I have a photograph of my father and grandfather seated next to a ticker tape machine. They were stockbrokers. Someone has died and, as was the custom, both wore black armbands. My father smiles at the camera. He is young, not yet thirty, and he is confident. It will be alright. My grandfather, then 56, sits slumped. His eyes are watchful, as if to say, ‘the troubles are only beginning.’ The photograph, dated on the back, was taken eighty-eight years ago, months before the onset of the Great Depression. I have heard the stories and taken them to heart.