Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
“I did not file this,” I said, turning the card over to look for a signature.
Edwin leaned against the wooden post, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the tree line.
“Someone did,” he said.
By noon, the wind had picked up from the north, rattling the green metal roof above us.
We sat at the small pine table in the kitchen with two mugs of black coffee, the yellow cardstock lying between us like an unwanted guest.
“It takes a signature to forward a man mail, Edwin,” I said.
“Usually does,” Edwin said, taking a slow sip from his mug. “Unless they did it online, or had some paper with your name on it that says they can.”
I thought back to the kitchen table in Denver three weeks ago, where Cornelius had laid out the final retirement tax forms for me to sign.
I had signed four separate pages without reading every line of the fine print, trusting my son-in-law to handle the filings.
