Free Dear Papa by Anne Ylvisaker Page B

stairs and not from the eaves it will get you in trouble every time, she says. But this is the first time it has gotten me in trouble. More often it is very informational.
    Mama thinks I will have the most talent to help with the baby. I was hoping for talent to play the piano, but everyone has to start somewhere. At least she’ll need me around.
    Love,
    Isabelle
    August 31, 1944
    Dear Papa,
    We have to leave Rabbit Lake tomorrow. I am polka-dotted with mosquito bites. I have picked wild mint. I have caught 12 or more fish since my last letter. I will miss eating meals at long tables in the lodge.
    Did you know that Mr. Frank’s father died when he was eight? Just like me. His mother got married again and that is the father I met in St. Cloud. I did not even know that Mr. Frank was a stepchild himself. You’d never know it to look at him.
    Love to you from me,
    Isabelle
    September 2, 1944
    Dear Papa,
    We are back home. On the drive to St. Paul, we gave ideas for naming the baby. Mama and Mr. Frank said we could choose the name!
    I put Nils on the boy’s list but Ian’s name is really Nils and his middle name is Ian. Of course you know that but why didn’t I? We should call him Nils if that is his name. Mama said the baby doesn’t have to have an “I” name like the rest of us. Good thing. How many other good “I” names are there? Ichabod, Ivy (I like that one), Irwin . . . It will be easier to branch out. It does have to be a saint’s name, though. Where do you find those?
    Was your favorite color blue or red?
    Isabelle
    September 5, 1944
    Dear Papa,
    Today was the first day of fifth grade. My teacher is Miss Green. We had to write a paragraph to introduce ourselves. I watched her eyes when she read I was a stepdaughter but she didn’t so much as blink.
    “Is your dad Dr. Colletti?” she said.
    Well, I didn’t know what to say.
    “He was a classmate of my brother’s,” she said and went right on to James’s desk.
    No one must have remembered our fights from last year because I found three girls to eat with at lunch.
    On to homework.
    Isabelle
    P. S. What do they feed you in heaven? Do you have to cook? I hope not. Heaven just wouldn’t be eternal bliss with toast for every meal. (Not that your toast was bad, of course.)
    September 19, 1944
    Dear Papa,
    Happy Birthday to You! It was handy for you to be born in the first year of the century because I will always know your age. Just think, if you’d lived to be 100, you would have been 100 in 2000!
    I knew right when I woke up today that it was your birthday. I looked at everyone’s face at breakfast to see if they remembered. Mama was rubbing her forehead and her belly. Ian was picking a scab and Ida was counting everything square in the kitchen trying to get to 50. Mr. Frank was already at work.
    “September 19 and sunny!” I said, just to open the subject.
    Mama looked cross at me and asked Ian if he’d finished his homework.
    “September 19 is a big day in this family,” I said.
    “What!” Ida squealed. “Is it my birthday?”
    “No, it is your Papa’s birthday,” I told her.
    “But we just got him a pipe in the summer,” Ida said.
    “She means your
other
Papa,” Ian said. “The one who’s gone.”
    “That’s enough, Isabelle,” Mama said. “We all loved your father very much. But we are not going to celebrate his birthdays anymore. We don’t want to hurt Papa Frank’s feelings, now do we?”
    On the way to school, I invited Ian to come to my room for a party after school. We snuck up some crackers and milk and taped paper candles to the crackers. (Only six, though, not the full 44.) We told 44 things we remember about you.
    “Papa’s laugh didn’t have any sound. His mouth opened wide wide and his shoulders shook,” I said.
    “Papa was a good drawer. He could draw every kind of car,” said Ian. “Papa yelled loud when he was mad.”
    “Papa didn’t get mad very much,” I said.
    There are 40 more, but now my hand is