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I want my father to charge into the sitting room to save us all from the intruder. Memories of life in Yamhill, Oregon, were beginning to cling to my mind like burs to my long cotton stockings. The three of us, Lloyd, Mable, and Beverly Bunn, lived—or rattled around, as Mother put it—in the two-story house with a green mansard roof set on eighty acres of rolling farmland in the Willamette Valley.

To the west, beyond the barn, we could see forest and the Coast Range. To the east, at the other end of a boardwalk, lay the main street, Maple, of Yamhill. The big old house, once the home of my grandfather, John Marion Bunn, was the first fine house in Yamhill, with the second bathtub in Yamhill County.

Mother said the house had thirteen rooms. I count eleven, but Mother sometimes exaggerated. Or perhaps she counted the bathroom, which was precisely what the word indicates—a room off the kitchen for taking a bath. Possibly she counted the pantry or an odd little room under the cupola.

A Girl from Yamhill: A Memoir by Beverly Cleary (English) Paperback Book Free Sh

Some of these rooms were empty, others sparsely furnished. The house also had three porches and two balconies, one for sleeping under the stars on summer nights until the sky clouded over and rain fell. The roof was tin. Raindrops, at first sounding like big paws, pattered and then pounded, and hail crashed above the bedroom where I slept in an iron crib in the warmest spot upstairs, by the wall against the chimney from the wood range in the kitchen below.

In the morning I descended from the bedroom by sliding down the banister railing, which curved at the end to make a flat landing place just right for my bottom. At night I climbed the long flight of stairs alone, undressed in the dark because I could not reach the light, and went to bed. When I think of my parents together, I see them beside this staircase.

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My big father is leaning on my little mother. Sweat pours from his usually ruddy face, now white with pain, as he holds one arm in the other. He does not faint. Somehow Mother boosts him along to the parlor couch. Later, after the doctor has gone, I learn that a sudden jerk on the reins by a team of horses has dislocated the arm, an accident that has happened before in his heavy farm work, for his shoulder sockets are too shallow for the weight of his muscles. When I think of my father without my mother, I think of him sitting with his brothers after a family dinner.

They are handsome, quiet men who strike matches, light their pipes, and as Mother said, smoke at one another. When their pipes are puffing satisfactorily, one of them begins, I remember our granddad used to say. I pay no attention, for I am being nice to my younger cousin Barbara. This is my duty at family dinners.

Father was the grandson of pioneers on both sides of his family.