fast, one slippered foot swinging under the table. “Marv is the youngest of Frank’s three children. There’s a story—anecdotal, perhaps—that Frank was made the original president because my father-in-law, Rufus Runkel, wanted to call it Frank’s Bank. I think not. In any event, Frank’s elder son, Elmer, had absolutely no interest in banking. He still lives with his wife, Thelma, on their farm near Icicle Creek. Thelma was a Dodge. Milo’s aunt.”
I knew of the farm, which consisted mostly of chickens, ducks, a dozen cows, two horses, and a large vegetable garden in the summer. I didn’t realize that Milowas somehow connected with the Petersens. But this was Alpine, and the fact wasn’t amazing.
“Frank’s daughter, the middle child, is DeAnne,” Vida continued, still with one eye on the stove. “She married an Iverson first, then a Sigurdson, and has lived in Seattle ever since. As for Marv, the youngest of Frank and Irmgaard’s children, he went into the business because he liked it. So did his son, Larry. Marv’s wife isn’t from around here. Cathleen Petersen was born and raised somewhere near Puyallup. I don’t recall how she and Marv met. He served in Korea.”
My mental processes were awhirl. I should have taken notes. As usual, Vida’s biographical account had been thorough. “There was Frank originally,” I said slowly, “then along came Marv, with Larry waiting in the wings. Linda, too, maybe. Denise is the fourth generation.”
“Oh, Denise!” Vida waved a hand in dismissal. “She’s a feather-wit! One of her brothers will follow in their father’s footsteps. It won’t be Denise. But Larry has to have his turn first.”
I remarked that Andy Cederberg had said Marv Petersen would retire when he turned sixty-five. “If the Bank of Washington takes over,” I speculated, “they might keep everyone in place.”
Vida finally stopped staring at her stove. “They won’t take over the Bank of Alpine. They can’t. They mustn’t.” She seemed to be talking to herself, or possibly communing with the banking spirits in Seattle. “Frank would roll over in his grave.”
“He died—when?” I asked, getting to my feet.
Vida seemed relieved that I was leaving. She tried to cover by picking up the teapot and tapping it. I shook my head. She put the pot back on the table.
“Frank died in 1976, the Bicentennial year. His wife,Irmgaard, went in ’seventy-nine. She outlived him, but not by much.” Vida made it sound as if mortality were a competitive event.
I made it to my car. The fog was now thick, swirling above the ground and forcing me to drive at a snail’s pace. Again I ticked off the Petersens, generation by generation: Frank, the founder, now deceased; farmer Elmer, daughter DeAnne, banker Marv; Larry and Linda, both working for their father; Denise, dim, and eventually to be supplanted by one of her brothers.
I had the family lined up. I knew the players. But I didn’t know the facts. Tomorrow I’d try to pry the truth out of the bank personnel. I’d also call Bob Lambrecht in Seattle. I hoped to be out of my mental fog by deadline.
My hope was unrealistic. Bob Lambrecht was an intelligent, courteous man who was perfectly willing to give me a concise rundown of his banking career. He spoke affectionately of his wife, Miriam, and their four children. He even gave me a quote about his impression of Alpine after a thirty-year absence. But he only chuckled when I asked if he’d come to the bank on business.
Nor were the Petersens more forthcoming. I went over to the bank around eleven, after I finished writing the feature on Bob Lambrecht. Larry was engaged in an earnest conversation with Garth Wesley, the current owner of Parker’s Pharmacy. Linda, according to Andy Cederberg, was tied up in her office. Marv, however, could spare me a few minutes.
Marvin Petersen’s usual geniality seemed strained on this cold, overcast November morning. His blue eyes were wary
I knew of the farm, which consisted mostly of chickens, ducks, a dozen cows, two horses, and a large vegetable garden in the summer. I didn’t realize that Milowas somehow connected with the Petersens. But this was Alpine, and the fact wasn’t amazing.
“Frank’s daughter, the middle child, is DeAnne,” Vida continued, still with one eye on the stove. “She married an Iverson first, then a Sigurdson, and has lived in Seattle ever since. As for Marv, the youngest of Frank and Irmgaard’s children, he went into the business because he liked it. So did his son, Larry. Marv’s wife isn’t from around here. Cathleen Petersen was born and raised somewhere near Puyallup. I don’t recall how she and Marv met. He served in Korea.”
My mental processes were awhirl. I should have taken notes. As usual, Vida’s biographical account had been thorough. “There was Frank originally,” I said slowly, “then along came Marv, with Larry waiting in the wings. Linda, too, maybe. Denise is the fourth generation.”
“Oh, Denise!” Vida waved a hand in dismissal. “She’s a feather-wit! One of her brothers will follow in their father’s footsteps. It won’t be Denise. But Larry has to have his turn first.”
I remarked that Andy Cederberg had said Marv Petersen would retire when he turned sixty-five. “If the Bank of Washington takes over,” I speculated, “they might keep everyone in place.”
Vida finally stopped staring at her stove. “They won’t take over the Bank of Alpine. They can’t. They mustn’t.” She seemed to be talking to herself, or possibly communing with the banking spirits in Seattle. “Frank would roll over in his grave.”
“He died—when?” I asked, getting to my feet.
Vida seemed relieved that I was leaving. She tried to cover by picking up the teapot and tapping it. I shook my head. She put the pot back on the table.
“Frank died in 1976, the Bicentennial year. His wife,Irmgaard, went in ’seventy-nine. She outlived him, but not by much.” Vida made it sound as if mortality were a competitive event.
I made it to my car. The fog was now thick, swirling above the ground and forcing me to drive at a snail’s pace. Again I ticked off the Petersens, generation by generation: Frank, the founder, now deceased; farmer Elmer, daughter DeAnne, banker Marv; Larry and Linda, both working for their father; Denise, dim, and eventually to be supplanted by one of her brothers.
I had the family lined up. I knew the players. But I didn’t know the facts. Tomorrow I’d try to pry the truth out of the bank personnel. I’d also call Bob Lambrecht in Seattle. I hoped to be out of my mental fog by deadline.
My hope was unrealistic. Bob Lambrecht was an intelligent, courteous man who was perfectly willing to give me a concise rundown of his banking career. He spoke affectionately of his wife, Miriam, and their four children. He even gave me a quote about his impression of Alpine after a thirty-year absence. But he only chuckled when I asked if he’d come to the bank on business.
Nor were the Petersens more forthcoming. I went over to the bank around eleven, after I finished writing the feature on Bob Lambrecht. Larry was engaged in an earnest conversation with Garth Wesley, the current owner of Parker’s Pharmacy. Linda, according to Andy Cederberg, was tied up in her office. Marv, however, could spare me a few minutes.
Marvin Petersen’s usual geniality seemed strained on this cold, overcast November morning. His blue eyes were wary
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