We sat at our desks, nervous as any first day of school.  Second grade, third school.  I was the "new girl."  I'd be the new girl most of my life but it always felt like it started here even though it technically started in kindergarten when we moved from Fillmore to the Estes Ranch in Moorpark.

The door opened.  We waited expectantly as a long thin shadow crossed the threshold.  It was an illusion.  Though thin, the woman who entered was not tall at all.  She was tiny.  White hair.  She walked down the aisle nearest the door, up the next aisle, down the third, and then up the last row finishing behind the desk.  She was dwarfed by it from my vantage point.  The appearance of frailty was deceptive. 

She looked each one of us in the eye.  I know it because when it was my turn I realized that she was seeing all of us.  Not just our faces but who we were behind those faces.  She had an uncanny way of knowing by our faces what we were thinking.  After she scanned each face as though she could read our  minds, she slowly opened the bottom left drawer of her desk.  (it was to our right if that matters!)  She reached in and pulled something from it.  We waited eagerly.

WHAM!  She slammed a belt down on the desk with force no one would have guessed that she could possibly possess.  It was fascinating and momentarily terrifying.  The feeling left a few minutes later but not before she said clearly and in a strong voice with an even stronger accent, "And I'm noht afhrraid (afraid)  ta juse (use) it."

Then, as though she hadn't just ensured the complete compliance and respect of every student in that class with a smidge of the fear of God and Mrs. Elkins on the side, she replaced the belt from whence it came and we never saw it again.  Other classes didn't have a strong woman like Mrs. Elkins.  When their students got restless or stepped out of line, they were sent to the office where a large paddle hung on the wall. 

Every student at the school knew that to attend, you had to give permission for the teachers and principal to administer corporal punishment.  If you went to the office, the principal drilled a new hole in the paddle and gave you a firm whack reminding you as you blinked back tears never to cause him to put two in there with your name on it.  I never had to go.  None of our class did and Mrs. Elkins never used her belt.  She didn't need to.  We knew she meant business and she inspired a love and loyalty that would have hurt us to betray.  We simply didnt' do it.

We read from McGuffey's First, Second, and Third Readers in that class.  I learned

"Now the day is over

Night is drawing nigh.

Shadows of the evening

Steal across the sky.

Now the darkness gathers.

Stars begin to peep.

Birds and beasts and flowers,

Soon will be asleep.    ~  Baring-Gould

We read Harcourt Brace readers too.  I loved the story of Hot and Cold from One Mouth.

An old children's story tells of a traveler lost in a vast forest one winter's night. He stumbles into a widow's hut and begs for a bowl of soup by her fire. The woman says, "Yes."

He stands blowing on his hand while she ladles the soup. "What are you doing?" she asks. "Why, my hands are cold. I'm warming them with my breath." She eyes him suspiciously as she hands him his soup. He sits down with the bowl, and blows across the spoon before he puts it in his mouth.

"Now what are you doing," she cries. He glances up, surprised, and says, politely, "The soup is so wonderfully hot. I simply mean to cool it before I try to swallow it." The woman seizes a fire-iron and shouts, "Get out! Get out of my house! I'll have no sorcerer who can blow both hot and cold under my roof!"

We did fractions in Mrs. Elkin's room.  I learned that 1/8 is smaller than 1/4.  I learned that 1/4 is really 2/8 so if I have 1/4 and 1/8 I really have 3/8.  I didn't know my multiplication tables (well I didn't know above the fives) but I knew the basics of fractions.  Then again, it was easy.  That's how dad taught me to tell time. 

I learned how to spell possessive (I thought it was the most beautiful word in the world), arithmetic (a rat in the house might eat the ice cream.), and Mississippi.  I learned to call a public restroom a "lavatory" and how to write in cursive.

She introduced us to Narnia.  Oh nothing sounds as absolutely wonderful as The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe read by a little old woman with a slovak accent.  We trembled for Lucy, cheered for Mr. Tumnus, and wept for Mr. Tumnus.  We laughed at the Beavers, and shuddered at the wolves.  Turkish Delight was like the deadly fruit of Eden.  We didn't want a thing to do with it when she brought some to class for us.  We laughed at St. Nicholas and trembled with awe at Aslan.  Mrs. Elkins choked a bit when she read about the white witch plunging the knife into the majestic king of Narnia.  I saw her wipe a tear.  I now realize it was more than just the death of a beloved character.

She taught us to count in Estonian.

However, I think my fondest memory is that of the story of her family's flight from Estonia.  As a child, I assumed that she was fleeing Nazi occupation.  Now I realize that it was more likely Soviet communism.  There was a border near a river close by where her family lived.  She told of being a young girl (I never knew if she meant little girl like under ten or teenager) and how her family determined to escape.  They had a plan and though the plan was simple, it was deadly.  Near twilight one night, the family would meet at a certain grove of trees.  From there they'd move along the border to where they knew the shallowest part of the river was, hoping that there would be a way for the men to walk across in places holding children over their heads. 

They had orders.  Once they started across the barbed wire, they were to run.  They must run and no matter what happens around them, never stop until they're on the other side of the river.  Don't let anything slow them down.  I remember the trembling in her voice as she told about the escape.  The family cut the barbed wire.  They raced across "no man's land" to the shore of the river.  The guards shouted.  The dogs were let loose.  Gunfire was everywhere.  A spotlight waved across the short field to the shore of the river.  People around her dropped.  Aunts, uncles, and a little cousin. 

Most who made it across were young.  Mid thirties or younger.  One elderly grandmother made it as well as a few middle aged men.  I didn't understand as she told the story what she was tryign to convey without putting too heavy a burden on our little hearts.  The elderly sacrificed themselves for the younger stronger members of the family.  They allowed the dogs to grab their legs and threw themselves in to the path of gunfire to give the rest of the family a chance at a new life.  This is such a beautiful thing to me that it hurts to type it.  I never loved her more than when she told about greeting the rest of her family on the other side of that river.  One third of their extensive family was absent.  They waited for twelve hours but no more came.

We all dreaded the last day of school.  We were eager learners, looking forward to her lessons and her stories.  Three months of no school seemed endless.  What we didn't know was that it wasn't a three month parting.  We'd never see her again.  The next year we entered the classroom eager for a continuation and found a round pleasant German hausfrau looking woman.  Mrs. Rothlesburger.  She was a dear soul but we were sad and confused.

At home, my parents told me what happened.  Apparently, some of the parents were appalled at her display of authority in the beginning of the year.  They couldn't fire her, she hadn't broken her contract.  The school didn't want to anyway.  However, in a private school, those who pay for the education determine much of the policy and several of the parents insisted she not return.  They didn't renew her contract.

She went to teach at a nearby Catholic school and I know my parents deliberated as to whether or not I should attend.  Eventually, they decided against it.  At eight, I was at too impressionable to understand the difference between what I was taught at home and school.  My loyalties would have been divided.  The beauty of the ceremonies and symbolism of the Catholic church would have appealed to my sense of romance.  I was a little too much like Anne Shirley for my own good.  They made the right decision but I still wish I could have had another year with her.

Mrs. Elkins... if I could only see her once more.  Hear her voice... count to ten...  uks... kaks...

In some families, the magic number is 3.  You know, "I'm going to count to three!!!!  One----- two---- two and a half--- two and ... THREE"  That would never work in our house.  In our house it would have been more like.  "Do it.   Negative one.. BUSTED!" 

However, we had a "Magic Number" too, or rather, mom did.  Sometime around the age of twelve or so onward, mom did it the first time.  I have no idea what prompted it.  Maybe I spilled something on an day that was already a "Jonah Day".  Maybe I was skirting the line of being out of line.  Maybe mom had PMS or maybe I did.  Whatever it was, I didn't do anything wrong per se, but mom wanted to point out that she was annoyed.  Now later, it wasn't always me.  It could be the loud music next door, the car acting up, or a cold.  Therefore, it is always possible that the first time wasn't my fault either.  I like to cling to that.

Regardless of the reason, something happened, and I heard the boom lowered for the first time.  "You're grounded until you're thirty-seven."  Okkkkaaayyy.  I know I looked at her weird.  I bet her eyes twinkled.  Just saying it put her in a better mood.  Mom has marvelous twinkly eyes when tickled. 

After that, it happened semi-regularly.  I forgot to get a homework slip signed, needed a ride to something at church, or asked for sourdough toast after dinner.  Didn't matter what it was, mom's eyes would twinkle- or if in a rare bad mood, snap- and she'd say, "You are grounded until you're thirty-seven."  If I was Gracie Allen I would have filled it in for her after the second or third time  "...till you're thirty-seven, yeah."  I wasn't Gracie Allen and knew I'd be in for real trouble if I dared to do such a thing.

It became a tradition.  The last time I remember her saying it was when I was in labor.   As Polly helped me into the car, mom leaned in and said with that trademarked glint in her eye, "If you have that baby before you get to the hospital I'll ground you 'till you're thirty-seven."

I turned thirty-seven this year.  I feel free!  I'm finally an adult.  I know the law said I was at eighteen.  Logic says I was when I got married or had a child or two, or four, or eight, or nine.... but how can you truly be an adult if you're still on restriction?  I say you can't. 

Mom... guess what?  I'm not grounded anymore.  Do you regret not grounding me until I was thirty-eight?

I know know, if I ever knew, why Dad sent me to Loves Steakhouse that night.  Occasionally, dad would send me to Mc Donalds, just around the corner, for a meal.  It was rare but it happened.  However one evening, when I was nine, Dad sat me down at the table, taught me how to figure a 10% tip (it was the acceptable rate back then) and sent me off on my own with a 20 dollar bill for dinner.

In the restaurant, the waitress seemed a bit confused at a little girl ordering for herself.  I think I ordered a steak and a coke.  I'm not sure.  The bill was just over five dollars.  Actually, now that I think about it, I think it was about seven dollars.  I took a napkin, borrowed the waitress' pen, and started adding.  She watched me curiously.  I grew more and more flustered and eventually panicked.  I slapped the 20 dollar bill down on the counter with my check, and bolted for the door.

I'll never forget the look of incredulity on dad's face when I admitted there was no change.  "What did you order?"  I explained what happened.  There was a funny look around the corners of dad's mouth.  It was one of those times when a parent just has to remember that sometimes raising kids can be expensive.

However, several good things happened that night.  I learned how to order, how to take care of getting my own meal at a restaurant, and... before I went to bed that night, I had a firm understanding of how to calculate 10% tips on a meal.  Now if he had only mentioned that you tip places other than restaurants.  Cabbies for instance.

Several weeks or months later, I wanted to go to the little shopping center (it's now a huge mall) "The San Buenaventura Center".  Mom didn't feel like going and dad didn't either so he dropped me off at Thrifty in the center and told me to call him when I was done.  I wandered around for hours.  I went into Barker Brothers Furniture and imagined what each room of furniture would look like in OUR house.  I ate a beef stick "sucker" from Hickory Farms and drooled over the jewelry in the store cases.  Finally, I went into the Broadway, went upstairs, and wandered through the girll's clothing department until I found the "Hello Kitty" section.  It was just a clear acrylic tower filled with "My Twin Stars" and "Hello Kitty" stuff.  I loved that stuff.  I learned to read prices on the backs and rarely bought a thing.  It was way too expensive.

Eventually, I got tired or hungry or something so I called dad and told him I was ready.  Dad said he'd send a cab and the five dollars he'd given me was for my ride home.  I went inside, spent .25 of my own money on a mint chocolate chip ice cream cone, and waited for the cab.  He drove up before I was finished so I took a big bite and threw the rest away.  I think the driver was appreciative.  He asked about my shoping trip, told me how neat he thought it was that my dad let me ride in a cab, and generally kept me entertained until I got home.  I paid him, accepted my change, and raced inside to tell my dad.  When I handed dad the change though, he asked, "Did you handle the tip ok this time?"

Tip?  What tip?  The answer was clearly obvious without me speaking a word.  Dad raced out the door and down the street.  Apparently the cabbie was going slow, had taken his time before pulling away, or something because Dad managed to catch up with him and leave him a tip.  I bet that guy had a fun time telling that story when he got back to the station.  (Or whatever you call a congregation of taxi-cabs.)

No... not aggravat-ING.  Aggravation.  The game.  Uncle Oscar made us all boards at one point.  I wish I had one.  Any gathering at Grandma's was sure to include a game of Aggravation or three.  These games were long, loud, and fun.  The rattle of the dice, the clank of the marbles as they rolled across the dimples in the wood.

There were six or eight (depending on the board) "Homes" and we all had marbles on our homes.  We'd roll... the die dropped in a hole.  "Diaper Rash".  We'd roll again.   A six.  Wahoo!  On my hot-spot.   It's a six so I get to roll again.  Four. Two away from "Safety".

If you were fortunate, you'd roll "just right" and get to center and then right back down your side- skipping half the board.  Around the board we'd race.  Sending each other back to our "starting spots" and then finding ourselves back at square one as well.  We'd finally get to that final bar.  There are five marbles in our home.  We're nearly there with the last marble.  So is Uncle Oscar.  Mom isn't far behind.    Mom rolls three sixes in a row.  She can't advance but she can roll again.  Uncle Oscar gets a 1.  He only needs a three and he's in.  Dad rolls.  He gets a five.  Puts him within a "one" of his final spot.  I roll a six.  I roll again.  Two.  Drat.  Two more holes to go.

Uncle Oscar rolls.  It's a three.  He wins.  Oh well, Scarlett O'Hara was right.  "Tomorrow is another day."

Some traditions, we don't realize were traditions until we look back.  Weeks spent at Grandma's house.  A perfect example.  I honestly don't remember where mom and dad went.  I know once they went to Vegas and I flew from there to Sky Harbor in Phoenix.  I think mom went to deliver sailboats with dad a few times, and I know there are many others.  I just don't remember why.  I remember being though.  Being was fun.

Almost the first thing I'd do was to walk down to the corner by the Circle K and wander through the Christian Emporium.  I loved that place.  I'd buy stickers, pencils, and once I bought a new Bible for school.  I LOVED that Bible..  Eventually I'd cross the street. 

I remember the first Chinese restaurant that my parents took me to.  Right off the Antelope Freeway (14) in Palmdale.  I don't remember the name but I think Golden was in the title.  We had duck.  It was oily.  I didn't like it and I don't think Mom and Dad did either.  However, across the street from the Christian Emporium in Phoenix was the China Doll.  I thought it was glamorous and exotic.  I dreamed of going through those double doors with their big brass handles.  I never did.  It's probably not there anymore but it was all the time I was growing up.

I'd walk regretfully past those exciting doors and past the cool double doors of Bashas to Skaggs.  Skaggs was a drug store kind of like Thrifty or Rite Aid or Walgreens.  I'd wander the store but mostly I looked at the office supplies.  I loved office supplies.  I really don't know why but I did.  Eventually, I'd get tired of the floor clerks trying to decide if I was stealing things and I'd grab my preplanned purchase.  I always felt a bit like Francie Nolan about this time.  Down at one end of the aisle was a wide array of coloring books.  Whether eight or fifteen, I always bought one.  Grandma thought I was crazy but it was tradition.  I loved coloring.  Then I'd grab a box of 64 Crayola Crayons and pay for them.  The clerks always smiled.  I guess they thought anyone who bought crayons and coloring books couldn't possibly steal.

Back at grandma's, I'd grab a glass from her little metal cabinet next to the deep freeze, and pour me some tea.  It was always too sweet but that was one of the traditions at Grandma's.  She'd open her deep freeze and pull out a round tub from Baskin Robbins.  She always had several of those.  From the depths of said tub she'd bring "candy" and cookies.  Some of these were delicious while others... well...

You see, grandma was a mom during the depression.  She had to be creative with sweets for her kids so then, and in all the years since, she'd take left over crackers, bread crumbs, pretzels, cake, you name it, and dip it in chocolate, butterscotch, and white chocolate.  Voila!  Instant candy.  Most of it was pretty good.  Some of it...

Then I'd sit there and color a page.  Grandma usually watched.  I didn't realize she watched at the time but my mental picture shows her sitting there watching every move I made.  I wonder about that.  Once my picture was finished, I'd organize my crayons.  Why I organized the crayons AFTER my first picture, I don't know.  I just did.  Then I'd put it all away and grandma would pull out the dominoes.

Crow's Foot.  No, not those little lines around your eyes as you get older.  Dominoes.  Some people call it "Chicken Foot" like in my link up there but we called it Crow's Foot.  We played ruthlessly... well, since Grandma's name was Ruth, I guess we played Ruthfully.  When I was younger, Grandma magnanimously let me win.  I hated that.

I'd pick around on her piano.  She told me once if I ever learned to play it that I could have it.  I never did.  It's probably best.  Grandma loved to play on it herself.  Sometimes we'd walk down and do the laundry.  We'd stop and say hi to "Miss Alice".  Sometimes we would get into her little storage unit and dig out something of importance.  Sometimes it was yarn for a new granny square afghan, othertimes it was a pressure cooker or to put something away.

I don't know if we ever had dinner at Grandma's when pinto beans weren't on the table.  That's what I remember most.  Pinto beans, cornbread, and ranch style dressing.  Prickly pear cactus jelly.  I can't remember what else.  Those things stand out like crazy.  I read books, grandma made quilts.  I'll have to tell you about her quilts. 

After dinner we might play cards.  Crazy Eights, Old Maid, and War.  I'd color some more and Grandma would fill in another notebook of songs.  She made dozens of those books.  I still have one.  The cover is off and it's a bit tattered but I keep it in a plastic sleeve and flip through it every now and then.  Her spelling was always a bit interesting.  "Angle" for angel for instance.  Dad laughed when he saw my copy of her copy of the song California Joe. 

"... and cooked a side of liver."

Side of liver?  I'd never heard of it but what did I know.  Dad knew.  He corrected my butchering terminology and I corrected my song.  "Slice of liver.  Got it."

At night, I'd climb into "my" bed and hunker down under the covers.  I could hear the sound of the air conditioner clinking in the late hours.  There was a certain scent to Grandma's house at night that was different than during the day.  It was comforting. 

That's how we always mentioned them.  They were a trio, much like the Three Muskateers.  All for one... and one for self... er all.  It wasn't exactly like "John&Gloria" where we never mentioned them separately but whe we talked about them in general, it was, Johnny,  Michael, and Scott.

I spent a lot of time with those guys. We had Monopoly tournaments that lasted a week.  We played cards... Johnny is the one who introduced me to "52 Card Pickup".  I didn't fall for it but he tried anyway.  Somehow that glint in his eye told me that it was something fishy.  We walked the washes behind their house and explored new construction.  I find it interesting that there wasn't any vandalism.  There was tons of new construction.  We knew we weren't supposed to wander around it so we were careful not to damage anything.  It was just fun to see the "bones" of a house before it was neatly covered in stucco and drywall.

But games were huge.  We played Sorry, Life, Monopoly, and video games on their "Atari".  You know, exciting things like "Pong".  We ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and sent the player piano spinning with "The Entertainer" on the roll. 

They talked about baseball.  Man those boys knew their baseball.  My parents were football people so I didn't know much about baseball.  Eventually, after pouring over thousands of baseball cards, I decided that the Yankees were my team.  I loved their uniforms.  My cousins shook their heads in disbelief and disgust.  I think Michael was a Padre fan.  Scott liked the Dodgers.  I don't know who Johnny liked.  Maybe he didn't either.

At night, I'd sleep on the floor between their beds and they'd ask for Bible stories  I never knew why they asked.  I didn't think they believed them but every time I came, they asked.  I told them about Noah, Joshua and Jericho.  I shared the grizzly story of Jael and the beautiful one of Mary.  They seemed to prefer the Old Testament heroes like Jonah over Jesus with the fishes.  I sang songs that I knew from church.  Everything from Father Abraham (the inane thing) to Miriam's triumpant, "I will sing unto the Lord" from the miracle at the Red Sea.  Those boys loved Moses.

Those boys are deeply rooted in my heart. I had hours of fun with them.  I spent more time with them than any of my other cousins and my memories show it.  Just a few more hours of Connect Four, Lord.  I'd love just a few more hours.

Salt air drifts through the window into your subconscious as you sleep.  The air is cool and the fog along the coast hangs thick outside your house.  You sleep dreaming of sea gulls, high tide, and wet sand under your toes.

A hand shakes your shoulder.  "Chautona-  time to get up.  We're going to the desert for breakfast."  The hand disappeares and you hear your door shut behind you.  You glance at the clock.  It's 4:30.  You groan.  You know you'll have fun but it's early.  It's comfy in your warm bed and... It's SATURDAY.

You scramble out of bed.  What choice is there?  You throw on clothes grabbing a jacket that you won't need soon.  Downstairs you see mom put the sourdough jar in the ice chest.  You grin.  This is gonna be great! 

Minutes later you're on the 101 heading toward Lucerne Valley just on the eastern side of Apple Valley.  Somewhere near a dry lake bed (one of dozens) you pull off the highway and bounce over the dirt until you reach the area Dad has in mind.  It'll be perfect.  It always is.  Only someone like your dad would get everyone up to have breakfast out in the desert just for the fun of it.

While Mom and Dad start a fire, mix orange juice, scramble eggs and make sausage, you gather "Tomatillos".  They aren't really tomatillos but at first we thought they were so we've called them that ever since.  Mom will put the berries inside the sourdough pancakes and they are sooooo good.  There is nothing like breakfast, cooked over an open fire, in the middle of no where.  Add sourdough pancakes to the mix and you feel like another slice of heaven has flashed through your world.

Sometimes you stay for a while.  Dad wanders looking for more edible plants while you explore and Mom reads or crochets.  Sometimes you go home almost right away.  You marvel as barren sand gives way to small towns and then larger cities and then drifts into nothingness for a while until you reach large cities again.   The terrain changes from scrub brush to trees and occasional green to the Eucalyptus that FDR had planted as part of his "New Deal" near Fillmore and Moorpark.  You drive past the old Estes Ranch where you lived as a Kindergartner and through Camarillo.  You hope they'll stop and see Uncle Lon.  Half an hour in the Jacuzzi sounds wonderful right now.  Instead, you drive through Oxnard and then into Ventura. 

Mom and Dad drop you off at the corner of Habor and Seaward.  You walk toward the beach.  Once there, you take off your shoes and your toes squish in the sand.  It's amazing, isn't it, the difference in the sands?  Just a few short hours away is another world.  Here you find seagulls fighting over a crab, seaweed wiith sand flies all over it, and an occasional starfish.  There you saw lizards, small birds, and jackrabbits.  Here there is litle vegetation growing from the sand.  There sand is life's soil to everything from sage to Yucca trees.

More than once after such a trip as you walk up the beach toward home, you sing as loudly as you can...

"Oh Lord my God... When I in awesome wonder... consider all... the worlds Thy hands have made..."

Being the daughter of an appliance repairman has its advantages.  First, your appliances always work.  Your uncles know how to get you to visit, they  just unplug their washers, say it doesn't work, and you get a nice visit, probably with some good music, and Aunt Marilyn's Devil's Food cookies.  You also get some of the world's best temporary playhouses.  Dryer and washer boxes make marvelous mansions complete with hand sawed (with a kitchen knife of course) windows and doors. 

However, the best use of those boxes was always... the camper.  Yep.  I had a lot of "Okie Campers" as a kid.  Dad would bring home a box, cut side doors (that could be opened or closed at my whim) on the sides, leave one end closed and the other open (to scramble out) and then line it with blankets and sleeping bags.  I had  books, snacks, and a flashlight. I sat in the back of that truck in my "camper" on trips to  Arizona or the desert so many times I can't count them. 

Back in that camper, I was alone in my own little world.  I sang.  I sang every song my dad sang and every song we sang at church.  I read.  I waved at children in cars as they drove past.  I made up stories in my mind.  I always knew someday I'd be a writer.  I was determined.  Sometimes I did hand games with string like cat's cradle and Jacob's ladder.  I had a Rubiks Cube and a long triangular thing that made a puzzle too.  I had  Merlin.  I loved playing with my Merlin.

Those campers were brilliant.  Much better than the "real deal".  I mean, think about it.  They were free, they didn't require maintenance, they were disposable, and no one ever thought to "Break into" a cardboard box.  Occasionally, we had to settle for a dryer box  but they weren't as nice.  They were too short and my feet got cold sometimes.

It was a wonderful life.

I remember the house on Santa Fe in Hesperia.  Near Christmas one year, Mom handed me our green copy of Best Loved Poems of the American People and told me to read this one.  I spent the next several weeks memorizing it.  I loved it.  I'd still love to see a good illustrated version of it. 

'Twas the eve before Christmas. "Good night," had been said,
And Annie and Willie had crept into bed;
There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes,
And each little bosom was heaving with sighs,
For tonight their stern father's command had been given
That they should retire precisely at seven
Instead of at eight-for they troubled him more
With questions unheard of than ever before:
He had told them he thought this delusion a sin,
No such creature as "Santa Claus" ever had been.
And he hoped, after this, he should never more hear
How he scrambled down chimneys with presents each year.
And this was the reason that two little heads
So restlessly tossed on their soft, downy beds.

Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten,
Not a word bad been spoken by either till then,
When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep,
And whispered, 'Dear Annie, is 'ou fast as'eep?"
"Why no, brother Willie," a sweet voice replies,
"I've long tried in vain, but I can't shut my eyes,
For somehow it makes me so sorry because
Dear papa has said there is no 'Santa Claus.'
Now we know there is, and it can't be denied,
For he came every year before mamma died;
But, then, I've been thinking that she used to pray,
And God would hear everything mamma would say,
And maybe she asked him to send Santa Claus here
With that sackful of presents he brought every year."
"Well, why tan't we p'ay dest as mamma did den,
And ask Dod to send him with p'esents aden?"
"I've been thinking so too," and without a word more
Four little bare feet bounded out on the floor,
And four little knees the soft carpet pressed,
And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast.

"Now, Willie, you know we must firmly believe
That the presents we ask for we're sure to receive;
You must wait very still till I say the 'Amen,'
And by that you will know that your turn has come then."
"Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me,
And grant us the favor we are asking of thee.
I want a wax dolly, a teaset, and ring,
And an ebony workbox that shuts with a spring.
Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to see
That Santa Claus loves us as much as does he;
Don't let him get fretful and angry again
At dear brother Willie and Annie. Amen."
'Please, Desus, 'et Santa Taus turn down tonight,
And b'ing us some p'esents before it is light,
I want he should div' me a nice 'ittie s'ed,
With bright sbinin' 'unners, and all painted red;
A box full of tandy, a book, and a toy,
Amen, and then, Desus, I'll be a dood boy."

Their prayers being ended, they raised up their heads,
With hearts light and cheerful, again sought their beds.
Tley were lost soon in slumber, both peaceful and deep,
And with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep.

Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck ten,
Ere the father had thought of his children again:
He seems now to hear Annie's half-suppressed sighs,
And to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes.
'I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said,
'And should not have sent them so early to bed;
But then I was troubled; my feelings found vent,
For bank stock today has gone down ten per cent!

But of course they've forgotten their troubles ere this,
And that I denied them the thrice-asked-for kiss:
But, just to make sure, I'll go up to their door,
For I never spoke harsh to my darlings before."
So saying, he softly ascended the stairs,
And arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers;
His Annie's "Bless papa" drew forth the big tears,
And Willie's grave promise fell sweet on his ears.
'Strange-strange-I'd forgotten," said he with a sigh,
'How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nigh."
"I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said,
"By answering their prayers ere I sleep in my bed."

Ilen he turned to the stairs and softly went down,
Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing gown,
Donned hat, coat, and boots, and was out in the street,
A millionaire facing the cold, driving in the sleet
Nor stopped he until he had bought everything
From the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring;
Indeed, he kept adding so much to his store,
That the various presents outnumbered a score.

Then homeward he turned. When his holiday load,
With Aunt Mary's help, in the nursery was stowed.
Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine tree,
By the side of a table spread out for her tea;
A workbox well fitted in the center was laid,
And on it the ring for which Annie had prayed,
A soldier in uniform stood by a sled
"With bright shining runners, and all painted red.'
There were balls, dogs, and horses, books pleasing to see,
And birds of all colors were perched in the tree!
While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the top,
As if getting ready more presents to drop.
And as the fond father the picture surveyed,
He thought for his trouble he had amply been paid,
And he said to himself, as he brushed off a tear,
'I'm happier tonight than I've been for a year;
I've enjoyed more pure pleasure than ever before;
What care I if bank stock falls ten per cent more!
Hereafter I'll make it a rule, I believe,
To have Santa Claus visit us each Christmas Eve.'
So thinking, he gently extinguished the light,
And, tripping down stairs, retired for the night.

As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun
Put the darkness to flight, and the stars one by one,
Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide,
And at the same moment the presents espied;
Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound,
And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found.
They laughed and they cried, in their innocent glee,
And shouted for papa to come quick and see
What presents old Santa Claus brought in the night
(just the things that they wanted,) and left before light:

'And now," added Annie, in a voice soft and low,
'You'll believe there's a 'Santa Claus', papa, I know"-
While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee,
Determined no secret between them should be,
And told in soft whispers how Annie had said
That their dear, blessed mamma, so long ago dead,
Used to kneel down by the side of her chair,
And that God up in heaven had answered her prayer.
'Den we dot up and prayed dust well as we tould,
And Dod answered our prayers: now wasn't He dood?"
'I should say that He was, if He sent you all these,
And knew just what presents my children would please.
(Well, well, let him think so, the dear little elf,
'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself.")

Blind father! who caused your stem heart to relent,
And the hasty words spoken so soon to repent?
'Twas the Being who bade you steal softly upstairs,
And made you His agent to answer their prayers.

- Sophia P. Snow

I've always changed "the Being" for a less generic, "Jesus".  :)

1. My grandfather's clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor;
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.
It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born,
And was always his treasure and pride;
But it stopp'd short – never to go again –
When the old man died.

2. In watching its pendulum swing to and fro,
Many hours had he spent while a boy;
And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know
And to share both his grief and his joy.
For it struck twenty-four when he entered at the door,
With a blooming and beautiful bride;
But it stopp'd short – never to go again –
When the old man died.

3. My grandfather said that of those he could hire,
Not a servant so faithful he found;
For it wasted no time, and had but one desire –
At the close of each week to be wound.
And it kept in its place – not a frown upon its face,
And the hands never hung by its side;
But it stopp'd short – never to go again –
When the old man died.

4. It rang an alarm in the dead of the night –
An alarm that for years had been dumb;
And we knew that his spirit was pluming for flight –
That his hour of departure had come.
Still the clock kept the time, with a soft and muffled chime,
As we silently stood by his side;
But it stopp'd short – never to go again –
When the old man died.

Ninety years without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick),
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick),
It stopp'd short – never to go again –
When the old man died.

It was a fascinating difference between how dad recited the poem and how he sang the song.   Another lesson in poetry recitation by example.  Stopped... short... never to go again when the old... man...died...

Mom gave me a wide variety of books to read.  From the first Little Golden Books to the little green Beatrix Potter books in the Fillmore Library, to Nancy Drew, Meg, and later Atlas Shrugged and Flowers in the Attic.  I read 'em all and everything in between.  When I look back, I wonder how I missed all the "stuff" that was in those books.  I think mom knew I'd either not "get it" or knew I'd just skip over the more "racy" sections of things like Alas Shrugged.  All I know is, I was surprised at what was in some of those books when I reread them older.

One of my favorites was, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.  It is considered a children's book but I honestly believe most children don't fully appreciate what a masterpiece it is.  I know I didn't.  To me, it was just a great story of kids in turn-of-the-twentieth-century Brooklyn.  It was about kids who had fun in spite of their poverty, how they grew and matured, and life in the tenaments of Brooklyn's marvelous melting-pot. 

I understood Francie.  Maybe Mom realized that when she gave it to me.  It wouldn't surprise me.  I understood her desire for things to be cleaned up and perfected.  I understood the turmoil between fierce pride in her family and frustration when things didn't go how she thought they should.  I understood. 

And yet I didn't.  I'd never had to wonder where my parents would find the money for food.  As a student in private schools, most of my classmates were much wealthier than we were.  We were just average Joe (literally... that's what Dad's family calls him, Joe) blue-collar workers.  Yes, dad's uniforms were almost always light blue shirts and dark blue pants.  I had an allowance that kept me in books and fabric and junk food.  Francie and Neely scrounged rubbish heaps for anything to recycle so they could buy penny candy and a pickle.

She and I shared a love for our father's music and our parents were surprisingly similar in many ways.  My Dad, however, was as fiercely anti-union as Francie's was pro.  Her father died  but thankfully, I was not so unfortunate.  She and I both loved school and worked hard for good grades.  We loved beauty and were very innocent of the realities of life around us even though by the standards of some I went to church or school with, my life was just as difficult and sordid as they would have pronounced Francie's.  How very pathetic.  I wouldn't change my life for anything.

I loved talking over this and other books with mom.  I think I'll finally read The Chosen by Chaim Potok or something like that.  I started it, got sidetracked, and then never got back to it again.  If mom recommended it, it has to be good.  However, since I don't have that book in hand, I think I'll go reread A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.  They really should make a good movie out of it.

I sometimes wish I was a kid again,
Down in the old neighborhood.
Just to be with Charlie,
With little Joe and Pete,
Boy, we had a quartet that
Was mighty hard to beat!
I'd love to stand down by that cellar door,
Just to hear that quartet sing once more:

"Heart of my heart"
I love that melody.
"Heart of my heart"
Brings back a memory.
When we were kids
On the corner of the street,
We were rough and ready guys,
But oh, how we could harmonize!
"Heart of my heart"
Meant friends were dearer then.
Too bad we had to part.
I know a tear would glisten
If only I could listen
To the gang that sang
"Heart of my heart."

Dad only sang the first part a few times.  The only ones I remember were from when he used that pink music book that had, Darktown Strutter's Ball and Ding Dong Daddy from Dumas, and Has Anybody Seen My Gal in it when we lived in Meiner's Oaks on El Roblar.  I don't remember him singing it often but when he did, it was usually without the "preface".  I guess that's probably why I always picture a quartet of young men lounging around in spats on the corner by that house whenever he sings it.

It's the only song that Dad played and sang without any kind of introduction.  Most songs had some kind of measure to give us a hint of what was coming but not Shanty in Old Shanty Town.  Such a pretty song.

It's only a shanty in old Shanty Town.

The roof is so slanty it touches the ground.

But that tumbled down shack

By the old railroad track,

Like a millionaire's mansion

Is calling me back.

I'd give up a palace if I were a king.

It's more than a palace it's my everything.

There's a girl waiting there

With a silvery crown-

In that shanty in old Shanty Town.

When I was around twelve I found another version of it on an album we had.  Dad's version was slow and plaintive.  This other version was kind of a jazzed up version.  The words were basically the same but they had little details added in between for "color'.

There's a shanty in a town on a little plot of ground

Where the green grass grows all around, all around

And the roof's so worn, so badly torn,

That it tumbles to the ground.

In a little grass shack that sits way back

About 25 feet from the railroad track

Lingers on my mind most all the time

Keeps calling me back to my little grass shack

I'd be as sassy as Haile Selassie

If I were a king, wouldn't mean a thing

Put my boots on tall, read the writing on the wall

Don't mean a thing, not a doggone thing

There's a queen waiting there in a rocking chair

Just blowing her top on a keg of beer

Looking all around and trucking on down

Cause I got to get back to my Shanty Town.

For a while Dad and I sang these together for fun.  I didn't usually sing with dad but I treasure the memory of the few times he let me sing with him.

It's all Nancy Drew's fault.  I read the books.  I liked them.  The mysteries were fun to decipher and the adventures she had kept the books intriguing.  However, my real delight was the drawings of Nancy, Bess, and occasionally George.  I loved their clothing.  The full skirted dresses with little jackets and hats.  I loved it all.  I wanted them myself but you couldn't exactly buy those kinds of things in  1982.  People were wearing knickers, preppy double breasted shirts, and stirrup pants and baggy shirts were just around the corner. 

I saved my money.  I didn't spend my vacation money.  I hoarded and denied myself lemonade Bubblicious bubble gum and Hickory Farm's pickles.  I was determined and by the time I came back from two weeks vacation, I was ready.  I took my normal walk up Harbor Blvd, right on Seaward, and up to Thompson.  However, this time I didn't turn right on the first street past the shopping center with Newberry's and go to see John and Gloria. I didn't even get to that street.  Instead, I turned immediately into Fabrictown U.S.A.  I'd considered a walk to Beverly's down on Main Street but it was farther away and I was determined to start immediately.  I wandered around the store looking for fabrics that I liked.  I was drawn to the Gunne Sax look.  The patterns, however, were very expensive.  After much searching I found a Butterick See & Sew pattern that would do just fine.  I have no idea what prompted me to do it. 

The dress was designed with a deep scooped yoke for a "Bodice".  This yoke buttoned to a high neck with a ruffle  The sleeves also buttoned at the wrist with a ruffle. The rest of the dress hung from this yoke like a maternity dress but it wasn't intended as a maternity dress.  There was a ruffle around this yoke and around the hem. 

I chose my fabrics carefully.  A small calico print scattered across the tan background of the main fabric and I chose a coordinating floral stripe for all ruffles and the neckband.  Considering that I had almost no sewing experience whatsoever, I decided on the new and exciting product, VELCRO, as my fastener.  I bought exactly how much fabric it told me to, my pattern, pins, thread, and the VELCRO.

At home, I cut out all pattern pieces and laid out my main fabric.  I didn't bother with their silly schematic for laying out the pattern pieces.  I remembered how derisively Grandma Avants had spoken of their layouts.  It was her personal opinion (which I now share to a huge degree sometimes) that those layouts were designed to ensure maximum fabric purchase rather than minimum fabric use.  So, with happy abandon I cut all of thte calico pieces and laid them aside.  I was particularly pleased that unlike Lucy Ricardo, I did not cut the carpeting.

I laid out my striped pieces, astounded at the huge piece of fabric left over.  There had been quite a bit of the calico but nothing like this!  However, I smirked to myself that I'd bested those wasteful companies and picked up my scissors.  Providence has away of saving us from ourselves while humbling us at the same time.  This was one of those occasions.  Just as I went to make my first cut, Mom popped in the room to see how I was doing.  I could tell that my choice of dress wasn't impressive to her.  She was right, of course, but I didn't get it at the time.  It was very "Gunne Sax-ish" and that's what I wanted.  I showed her my cut pieces, my leftover fabric, and my next piece to cut and moved to make that cut once more but mom's voice cut the air first.

"Um, I don't pretend to know anything about sewing but I think those arrows and lines are there for a reason."

That's all she said.  She left the room and let me make my own decision on what to do.  I looked at the pattern pieces trying to figure out what she meant.  I looked at them on the fabric.  I looked at the layout.  I saw it.  My striped ruffles were goign sideways, diagnonally, and some just slightly off kilter.  Had I cut it out, I'd have had a mess on my hands.  Saved by my mom's timely entrance, I cut the silly thing out, this time making only minor adjustments to the pattern recommended layout.

Oh boy.  Then came the fun. Hours of hemming ruffles.  Hours of gathering ruffles.  Hours of trying to make the dress hang right.  Hours of trying to make my VELCRO encrusted yoke NOT stick out like a sore thumb.  You see, not only did I use something unique like VELCRO to fasten cuffs and yokes, but I used STRIPS of it instead of pieces.  So the yoke was one 12" strip of stiff stick-togethered-ness stuff that I sewed on the yoke BEFORE adding the skirt.  Yeah.  Brilliant.  So I had to trim and fight and trim and fight so that it din't try to stick out like a cancerous growth in a very inopportune place.  It also itched terribly.

Then I had to sew on buttons like I had actually done the button holes.  All that expanse of fabric needed somethign to break it up.  I did small pearl buttons which actually looked pretty cute.  Then I got dressed in my new dress and raced downstairs to show my parents.  They admired my work, my ingenuity on the button situation and studiously avoided commenting on the actual dress.  As I tripped back upstairs I could see their looks at each other.  Now I realize their silent communication wasn't, "Isn't she amazing" but rather, "She looks pregnant!"  Maybe it was God warning them as to the future? 

Anyway, I went upstairs and preened in front of my huge dresser mirror  I was so excited.  I'd wear it to church the next day and woudn't  Mrs. Santos be proud!  Ahem.  I preened less eagerly.  I stood still.  I gave it a critical eye.  It looked an awfully lot like one of Mrs. Elder's maternity dresses.  Curiously, I stuffed a pillow under my dress and gasped.  It looked HORRIBLE.  Whatever would I do?

Well, for one thing I would not wear that dress with a pillow under it no matter how much I wanted to rest wherever I was going.  It looked too... maternal!  I didn't have any tan belts- Wait!  My gray suit had a nice burgundy belt tha would match perfectly!  I grabbed it and slipped it around my waist and cinched it within an inch of its life.  I always liked things really tight at my waist.  I wonder why that was?  It took a few adjustments at the waist before I got everything laying just right.  The dress was perfect!  How exciting!

I have a picture of it around here somewhere.  I'll have to dig it out.  You'd think that with all of my blunders and wasted money and the final product less that originally hoped for, that I would have learned my lesson and taken up basket weaving or rock cleaning but no, I had the bug.  I still have the bug.  And I honestly believe that if mom had "taken over" and "fixed my blunders" that morning rather than simply saying, "I think those arrows and lines are there for a reason," I would have given up on the idea of sewing for some time.

I'm still working on that perfect Nancy Drew dress.  All my attempts were cute but not quite right.  Some day...

Dad loves the desert.  Where most people see barren wastelands and blistered creation, Dad finds beauty and solace.  I do believe that he loved living at Furnace Creek/Stovepipe Wells in Death Valley better than any other place that he has ever lived. 

The Sonoran desert of Arizona is vastly different from California's Mojave Desert.  The simple presence of cati and trees alone show the change.  Wandering around our desert here in Ridgecrest, you'll find creasote, sage, cholla, and similar low shrubby plants with an occasional Joshua and in the lower deserts, Yucca tree.  However, in Arizona we had those plants, barrel cactus, occatillo, manzinita trees and a million other plants.  The Sononoran desert doesn't feel as flat with saguaro cacti and the other taller plants breaking up the landscape.

I confess, I prefer the area around Apache Junction more than ours here in California.  I don't miss the tales of tarantula migration but I do miss wandering through the desert plucking the needles of the barrel cactus, a sense of safety in knowing there was water inside if I ever got lost.

On any given Saturday morning, Dad and  I might climb into the van and drive to the base of the Superstition Mountains after a quick detour at Dunkin' Donuts for coffee and glazed donut holes.  I drank milk.  Once there, we'd climb from the van, dad with his books and booklets, me with no goal in mind but to see what was there to see.

Dad spent hours wandering the area looking for the famous, "Lost Dutchman Mine".  I never knew exactly what his facination was with it.  If he enjoyed the romance of the tales, if he found the hunt exhillarating, or if he just wanted an excuse to wander the Arizona desert and "graze" as a friend once called it.  Yes, dad loved to graze on the millions of edible plants in the desert. 

Sometimes, we'd be gone for hours, others we'd just wander around for a while until he got his "Desert fix".  We never found anything with the Lost Dutchman Mine.  For all I know, it is nothing more than a dream of someone's from long ago.  I do know that I'm very glad the legend was there.  Some of my best memories are mixed with milk mustaches, donut holes, and climbing the base of the Superstition Mountains in search of dreams and creating those memories in the process.

I know I learned many lessons on those trips.  Sometimes I know what the lessons were or when they were taught.  I don't on this.  I can't remember.  I just know that anytime I was with Dad somewhere, especially when we had no where to "be" or "go", it was a classroom for me.  Dad was the schoolmaster of my life and spent hours instructing me in everything you can imagine.  From those hours I learned things like why we have never had a "revolutionary war" or a "civil war".  I heard the stories of Geronimo and of when he was a boy and ate a watermelon for an after school snack.

At home, we probably ate liver and fried onions for dinner with bacon strips on top and spinach on the side.  Sometimes we played Yachtzee but others I'd take Earl and we'd go for a walk across the desert from our house while I told him stories of Dad's childhood and the Lost Dutchman mine.

A green Ford Ranchero, a black lab mixed mutt, an ice chest, utensils, and a length of good road.  The perfect recipe for a wonderful day.

My dog Earl and I climb into the back of the Ranchero and settle against the back of the cab.  Earl loves to lean his head over the driver's side.  We drive north out of Ojai up the winding road to and past Wheeler Springs. 

It's beautiful up here.  The trees are so thick they almost cover the road.  You can hear them rustle even over the noise of the wind rushing through your ears in the back of the pick up.  If we slow to let someone pull off into one of the many turn-outs, you can hear water.  It's a wonderful feeling.

At one turnout or another we pull over and climb from the truck.  While mom makes sandwiches or dad grills burgers to put on Francisco sourdough bread, Earl crashes through the wooded areas and I jump through the water from rock to rock trying, but not very hard, not to get wet.

Dad comes to the edge of the water and shows me a pool.  He selects a perfect rock and demonstrates how to perfectly skip a rock across the surface.  I try and fail.  I try again.  He tells me to choose a flatter stone and adjusts how I hold it.  I manage a single skip.  I'm pleased but there isn't time to try again.  Dinner is ready.  Ranch Style beans are hot in their can, the burgers are done, and it's time to smother them in salad dressing (never REAL mayo), mustard, ketchup, and relish.  That's how we eat them.  With relish.

I wade and watch the water skimmers.  Dad lays back on the blanket, hands behind his head, "resting his eyes."  You know, I can't remember what mom did?  She probably cleaned up the mess, put it all in the truck, and then...  I don't know.  What a selfish child I was.  It never even occurred to me to see. Did I ever offer to help?  Did she ever get to put her feet up and rest?  Did she ever sit near the edge of the stream, dangle her feet in the cooling water, and smoke one of her cigarettes in total relaxed bliss?  I hope so. 

When it grew dark, we'd climb back into the Ranchero and work our way back down the hill.  Near the bar in Wheeler Springs, we'd pull over to the side of the road and fill many water jugs with the stream water from a spigot.  I never knew if we went up every time we ran out or not.  I don't think so.  Surely we drank more water than that.  However, once home, it was bedtime.  Usually past bedtime and in a house where bedtime was nearly sacred, this was a big deal.

I slept well those nights.  I slept well most nights but on nights after Wheeler Springs, I slept and dreamt of rustling leaves, skipping rocks, water skimmers, and dragonflies.  Now I dream of them in a different way.  What was once a dream of contentment and appreciation is now a dream of nostalgia and longing.

'Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there,

Which well-nigh filled Joe's barroom, on the corner of the square;

And as songs and witty stories came through the open door,

A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

"Where did it come from?" someone said. " The wind has blown it in."

"What does it want?" another cried. "Some whiskey, rum or gin?"

"Here, Toby, sic 'em, if your stomach's equal to the work --

I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's filthy as a Turk."

This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace;

In face, he smiled as tho' he thought he'd struck the proper place.

"Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd --

To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.

"Give me a drink -- that's what I want -- I'm out of funds, you know,

When I had cash to treat the gang this hand was never slow.

What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou;

I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.

"There, thanks, that's braced me nicely; God bless you one and all;

Next time I pass this good saloon I'll make another call.

Give you a song? No, I can't do that; my singing days are past;

My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast.

"I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too.

Say! Give me another whiskey, and I'll tell what I'll do --

That I was ever a decent man not one of you would think;

But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink.

"Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame --

Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame;

Five fingers -- there, that's the scheme -- and corking whiskey, too.

Well, here's luck, boys, and landlord, my best regards to you.

"You've treated me pretty kindly and I'd like to tell you how

I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now.

As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame, and health,

And but for a blunder ought to have made considerable wealth.

"I was a painter -- not one that daubed on bricks and wood,

But an artist, and for my age, was rated pretty good.

I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise,

For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.

"I made a picture perhaps you've seen, 'tis called the `Chase of Fame.'

It brought me fifteen hundred pounds and added to my name,

And then I met a woman -- now comes the funny part --

With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart.

"Why don't you laugh? 'Tis funny that the vagabond you see

Could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me;

But 'twas so, and for a month or two, her smiles were freely given,

And when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to Heaven.

"Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you'd give,

With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live;

With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-noor, and a wealth of chestnut hair?

If so, 'twas she, for there never was another half so fair.

"I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May,

Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way.

And Madeline admired it, and much to my surprise,

Said she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.

"It didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown

My friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone;

And ere a year of misery had passed above my head,

The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished and was dead.

"That's why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never see you smile,

I thought you'd be amused, and laughing all the while.

Why, what's the matter, friend? There's a tear-drop in you eye,

Come, laugh like me. 'Tis only babes and women that should cry

"Say, boys, if you give me just another whiskey I'll be glad,

And I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad.

Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score --

You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroon floor."

Another drink, and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began

To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man.

Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head,

With a fearful shriek, he leaped and fell across the picture -- dead.

~~Hugh Antoine D'Arcy

The lessons I learned while dad recited this poem... they are indelibly etched on my mind.  He explained the word balmy.  By the time he'd finished painting a picture I could feel the air about me.  He described a vagabond and defined badinage and stoical.  I learned what a sou was and why they said, "Filthy as a Turk".

Dad showed me how the bum flattered and cajoled his way into free drinks with the line, "To be in such good company would make a deacon proud."  And on the lesson went.  By the time Dad was done, I was enamoured not only with the poem but with learning to see between the lines of poetry in a fun way.  This wasn't trying to discern if "Ode to an Eyebrow" was really about early education and mind-sight.  This was seeing a story and the nuances behind it.  Just like in real life.  My love of poetry was formed by that section in Best Loved Poems of the American People entitled, "Poems That Tell a Story."

One of my most and least favorite occasions as a child were school programs.  I remember many but the preparation for one in particular stands out in my mind.  I was given the task of choosing a poem to recite for the program.  I dragged out our trusty Best Loved Poems of the American People  and flipped to the "Faith and Inspiration" section.  I found a poem that fit the bill of being "religious enough".  Pastor Phillips approved the poem and I memorized it.

I tried out my recitation on dad first.  Imagine this in a very VERY sing-song tone.

The Cross Was His Own

They borrowed a bed to lay His head
When Christ the Lord came down;
They borrowed the ass in the mountain pass
For him to ride to town;
But the crown that He wore and the Cross that He bore
Were his own----
The Cross was His own!

He borrowed the bread when the crowd He fed
On the grassy mountain side,
He borrowed the dish of broken fish
With which He satisfied.
But the crown that He wore and the Cross that He bore
Were his own----
The Cross was His own!

He borrowed the ship in which to sit
To teach the multitudes;
He borrowed a nest in which to rest----
He had never a home so rude;
But the crown that He wore and the Cross that He bore
Were His own----
The Cross was His own!

He borrowed a room on His way to the tomb
The passover lamb to eat:
They borrowed a cave for Him a grave,
They borrowed a winding sheet.
But the Crown that he wore and the Cross that He bore
Were his own----
The Cross was His own.

~~Unknown

Dad, bless his artistic, perfectionistic, ever-lovin' hearts, immediately gave me a lesson in how to recite poetry.  However, the way he did it wasn't to take the poem I'd just recited and correct each line. Instead, he flipped a few pages in my book and read, with proper emotion and inflection, The Face on the Barroom Floor.  I can still hear his voice, which now sounds to my mind very much like Christopher Plummer, "... ahh not one that daubed on bricks and wood, but an artist (with a slight roll on the "r") and for my age was rated pretty good."  I do not exaggerate when I say I developed a passion for excellent poetry recitation that night.  I spent hours in my room learning how to avoid awkward pauses and leave important ones.  I don't know if I ever thanked Dad for that.  If I didn't, Thank you dad.  It is something that still gives me great pleasure.

I think it's time to include poetry recitation in the kids' schooling.  Yep.

I've slept in some interesting places in my life.  I don't remember the first, I just know about it.  Apparently for the first few weeks-months of my life, I slept in a dresser drawer.  It actually makes sense if you think about it.  Alas, I have no memory of it so I can't tell you if the drawer was dark wood, light wood, painted or covered in wallpaper.  I just know I did.  I think maybe it was a foreshadow of my future life kind of like the whole dad moving us while mom was having me thing.  I was doomed to a life of moving and sleeping in strange (though usually exciting) places.

The first I remember, is Mesa Arizona.  I was seven.  We lived in a one  bedroom apartment while mom and dad looked for a house to buy.  The roof was mostly flat (not enough pitch to roll at all) so dad took me to the roof and let me sleep there sometimes.  It was so much fun.  you'd lay there in the middle of this big city and could see a few stars, listen to the sounds of life around you, and drift to sleep wrapped in the night sky.  It was marvelous.

My next interesting slumber party with myself was almost two years later.  I was in Meiners Oaks California.  We lived on the corner of El Roblar and some other street.  A sidewalk  and then a stretch of grass with occasional bushes separated us from the main street.  We had a strange bush right at the corner of our house in this grass section.  It was very "branchy" at the top with lots of drooping leaves that left the center hollow.  A perfect place to sleep.  I bundled out there with my sleeping bag, a pillow, and listened to the sounds of people walking by, driving by, and imagined what their lives were like.

Some were easy.  Those who stumbled by drunk were hobos trying to drown their sorrows in cheap wine and they ran from them from town to town.  How does an eight year old come up with this stuff?  Maybe from hearing Tramp's Heaven a few hundred times.  Sometimes a couple would walk by "whispering" sweet nothings in each other's ear.  I imagined they'd been separated by circumstance but finally found each other again.  Sound a little like California Joe?

In Ventura I slept on the beach a few times just outside Uncle Lon's camper.  In Landers I was too afraid of sharing my bed with scorpions and sidewinders to risk sleeping in the wash but man I wanted to.  In Missouri, I slept on Grandpa Fullerton's lawn and watched the cars "cruising".  Woke up full of chiggers too.  Note:  If you sleep on the lawn in Missouri, Oklahoma, Arkansas and similar places, put down a tarp THREE TIMES larger than you think you'll need.  Arms and legs have a habit of flinging off of four trash bags taped together.

From there we moved to Arkansas but were only there two weeks.   When we finally settled in Mojave, at first I slept in the travel trailer.  However, it was crowded in there and while I never complained, dad snored.  I was glad when they suggested I move out onto the "porch".  This was an interesting scenario.  Picture it.

The wind comes from a westerly direction.  The trailer blocks it.  (And rocks like mad when the wind is bad- which is about half the time) There is about six to eight feet of lattice covered patio to the east of the trailer.  My bed is on the far north east corner of this.  I often woke up covered in sand but it was a lot of fun.  In winter dad would heat rocks in a huge 55 drum barrel, wrap in blankets, and put around me then cover me with more blankets.  Boozer often slept at my feet. 

That was the last "interesting" place I slept.  Ever since then it's been beds, couches, hotel rooms, and air mattresses.  I lead a boring life now.  I'm not counting camping expeditions.  Sleeping in abandoned mines is expected when one is camping isn't it?  Should I have included sleeping in the "Okie Camper?"  I think I'll save that for another tale.

I'm on a song-roll.  I think my favorite memory of this song is the time when we lived in Miners Oaks on El Roblar, when they had the reel-to-reel going and Aunt Marilyn sang along.  I don't ever remember her singing any other time.

We've had our stormy weather.

We've had our sunshine too.

We've shared them both together,

And I'm still here with you.

Sometimes I made you happy.

Sometimes I made you blue.

But love kept us together,

And I'm still here with you.

No other arms, no other lips

No other love beside me.

No other star of love-

To guide me.

Someday you'll go to heaven,

Like all good angels do.

I'll find my way to heaven.

And I'll be there with you.

No other arms, no other lips-

No other love but you.

Hmm... I just realized that dad never discussed the absolute horrific heretical theology in that song.  Maybe he assumed it was so blatant even I could figure it out.  ;)

They tell me papa that tonight

You'll wed another bride,

And you will clasp her in your arms

Where my dear mama died.

And she will lay her graceful head,

Upon your manly chest

Where she who now lies low in death

In life's last hours did rest.

Her name is Mary too, they say;

The name my mother wore.

Oh papa is she kind and true

Like the one you loved before.

And is her footstep soft and low,

Her voice so sweet and mild.

And papa will she love me too,

Your blind and helpless child.

Here papa do not bid me come

To meet your new made bride.

I could not meet her in the room

Where my dear mama died.

Her picture's hanging on the wall.

Her books are lying there.

Here's the harp her fingers played,

And there's her vacant chair.

A chair by which I used to kneel

To say my evening prayer.

Oh pa it almost breaks my heart;

I could not meet her there.

And as I cry myself to sleep,

As now I often do,

Then softly to my chamber creep

My new-made mama and you.

Please bid her gently press a kiss

Upon my throbbing brow,

Just as my own dear mama did.

Oh, pa, you're weeping now.

So I'll just kneel beside my bed,

And to my Savior pray.

That God's right hand will lead you both

Through life's long weary way."

A prayer was offered; then a song.

"I'm weary now," she said.

Her father raised her in his arms

And laid her on the bed.

And as he turned to leave the room,

One joyful cry was giv'n.

He turned and caught the last bright smile.

His blind child was in heav'n.

They laid her by her mother's side,

And raised a marble fair.

On it engraved those simple words,

"There'll be no blind ones there."

Such a beautiful song.  I hardly remember a song fest when dad didn't sing it.  It was one of my favorites.  Who am I kidding, they're all my favorites.

Schwinn visited us when we lived in Mojave.  He'd been out hunting and somehow managed to shoot himself in the leg without knowing it.  Yeah.  I know.  Whatever.  Anyway when he got back in his truck, apparently he figured out that he'd been shot. 

Well, after surgery, a guy can't work right?  So, instead, he drove to California with one leg up on grandma's station wagon seat and using his left foot to work the gas/brakes.  (Hearing how he drove a standard stick shift with that broken leg and only one usable foot was interesting.)

A day or three later, he and dad were discussing how difficult it was to get a jackrabbit.  I'm guessing the cast probably didn't help his cause but Schwinn was probably too doped up on pain meds or something.  Yeah.  That's it.  Sure.

Now I dont' remember WHY Schwinn looked up rabbit in the dictionary.  It had to do with the whole conversation about this wily rabbit he couldn't get, but looking it up never did make sense to me.  You can't shoot a rabbit so you look it up in the dictionary?  I digress.  I'm good at that. 

So Schwinn flips through the pages in the favorite family dictionary and eventually finds the word.  We wait expectantly as he reads, "Rabbit- genius leapus.  WOAH!  That explains it!"  We roared as Dad shook his head and said, "Genus lapis, Schwinn."

Genius Leapus...  I wonder about the dictionary definition for Schwinn?

Schwinn:  Shootumus Podiatrus.  One who shoots himself in the leg or foot.

Yeah.

I've heard this story so many times I feel like I was there.

Sometime in 1969 before June, Dad took mom to Arizona to meet his kids.  I don't know if this happened when mom arrived or sometime over the next day or two but at some point or another, mom went out to watch the kids shooting.  They'd stuck a match in an old weathered fence post top and were trying to shoot the match with a 22 rifle. 

After a while, mom asked if she could try.  She let the boys show her how to hold the gun and aim.  Grandpa Avants watched the scene with an amused eye.  That "California city girl" was sure to provide interesting entertainment.  I bet he wished he could talk mom into using dad's 45 pistol.  hee hee

Mom, on the other hand, adjusted her sights and fired the gun.  Now the boys swear that she not only hit the match but she LIT the match.  Mom says she merely hit it.  First shot out of the gun.  Grandpa Avants said something like, "Dad GUM!" and mom, without skipping a beat said, "Well, I was the Women's Champion Skeet Shooter of Southern California."

It took her from Ray Arizona to somewhere in California before she was able to convince dad that she' never held a gun before much less shot one!

When I was a lad
And old shep was a pup,
Over hills and meadows we'd stray.
Just a boy and his dog,
We were both full of fun.
We grew up together that way.

I remember the time at the old swimming hole,
When I would have drowned beyond doubt.
But old Shep was right there-
To the rescue he came.
He jumped in and then pulled me out.

Now the years sped along,
And Old Shep he grew old.
His eyesight was fast growing dim.
One day the doctor looked at me and said,
"I can do no more for him Jim."

With hands that were trembling,
I picked up my gun.
And aimed it at Shep's faithful head.
I just couldn't do it;
I wanted to run;
I wished that they'd shoot me instead.

I went to his side,
And I sat on the ground.
He laid his head on my knee.
I stroked the best pal that a man ever found.
I cried so I scarcely could see.

Old Shepy he knew he was going to go,
For he reached out and nipped at my hand.
He looked up at me just as much as to say ,
"We're parting but you understand."

Old shep he has gone
Where the good doggies go
And no more with old Shep will I roam.
But if dogs have a heaven
Theres' one thing I know.
Old Shep has a wonderful home.

The line "old Shep he knew he was going to go..." alway choked me up  I just loved that song and for some reason, I had a mental image of Almanzo Wilder as the man in this song. 

Dad sang this one almost every time he played.  I remember him talking about it on the way to school one morning and pointing out the lousy theology of the song.  It seemed to dad that the tramp implied that he'd be admitted to heaven simply because he was poor and downtrodden on earth.  I never got that from the song.  I just assumed the tramp was saved and looking forward to a better life in heaven.

I've tramped o'er this old world quite lonely.

New pleasures I'd meet as I roam.

I've neither parents nor sweetheart,

Neither wife dog nor a home.

I'm always received by cold shelter,

And I've never had nothing to love.

But I'll get my reward in the future

In that beautiful home up above.

When I'm wearing a crown of glory

Play a harp of a thousand strings.

I'll tune it up, to concert pitch

And I'll play while the angels sing.

With the Son in that heavenly kingdom

And a crown around my head.

Wearing a satin robe whiter than snow,

Don'tcha know I'll be glad when I'm dead.

I've tramped o'er the roads in the country.

I'll eat at a farmhouse nearby,

Two bowls of milk and a doughnut

And a section of an apple pie.

When the sun has gone down in the evening

To the meadow I'd secretly creep.

Beautiful visions come o'er me,

And I'll lie there and dream as I sleep.

When I'm wearing a crown of glory

Play a harp of a thousand strings.

I'll tune it up, to concert pitch

And I'll play while the angels sing.

With the Son in that heavenly kingdom

And a crown around my head.

Wearing a satin robe whiter than snow,

Don'tcha know I'll be glad when I'm dead.

Only one of Dad's songs could make dying sound like a pleasure.  Reminds me of that woman in People Will Talk.

No, I've never known anyone by that name.  I don't know if my parents have or not.  When we lived in Noel, mom and dad bought a laser disk machine and we rented disks from the local store every time dad came home.  I'll never forget the great movies we watched on that thing.  Raiders of the Lost Ark, Somewhere in Time, Night Hawks,  and... Arthur.

The funny thing is, pun intended of course, that mom and dad ever got the movie in the first place.  They didn't like Dudley Moore or Liza Minelli.  They didn't often rent comedies.  I've always assumed that they rented it only because they thought they'd like Sir John Guilgood.  Or maybe because Clash of the Titans was out of stock.  *chuckle*.

That movie became a household classic.  We knew it frontwards and backwards.  I can still recite it from beginning to end.  To this day, even in my own home when most of my children haven't seen the movie, they hear the quotes daily.  I'm not in my parents house for more than a few hours before one sails across the room like a banner of nostalgia.

"He's taking the knife out of the cheese... 'spose he wants some cheese?"

"None of the best people do."

"Cheap disgusting food."

"You have a wonderful economy with words... I look forward to your  next syllable with great eagerness."

"Steal something casual."

"Good luck in prison."

"They smile at lunchtime."

"You shouldn't hear this."

"This is a gonner."

"What about HAROLD!"

"You poor thing..."

Arthur.  It's not just for kids anymore.

I have no idea if this is based on any kind of true story but I imagine similar things happened throughout time.  Maybe it was Soldier Claudius or Crusader Althwulf.  Whomever it was, I'm sure their sorrow was as great as the other men who regretted impulsive actions and lost a sweetheart.

He was just a lonely cowboy,

With a heart so brave and true.

And he learned to love a maiden,

With eyes of heaven's own blue.

They learned to love each other,

And named their wedding day.

When a quarrel came between them,

And Jack, he rode away.

He joined a band of cowboys,

And vowed he'd forget her name.

Out on the lonely prairie,

She waited just the same.

Your sweetheart waits for you, Jack.

Your sweetheart waits for you.

Out on the lonely prairie,

Where skies are always blue.

One night when work was finished,

Just at the close of day,

Someone said sing a song Jack.

That'll drive all cares away.

But when he started singing,

His mind did wander back.

For he sang of a lonely maiden,

Who waited for her Jack.

Your sweetheart waits for you, Jack.

Your sweetheart waits for you.

Out on the lonely prairie,

Where skies are always blue.

He left the range next morning,

Breathing his sweetheart's name.

Said, "I'll go and ask forgiveness.

"For I know I was to blame."

But when he reached the prairie,

He found a new-made mound.

His friends they sadly told him,

They'd laid his sweetheart down.

Your sweetheart waits for you, Jack.

Your sweetheart waits for you.

Out on the lonely prairie,

Where skies are always blue.

A few years ago, I was looking for musical chords to these songs and found another verse that Dad never sang.  I imagine it goes after the "laid sweetheart down" and before the chorus.

They said as she was dying
She breathed her sweetheart's name
And asked them with her last breath
To tell him when he came

...thumble thum thum...

A piece of advice.  Mockery is a boomerang.  If you allow yourself to throw it, even in jest, it will always come back and hit you in the head.  Jesting or not, this hurts.

During my freshman year of high school, we lived in Noel, Misouri. Population 782... three when dad was in town.  Our house on Harmony Street had no insulation so after Christmas, Dad moved us across the bridge outside of town to a cinderblock house over by the Arthur Murray Hotel.  Lorene street. 

When we lived in Missouri, Dad worked out of Pacoima California transporting sailboats behind dual wheeled pick up trucks.  Occasionally a boat would actually be on top of the truck. He'd come through on his way to some place or back to California again.  Mom and I spent most of each week alone.  Mom knitted and crocheted, I sewed and embroidered.  We both read voraciously and loved to listen to the radio at night.  Bruce Williams (never buy a house without an attorney) and Sally Jesse Raphael  (a fun eighth grade graduation party idea is a lunch box social just in case you wanted to know.)

Sometime between February and May, we grew into a habit of teasing each other with mockery.  My parents never put up with disrespect or "cheek".  I would never get away with sassing any adult much less them.  I knew who was boss and I knew how to show respect for my elders!  However, my mom and I did tease each other.  I'm pretty sure mom started it.  I would never have had the guts to do it myself.  I probably asked "What's for dinner?"  or something innocent like that and mom must have replied in a mocking singsong echo of my query, "What's for dinner?"

However it started, this became a funny little past time for us.  She'd tell me to go put away the dishes and I'd mock it on the way to oblige.  I'd tell her we were out of shampoo and she'd repeat my information saucily.  It was fun in a quirky sort of way.  It fit our bizarre personalities and incomprehensible senses of humor.

At this time in my life, when the weather was inclement or if I happened to be running late, or just because, Mrs. Strickland and John would pick me up for church.  I loved riding in their little tan Ford Tempo and laughing with them.  Mrs. Strickland was one of my heroes. 

One Sunday, an elderly woman of our church, Mary, needed a ride so we stopped on our way and brought her to church with us.  As I stepped out of the car...

Remember how I said mockery is a boomerang?

... Mrs. Strickand said, "Will you help Mary get into the building?"

Without blinking an eye, I quipped as I reached for the car door handle, "Will you help Mary-"  The tone, remember, is mocking.  Kind of like when a girl is ticked at her sister and says "neah neah neah neah."  I wanted to drop through the floor.  Just let me runaway and hide.  I'll miss you.  Forgive me.

The look on Mrs. Strickland's face still hurts me.  She was so shocked, grieved, and dumstruck.  I helped Miss Mary into the building and fought back tears.  John seemed to understand that there was a reason I'd done it and that it wasn't meant to be ugly.  He patted my shoulder awkwardly a few times until Dickie Lett came into the classroom and started our Sunday School Lesson.

Later, I did apologize to Mrs. Strickland and tried to explain.  Somehow I think she found it all very amusing but wisely agreed with me that  I'd better quit the game with mom.  When mom heard about it, she agreed too.  However, one great thing happened from that experience- well, several actually.  I learned how to joke with my mom.  Before that time, my attempts at joking were awkward and unnatural.  I also learned that things that are innocent diversions in one situation and inappropriate in another are probably generally best avoided.  You never know when it'll cross over that line.

If you reach for the boomerang "Mockery", be sure you don't let it hit you between the eyes.

"Be sure you don't let it hit you between the eyes"

Overheard on the swings at Well's Road Baptist Church in Ventura California circa 1982.

Noemi:  "Sal, your ears are disgusting.  EEEEWWW  Look at that earwax!  EEEWWWW!"  (Important interjection.  Sal is not a girl.  Sal is short for Salvador, her younger brother who was my age.)

Chautona:  "You've been talking too much Sal."

Sal:  "What?????"

Chautona:  (With complete and utter confidence)  "The more you talk, the more earwax your body produces.  I think it must have something to do with softening the sound from the sound waves being so near the ear.  I don't know.  I just know that the more you talk the more earwax."

Noemi:  "That's crazy.  Who told you that?"

Chautona:  "My mom."

Noemi:  "I think she was pulling your leg."

I gave Noemi a look.  She should know better.  She knows my parents.

Chautona:  "MY mom?"

Silence.  I had a point.  Strong argument for my case.

You see, my parents were always strictly truthful with me.  They didn't tell me I was better at things than I was, let me win games, or tell me that shots don't hurt.  Santa Claus was DAD and no amount of convincing by my cousin would ever sway me again.  Dad said so and that was that!  I never doubted their word on any subject no matter how ridiculous it might sound.  Noemi knew this.  She couldn't conceive of my parents telling me that my eyes would stay frozen if I crossed them and things like that.  Sal was still skeptical and threw a few more barbs my way but even Noemi considered the subject closed.

It was two years later on a cold Missouri winter night that I said something to mom about earwax and talking too much.  Mom shook her head in disbelief.  "Who told you that?"  She was laughing. 

I stared at her in shock.  "Mom, you told me that.  When I was about five."

"Well, if I told you anything like that at all you must have been talking too much and I wanted to shut you up."

I stared at her.  MY mom???  M-Y 100% ALWAYS honest mother who never played games with me???  I couldn't believe it!  I remember going over everything I could think of that might have been a possible ploy for self-preservation.  I've never found another one though.  I did wonder about mom's jokes about different foods putting hair on your chest when I found a stray hair growing on mine once.  I decided it was a fluke and it really was a joke.

I'm sure I was right.  It had to be a joke.  Mom laughed.  She wouldn't say something so serious and then laugh about it!

Would she?

Sorry, it fit the story.

The summer that I turned eight, I rode in Uncle Oscar's "Executive" motorhome to Marlow Oklahoma where I stayed a week or three with my Uncle Gene and Aunt Doris.  (Affectionately and often called "Dee Dee")   While on the farm, I enjoyed petting the horses and cows, learning about electric fences (ouch!) and how to play "Washers".  This horseshoe like game I really want to set up for the kids.  I spent hours playing out in the washer "pit".

When not... um... washing?  I would roam the land with the dog, bake cakes with Aunt Doris, marvelled at how a frozen package of hot dogs could break her toes, and basically, had a lot of fun.  Kelsey and his fiancee Karen were sometimes around and would sing together.  I loved their beautiful harmony.

I only had one restriction on the farm.  I was not to go into the barn where the bull was.  The barn was off limits.  The bull could go in the barn stall or out in a pen.  I was also to stay away from the pen.  And I did.  I was terrified of that bull.  I tried not to show it of course, fear was something to be overcome in our family.  We didn't let it overcome us. 

So, one afternoon I stood about 20-