:03burned letters into the lid with a
37:05soldering iron. For Grandma, not for the
37:08bank. Inside were the eight rusty nails
37:11from Lyle's door. "I didn't think you
37:13should throw them away," Caleb said,
37:16looking at his shoes. "They're kind of
37:18part of the story."
37:19Beth turned the little box over in her
37:21hands. "Caleb," she said, "the night
37:24your dad came here and broke that door
37:26frame, you told me the truth. When
37:29grownups were hiding things, you
37:31didn't." He shrugged, embarrassed.
37:34"Grandpa hid stuff," he said. "Mom hid
37:37stuff. I figured somebody in this family
37:40should stop."
37:41Beth pulled him into a hug so tight he
37:43complained. She kept the box on Lyle's
37:46dresser, right next to the red tobacco
37:48tin. On [clears throat] the first warm
37:50day in April, Tomas drove up the lane
37:53with his clipboard and a box of yellow
37:55notices. "Mrs. Kessler," he said, a
37:58little shyly, "I thought you'd want to
38:01know.
38:02Three more dollar homes are up for sale
38:04this spring. All in bad shape. The
38:07families who buy them never have money
38:09for the roof."
38:10Beth looked at him. "How much is a roof?
38:13For a farmhouse like this?" "Eight,
38:1610,000." Beth went into the kitchen and
38:19came back with her checkbook. She wrote
38:21three checks, $10,000 each, payable to
38:25the Monroe County Land Bank. On the memo
38:28line, she wrote the same three words on
38:31every one, not for the bank. Tomas
38:33laughed. "Ma'am, it literally is for the
38:36bank." "It's for the families," Beth
38:39said, "so nobody else has to nail a door
38:42shut because they were ashamed of having
38:44nothing."
38:45The first family moved in that June. A
38:47young father named Jesse and his two
38:49little girls who had been living in his
38:51truck since their mother left. When Beth
38:54drove over with a casserole, Jesse met
38:56her at the door of his $30 house. He
38:59shook her hand for a long time. "They
39:01said some lady paid for my roof." He
39:04said. "Why would you do that for a
39:06stranger?" Beth thought about a boy at a
39:09desk under a window in 1981
39:12writing a letter by lamplight because he
39:14had nothing to give. Because a young man
39:17once believed he wasn't good enough for
39:19someone. She said, "Just because he was
39:22poor."
39:23"He was wrong." "I'd like to save
39:25somebody else from believing that."
39:27The next October, on the evening of the
39:3023rd, Beth climbed the stairs, put on
39:33her warmest sweater, and sat down at
39:36Lyle's little desk under the window.
39:38She turned on the old transistor radio.
39:41It still worked after a new battery.
39:44A man's voice was talking about the
39:46Cubs. She opened the red tin on the
39:49dresser. It still held a pinch of dry
39:51tobacco. 45 years old. Then she looked
39:55out the window, down the gravel lane to
39:58the spot at the bottom where a pickup
40:00truck must have parked in the dark every
40:02October for 42 years.
40:05"I'm here, Lyle." She said to the empty
40:07lane. "You can come in now." Outside, a
40:11soft wind moved through the old oak. It
40:14was the first October 23rd in 45 years
40:17that nobody in this family sat alone in
40:19the dark. Later that night, Beth sat on
40:22her new front porch at 2187 Larkspur
40:26Road wrapped in a blanket looking out
40:29over the dark fields the Kesslers had
40:31farmed since 1890. Upstairs, the window
40:35of Lyle's room stood open for the first
40:37time in 45 years.
40:39The smell of cherry tobacco drifted out
40:42into the evening air. Lyle Kessler spent
40:4542 years believing that love had to be
40:47earned.
40:48That a man had to have something to
40:50offer before he deserved to be loved.
40:53That being poor was something to hide
40:55behind a nailed door.
40:57He was wrong.
40:58Beth would have married him on a hay
41:00wagon with nothing but that $30 ring.
41:03She did marry him 3 years later with
41:06less. Shame is a powerful thing.
41:10It can make us push away the very people
41:12we're trying to protect.
41:14It can make us lock up our hearts in
41:16rooms no one is allowed to enter.
41:19And it can pass from parent to child
41:21like an inheritance nobody asked for.
41:24But a door can always be opened. Even
41:27after 45 years. Even with your own two
41:30hands, one nail at a time. If someone in
41:33your life is carrying something they've
41:35never been able to say, maybe the
41:37kindest thing you can do is let them
41:39know whatever's behind that door, you'll
41:42still be there when it opens.
41:44If Beth's story touched your heart,
41:46please like this video, subscribe for
41:48more stories about family, second
41:51chances, and the love we leave behind.
41:53And share it with someone who needs to
41:55hear it. And tell us in the comments, is
41:58there a secret in your family that you
41:59wish someone had told you sooner?

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