“Put your money in a bank that knows you,” he told them. “A bank that’s owned by people like you.”
People like you.
That’s what he said. That’s exactly what he said. In kitchens and barns and church basements all over the county.
It took a year and a half. But they came.
Farmers put in five hundred dollars. A thousand. Two thousand. Old Mrs. Jorgensen, who’d been widowed in the war, put in her entire savings. Six thousand dollars, in cash, in a cardboard box tied with string.
“George Whitaker,” she said, setting the box on our kitchen table, “if you lose this, I will haunt you.”
He didn’t lose it.
In August of 1968, we broke ground on the empty lot at the corner of Main and Second. The newspaper sent a photographer. George and I put on our church clothes and stood in the dirt holding shovels.
That’s the picture on the wall.
And in October, when the doors opened, the very first account at Farmers & Merchants Bank belonged to George and Dorothy Whitaker.
We put in a hundred and twelve dollars. All the money we had left from our wedding.
Account number 0001.
The second account belonged to my father.
Account 0002. Arvid Lund.
The first loan Farmers & Merchants ever made was eight thousand dollars to Arvid Lund, for milking equipment.
He paid it back in four years. Every cent. Early.
For the next fifty years, George ran that bank.
He was president for thirty-two years. Then chairman of the board. He knew every customer by name. He knew their kids’ names. He knew which farmers had a bad year and which ones needed a little extra time.
He made loans the big banks wouldn’t make. To farmers with dirt under their nails. To young couples with no credit history. To widows starting little businesses. To a Mexican family who wanted to open a restaurant in 1981, when half the town thought that was a terrible idea. Casa Ruiz is still on Main Street. Tommy Ruiz, the security guard, is the owner’s grandson.
