If there were no checks to deposit, Saturday morning would be when my mother would go to withdraw cash for the week. “Get in this line,” my mother would order. “We want Shirley.” Sometimes, we would end with a visit to the vault.
To my seven-year-old self, going to the vault was deadly serious, a ritual that began by signing in with a stern-looking man who held the keys. It felt like entering a cave and looking at gold, although in retrospect I suspect my mother was only checking on insurance policies or her passbook savings.