I have dealt with the trauma of the shift from being Presbyterians to being Methodists at the time of our move to Dunsmuir in a later chapter. Dunsmuir nestles in a narrow canyon carved out by the rushing waters of the Sacramento River. The town was dominated by the Southern Pacific, acoustically and financially. Many of our parishioners worked on the railroad, and I had to admire the wives, who not only never knew when their husbands would come home, but never knew how soon they might be called out either.

There were forest fires raging in the area at the time we moved. Bob and I had Charles (5) and Tim (3 1/2) with us as we drove in late at night. Bob slept on an old mattress in the garage while I tried to curl up in the car with the two boys. The next day Maja drove up with Billy and David. Mrs. Eachus came to our kitchen door early that morning. She was friendly, but I thought it sounded a bit ominous when she turned to me and said, "You look like a good hard worker..." (I knew from past experience that that meant liking to scrub out the church kitchen.) We later learned that she was responsible for our kitchen being painted an ugly shade of Southern Pacific tan because it was cheaper, though the previous minister's wife had wanted yellow. Mrs. Eachus was admirable, but quite a tyrant too. At that time there were a number of books being published about ministers' families. It always seemed to me they portrayed parishioners as being saints or witches. In reality we usually found that some of our most difficult parishioners were the most virtuous and useful, sort of as if that entitled them to be difficult. That was Mrs. Eachus.

Once we were informed that Mrs. E. had called Bob a liar because he had said there hadn't been any accidents on the playground we worked to set up below the parsonage. (He had forgotten to count the fact that Bill had had a pretty rough fall from the swing ‑‑ of course we considered that par for the course in our family). And she turned out to be the most bitter opponent of the new building that Bob was responsible for. She vowed she would never step foot in it. In spite of it all she remained personally warm toward us. It was sad and ironical that the first funeral held in the new sanctuary was for her husband.

Her son, Bob Eachus, and his wife Alice Jane lived two doors from us and were wonderfully supportive. The tragic death of their one year old daughter was one of the saddest times of our lives. A neighbor boy had opened the window that allowed her to fall to her death. Mrs. Eachus had the indomitable will to transcend tragedy, but that very stoicism laid a special burden on Alice Jane.

Mrs. Murphy, across the street from us, was a typical railroad wife in some respects. In other respects she was unique. She also provided me with some of my funnier moments. She took a special fancy to David and called him "Square Rumpy". That didn't please me too much, except that she was so full of colorful Oklahoma expressions that I always wished I'd written some of them down. She was about 70 years old, an ex‑beauty operator who dyed her curly hair a shade of light vermillion never seen on land or sea. Her second husband, Tim Murphy, was useful, droll, and laconic. When her 50 year old son by a former marriage died, she was the object of much sympathy. But when weeks and months went by and she failed to cheer up, her friends began to lose patience. She treated her live husband like dirt while she grieved endlessly over her lost son. She belonged to several lodges and often made decorations or costumes for them, so I was not surprised when, the week before Thanksgiving, she rang my doorbell in mid‑morning and said she wanted to use me as a model to try something on.

Assuming it was something for the Lodge, I sat down obediently on the piano stool while she placed some stuff on my head. I paid little attention as she poked and fussed, talking all the while. Finally she stood back with her hands on her hips and said, "There, I was so grief stricken that I said to myself, `If I do something nice for someone else, I may feel better‑‑so I made you a hat for Thanksgiving!'"

She pulled the mirror off the wall to show me. I gulped. The hat was composed of an off‑white felt (off‑white being a euphemism for a pale dirty gray) trimmed with a wide band of silver braid which ended in two large blue velvet cicles connected to some blue veiling. And over the crown of the hat was draped an artifical scarlet poppy at least 9 inches in diameter. What could I say? She had done it out of the goodness of her heart. I thanked her and hugged her. I thought it would be cruel never to wear the monstrosity, but it didn't look remotely like anything I would ever want to be seen in.

It would be equally cruel to make fun of her behind her back, so I felt terribly Christian in wearing it to church for several Sundays just for her benefit. I would get so busy talking to people I would forget I was wearing it, and after church I would catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and gasp, "What do you suppose people thought..." And I would start remembering different individuals whose opinions I cared about. Later it ended up in the boys' Halloween‑dress‑up department and provided great pleasure for several years.

Bob and I took up folk dancing. That is how we got to know Bob and June Wright. We had a wonderful time and learned a lot, even though neither one of us was adept at it. Still it helped establish a rapport with a lot of young couples.

When my neighbor June Cravens took a full‑time teaching job, I was spurred to look at how I could add to our family income and also provide a little insurance in case of calamity. Substitues at the elementary school were very much in demand, and I did this for a year and a half until I was offered a full time job. By teaching full time for 2 1/2 years, I was able to eliminate the requirement for practice teaching.

The classes I had to take through Chico State to get a full teaching credential also provided me with a creative outlet, although I was dismayed at the low level of what passed for college instruction. When I finally did get the credential, I vowed I would never take another "education" course as long as I lived. But I was also reminded of how much I enjoyed studying, even though the opportunities were limited.

For my first full‑time teaching assignment, I inherited the job of the 5th grade teacher, Mr. Martin, in midyear. He was a strange young man who was in the process of having a mental breakdown. He had completely lost control of the class which had had a succession of sub‑standard teachers, and he had resorted to physical violence including breaking a yard stick on one small culprit. Mr. Gray, the principal, advised me of how difficult the situation would be. I must accept the fact that the students were at varying stages of need for remedial work and would need lots of patience and individual attention. It seems funny to recall that I learned more four letter words that year from my fifth graders than I had ever heard in my life before.

Across the hall was Mrs. Kern's fifth grade class. Mrs. Kern was an old‑line strong disciplinarian, and she had the top students including Charles. Looking back I think she could have helped me. Perhaps I didn't give any signals that I needed help. I weathered through the year. I felt as if I did an average job, but the class needed far more than that. We had no aides and no free periods.

Before I agreed to teach full‑time I had asked Marian LaPlante, a kind middle‑aged woman, if she would be willing to come 4 days a week, Tuesday to Friday, from one to five p.m., as a "mother's helper", at $1 an hour. She had never done anything like this before, but the money looked good to her, and she agreed. This was what saved the day on my teaching. I felt the boys always came home to someone. Bob was there on Mondays (his day off), and Marian turned out to be a jewel. (A couple of years ago Bill made the remark that he still thinks of Tuesday as a good day because of his memories of Marian making cookies every Tuesday!) Marian loved the boys, and although she didn't do any heavy work, she was great about folding clothes and making a tasty casserole for supper. I would have a cup of tea with her when I got home about 4 p.m., and we became such good friends that she got interested in the church, joined it and even later became president of the Women's Society.

The next two years I taught the lowest 4th Grade in a rickety out‑building. I never felt like an outstanding teacher because my interest centered on my own family and I didn't go beyond the call of duty. But I devised some clever ways of teaching times‑tables and United States geography. I guess I always felt that the really top teacher should relish it more than I did and stay long hours after school to help individuals. I admired the elementary teachers who seemed to enjoy the role of the martinet, which I never coveted. I often felt that grade school students like a firm hand, and I was thankful that our boys drew the old line teachers.

Bob had felt somewhat threatened at the idea of my teaching full‑time. It was frowned upon by the Bishop and hierarchy of the church. Yet our parishioners all seemed grateful. I think they hoped that we would stay in Dunsmuir longer if our income was supplemented in a way they couldn't afford. However, I had promised Bob that after I got my credential, or when we moved, I would quit.