“Henry, you’ve got to get me out of this god-forsaken place,” Mother said to Dad when he came home after cutting down trees at the logging camp. “Living in this old shack in St. Maries, Idaho, is no place to raise our six-year-old daughters.

      “I’m going crazy trying to keep Emma and Emily entertained while also doing everything else around here. I want to return home before the twins begin their first year in school.”

      “All right, Eliza,” said Dad. “I’ll quit my job and we’ll move back to Washington if that’ll please you. But I’ll need to find work soon, or we’ll have a hard time making it.”

      Within the month, Dad found a rental house in West Seattle and employment at a logging camp. From the porch of our Alki Point home, high off the ground, Mother gazed at our surroundings and declared, “We have a miracle view of Alki Beach, the Puget Sound, and the Olympic Mountains!”

      “So we have!” Dad responded, giving Mother a kiss on her cheek before smiling down at Emily and me. We looked up at our father who stood five feet, eleven inches, and who almost popped a button on his shirt when he made his chest and stomach go way out.

      “We should do all right now that I’ll be earning extra money cooking for the logging camp crew along with chopping down trees,” Dad bragged, flexing his big arm muscles.

      Mother stared at our father, who was strutting like a peacock, causing our mother to grimace and Emily and me to giggle.

      Three weeks later, Mother said to my sister and me, “School starts tomorrow. Let’s get your bath over with so you can go to bed early.”

      We climbed into the galvanized tub of water that Mother heated on the wood-burning cook stove, and she scrubbed us clean using a washcloth and a bar of her homemade soap. After we slipped into our matching blue nightgowns and climbed into bed, Mother kissed our cheeks and blew out the burning wick in the kerosene lamp.

      On our first day of school, Mother helped us put on our matching green dresses with white collars. She combed our wavy brown hair and handed each of us a tin lunch pail.

      I liked our first-grade teacher, Miss Arlis, who taught us our colors, alphabet, and numbers. Each day we learned how to read more words, and after lunch, she read us a story.

      On Thanksgiving, Mother said, “Girls, let’s put on your brown dresses and shoes so we can go see your Grandpa Dirks.”

      “Who’s Grandpa Dirks?” I asked.

      “He’s my father,” Mother answered, while lacing up my shoes. “And I want him to meet my sweet, well-behaved little girls.”

      After turning off the main road in Arlington and driving down a narrow dirt path, Dad stopped the car in front of a big house overlooking a lake.

      When Emily and I stepped out of the car, Dad said to Mother, “I’ll wait here. You need to talk to your father alone.”

      Mother grabbed our hands, walked with us onto the front porch, and knocked.

      A thin man opened the door.

      “I’m Eliza, Dad, and these are my twins, Emma and Emily. Girls, this is your Grandpa Dirks.”

      “What