to make.”
Before school began, two men from the logging camp came in their truck to help Dad move the heavy furniture to our rental house.
On our first day in second grade, our teacher, Miss Forester, wore her auburn hair pinned back with curls falling down to her shoulders. “I’ll not allow any student to make fun of another or be disrespectful,” she said. “If you get into trouble at school, your parents will be notified.”
After the first day, almost everyone obeyed Miss Forester. Everyone, that is, except for Rudy Goodnight, a chunky boy who liked to pull the girls’ hair ribbons.
The teacher sat me beside Marcia, who soon became my best friend. We loved going up and down on the teeter-totter and pushing each other on the swing. When Emily or another child wanted to join us, Marcia always agreed. She was thoughtful and sweet, but she didn’t react kindly when Rudy rushed up behind her and untied her pink ponytail ribbon.
“Give it back!” Marcia yelled, chasing Rudy around the swings until he fell on the sand, out of breath.
“Here it is—you win this time,” said Rudy, smiling before walking off.
Marcia just shook her head and responded, “That’s Rudy.”
One rainy day early in October, Emily and I rushed into the house, and I accidentally knocked Mother’s floral vase onto the floor. Staring at the broken pieces, Mother shouted, “Emma Beckman, go to your room, now!”
Seconds later, Mother opened my bedroom door and said, “I’m sorry, Emma. I didn’t mean to yell at you, but your grandmother gave me that vase when I was your age.” After sighing, Mother added, “Your father is still at the logging camp, and I’m going to bed to try to get rid of my headache. You’ll find some chicken legs and apple salad in the icebox for you and your sister.”
In the morning, Mother was singing in the kitchen and acting like I’d done nothing wrong.
“I’m going to stay out of Mother’s way,” I told Emily. “She’s angry one minute and happy the next.”
“Sometimes even Dad doesn’t want to be around her,” said Emily. “I wonder if she’s sick.”
The following week, Dad limped into the house with a cast on his left leg.
“What happened to you?” Mother asked, raising her eyebrows.
“A log fell on my leg and broke it,” Dad explained, heading for his chair in the living room.
While Mother was propping his leg up on a padded stool, she said, “I’m glad you weren’t hurt worse.”
“Dr. Weldon said after the cast is removed in six weeks, I may have trouble walking again. I’m just thankful it happened before closing time. A couple of the guys from work carried me to the doctor, and they brought me home along with the car.”
Soon afterward, Mother was complaining about having to do Dad’s work and hers, too. To get away from her nagging, Dad bought a used fishing boat. He named it the Loralee and moved into it soon after.
As the days passed, Emily and I were making friends at school and striving to get praise from Miss Forester rather than from our parents, who were avoiding each other.
On the weekend before Thanksgiving, Mother asked Dad to take us to live with him. My sister and I stuffed clothes, books, and our twin dolls into our pillowcases. When we spotted Dad’s boat from the living room window, I yelled to Mother, “Dad’s here,” before we ran to the dock to meet him.
After a fun day with our father, we awoke the next morning smelling sausage and biscuits. “Eat up so we can go fishing,” Dad said, when we sat at the table.
Once the dishes were washed, Dad steered the Loralee to his favorite spot and threw out the anchor. “Girls, it’s time I teach you how to fish, but I’ll have to do it with my leg propped up. I’ll be glad to get this cast off in a few days—my leg’s itching something fierce.”
“Yucky,” Emily commented, after looking at the slimy worms trying to crawl out of the can.
“Watch me,” said Dad, threading the wiggly worm up the hook.
“I think I can do that,” I said, hoping I really could to make Daddy proud of me.
Several times, Sis and I took turns threading the worms and casting Dad’s fishing line as far out into the water as possible. But every time we felt a tug on our line and yanked the fishing pole toward us, we only saw an empty hook.
“Stay here while I take the rowboat out and try to locate more fish,” Dad said, as he lowered the boat into the water.
About thirty minutes later, Dad returned in the rowboat and yelled for me to catch the rope. As I stepped forward, I slipped on the oily mast lying inside the fishing boat and fell overboard.
I was flailing my arms to keep from drowning when Dad spotted my red corduroy dress and dove into the water. He caught me by my long hair and managed to pull me up onto the deck of the fishing boat while I was coughing and choking.
As soon as Dad turned me over on my side, water came out of my mouth, and I could breathe easier. Dad covered me with a warm blanket and quickly steered the boat back to our house. When we reached the dock, he said, “Emily, stay here with your sister while I get your mother.”
The moment I sat up, my sister’s arms were clasped around me in a big bear hug. “I was so scared when I thought you were going to die,” Emily said.
A few minutes later, Mother rushed up to me. “Daddy told me that you slipped on the mast,” she said. “You need to watch where you’re stepping, Emma—you might have drowned.” Then reaching her arms around me and squeezing tight, she said, “I couldn’t stand losing my sweet little girl.” Glaring up at Dad hobbling toward her in his wet cast, she scolded, “I left my girls with you, and look what happened!”
Dad moved back home, but he and Mother didn’t get along very well. When Dad’s second cast was removed following Thanksgiving, he returned to work at the logging camp, still limping.
A few days before Christmas, Mother grabbed Dad’s ax and said to Emily and me. “Girls, let’s go find a Christmas tree at least as tall as me.”
“How tall are you, Mother?” I asked, after we entered a patch of fir trees.
“About five feet, eight inches,” she answered, walking up to a tree a little higher than her head.
After a few chops, Mother picked up one end of the tree, and my sister and I grabbed the other end. When we carried the fir tree inside the house, Mother ignored Dad, who said, “I wish I could help you set it up and hang the decorations, but my bad leg is throbbing again.”
On Christmas morning, a strong wind blew rain against our house, waking Emily and me. We ran into the living room to warm ourselves by the wood-burning stove. What joy we felt as we tore open our packages and found matching blue dresses that Mother had sewn! After putting them on, we posed in front of our colorful tree, and Dad took our picture.
A week after Christmas, our father said, “Eliza, I’m going to Alaska to do some fishing. This isn’t the best time of the
