“An old root cellar,” he said. “It was here long before I came home. I repaired it.”
He descended two wooden steps, and I followed him into the cool space beneath the tree.
The shelves were filled with more supplies.
Potatoes rested in crates. Jars of preserves lined the walls. There were dried beans, canned tomatoes, flour, salt, soap, batteries, blankets, and a small first-aid kit.
Everything had been stored carefully.
Then I noticed a black metal cash box on one of the shelves.
Ray took it down.
“Before you get upset, let me explain.”
He opened the lid.
Inside were envelopes of cash, organized into small bundles.
I stared at him.
“Where did you get all this?”
“Repair jobs. Small savings. A little at a time.”
“How long have you been saving?”
“Since my second year home.”
I tried to calculate the years.
More than a decade.
He had spent over ten years saving small amounts while living modestly, buying only what he needed, and putting aside whatever remained.
