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...

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."

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..."

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.

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.

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.

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 20-30 feet from the double barn doors and peered in.  I couldn't see anything but that wasn't a big deal.  Deep in my heart, I didn't want to.  However, in an effort to overcome this fear of mine, I did it routinely several times a day for the next day or two.  I should have listened to my fears.  Now remember, I was 20-30 feet from the barn DOORS.   I never touched the barn much less got close enough to TRY but apparently the bull didn't know that.  So, standing 20-30 yards away from the door (don't forget that.  VERY FAR from the door) the bull makes eye contact and BOLTS though the fence.  Races out to pasture.   I rush into the house screaming "The Bull broke through the fence" and immediately everyone says, "We told you not to go near the bull!!!"

I am so abused and misunderstood.  I did not go near that bull.  I was terrified of that blasted bull.  I stayed away.  No one said I couldn't LOOK at the barn.  They said not to go in it.  I didn't even go near it!

Uncle Gene chased down the bull and put him back.  Me, I felt like I was sent home in disgrace.  Actually, I don't think I left for another week but it FELT like I was sent home in disgrace dad gum it!

Like I said.  What a Lotta bull!

I suppose the beginning of my memories should begin with my name.  After all, it isn't like there are that many Chautona's running around!  To my knowledge, there are-  or were- three of us.  There was a cow named after me years ago.  Grand Champion Heifer of South West Missouri in 1985.  Mrs. Strickland liked my name and since she was doing an "S" series, she rearranged the name to "Shetona" and voila.  My first namesake was born- er- named.

Then, a few years ago, I heard that there was a goat named after me.  I'm trying not to get a complex about the livestock.  After all, at least someone other than my family likes the name Chautona enough to use it!  Then again, for years my mother's side of the family called me "Chantona".  I suppose that this is how the references to the song Chantilly Lace came into being!

But, this doesn't answer the obvious question of, "Where did your parents find the name Chautona?"  To answer this question, one must go back farther than my own birth.  Let's go WAY back to my sister's birth.  (You know... WAY back!!!  hee hee)  When Vyonie (no that is not a misspelling) was swimming in amniotic fluid, my father suggested the name "Yvonne" to her mother.  Her mother wasn't too excited about the idea and started dad's trend of interesting names.  By the time my sister was born, he'd created the name Vyonie.  Switch the yv to vy, keep the on... and make the e say "ee".  Voila!  Vyonie!  (Rhymes with Bonnie).

Not much later, my brother was born.  After a name like Vyonie, Dad couldn't name his son Jack or Tom now could he?  So, after what I imagine (if I am anything like my father) was much deliberation, my brother was named Schwinn Dru.  Two or three years later, my second brother was born.  Initially his mother named him Randy Keith.  Obviously this wasn't going to work with the rest of the names so it was changed to Berechyn Dane.  (Intended to be pronounced like Gershwin but we tended to pronounce it Bear-schwinn)  We called him Bear.  He was murdered when I was 12 and I still miss him.  Kind of odd, I hardly knew him but his memories are some I'll share here later.  They're very dear to me.  I had another older sister who was born after Bear but she died at birth.  She had the most normal name of all of us.  Roxanna Gaye. 

Anyway, it shouldn't be a surprise then, when Dad began creating my name that he used unusual inspiration.  People, before political correctness, used to ask if my name is "Indian".  I guess the fact that it sounds like "Chautaqua" has something to do with it.  I was often called that as a child.  Occasionally I have someone meet me after hearing my name and they say, "Oh, I thought you were black!"  I suppose that they should say "African American" but I think the shock of my very Scot housewife looking appearance throws out those ideas!"

I guess we should start with pronounciation!  My name is Chautona Deanne.   Chautona is pronounced Shu-TONE-uh.  I was born in Oklahoma.  Believe it or not, this is highly signifiant in a strange and obscure way.  My father was also born and reared in Oklahoma.  At some point in my parents early marriage they lived in Bakersfield, California.  Okie Capital of the US outside of Oklahoma.  Do you see a pattern emerging?  I thought so.  The name of these apartments was, "Chatom Apartments".  Mom and dad always pronounced it, "Chat-ohm"  I don't know if this is correct or not and it's really not relevant considering they didnt' use that pronounciation at all.

I was told once, that had I been a boy, I would have been named "Chatom Victor".  However, my name wouldn't be pronounced "Chat-ohm" but "Sha-TOME".  I've always been grateful that I'm a girl.  Yes.  This is the not-so-romantic beginning to my name.  My apologies to Anne Shirley.