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I remember asking my Grandma Eva for memories of her growing up years. She says they did the usual things kids do, her and her sisters. They made up games, pretending the floor was off limits as they bounded from one piece of furniture to the next. She says she remembers when she played out in the snow without mittens, and how her mother had to rush her to the hospital for frostbite. Her pinkie finger never could straighten after that. She remembers the polio and her and her mother moving up to Seattle for her to be treated. She remembers Howard, an older neighbor boy. He was gone for a few years. When he came back, he thought, “Wow, she’s all grown up.” The red-haired girl from Minnesota had stolen his heart. Years later, during his logging years, he’d bring Eva wild rhododendrons down from the mountains.