Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
I sat down in the wooden rocking chair on the porch, letting my shoulders drop for the first time in three years. Four elk stepped out from the shelter of the timber, their pale rumps moving slowly against the dark lodgepole pines. They grazed in the clearing, completely undisturbed by my presence.
I pulled the brass key ring from my pocket and turned the three keys over in my palm. The solid metal clicked together, a sound that meant no one else had a right to open my door. This was my sanctuary, built with my own hands and paid for with my own sweat.
By seven in the evening, the dark had fully settled, and the kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the small refrigerator.
The landline phone on the wall rang three times before I answered it, the sound sharp against the raw wood walls.
“Dad?” Bula’s voice was thin, coming through with a slight static hiss from Denver.
“I am here, Bula,” I said. “Just got the keys today. Everything is signed and delivered.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” she said, her words rushing together in a single, breathless line. “I wanted to call earlier, but the school day was so long, and the fifth graders were restless, and then I had to grade spelling tests.”
I could hear a faint metallic clicking over the line, the sound of her twirling her silver wedding band against her knuckles.
“How is Cornelius?” I asked. “Is he still planning to come up for a weekend to help me build that cedar closet?”
“He wants to, Dad, he really does,” Bula said, her voice dropping a register. “But things are very difficult at the firm right now. Cornelius is under so much pressure.”
“It is just corporate stress, Bula,” I said, trying to soothe her. “Every office has its season.”
