Since our family, the Eller family, has lived in Deerfield Beach since 1923, I’ve often been asked to put in writing some of the history of the area, either experienced personally or that I heard from my parents or grandparents. For some of you old timers who might be worried about certain old “scandals,” don’t worry. I won’t be writing about those (smile). To read previous historical essays, go to www.observemewspaperonline.com and click on “The History of Deerfield.”

David Eller, Publisher

Birth of a newspaper

Deerfield Beach got its first newspaper in 1930 called the Deerfield News.

The first issue was on July 4, 1930. My father, Marlin Eller, 14 years old at the time, was featured in the first issue on the front page with his picture and a caption for having built a large model military airplane.

There was also a lot of local news like “Mrs. Butler had guests from Texas, the Longs, visited her last Thursday.” The Deerfield News folded after a short time.

Deerfield’s current  newspaper, The Observer, was founded in 1962. In reviewing some of the early Observer 1963 issues, the big stories included the fact that Hillsboro Boulevard, which had been dead-ended, was being extended with a crossing over the Florida East Coast Railroad tracks going directly west, rather than having all the traffic winding around Dixie Highway to head west, as it had been before. Hans Pufahl, Deerfield’s mayor, dressed western style in a cowboy hat, is shown cutting the ribbon, along with State Senator A.J. Ryan and Broward County Commissioner Bill Stevens.

The event was further celebrated by declaring it the “Westward Ho Day” with participants, including  Mr. and Mrs. Charles Parton, who had recently founded the Deerfield Beach Country Club, shown (right) in front of the Deerfield Furniture Company Store. Their nephew, Bob Parton, is the current president of the club.

Learning about stockings in college

Meanwhile, this writer, a son of Deerfield, was still off in college in northern Florida, first at Stetson University and later the University of Florida, studying engineering, but also learning much about certain social graces.

My first date in college was arranged by my roommate, Bob Hutson, who had a date and wanted me to go with his dates’ roommate to a drive-in movie in DeLand, Florida. Bob was driving, so my date,  a girl from New York, was in the back seat with me.

We had hardly settled in to watch the movie when I felt her hand take my hand and put it on her knee. The skin on her knee felt funny, kind of like snake skin, so I pulled my hand away.

A little while later, she did it again, and I pulled my hand away again. This continued a few more times until she gave up and left me alone. I thought the evening would never end.

Finally, we took them back to their dormitory. As I’m walking her up to the door, I finally got the nerve to ask her, “What’s wrong with the skin on your leg?” She said “What do you mean?” I replied, “It feels very rough, like scales!” She started laughing at me and said, “I’m wearing stockings, you idiot!” I must have turned bright red in the face. After all, Florida-bred boys didn’t know anything about girls wearing stockings.

Since our family, the Eller family, has lived in Deerfield Beach since 1923, I’ve often been asked to put in writing some of the history of the area, either experienced personally, or that I heard from my parents or grandparents. For some of you old timers who might be worried about certain old “scandals,” don’t worry. I won’t be writing about those (smile). To read previous historical essays, go to www.observernewspaperonline.com and click on “The History of Deerfield.”

David Eller, Publisher

While I’m Away at College, Observer  newspaper is born – In Deerfield -

Some of you may have noticed that there has been a pause in my Historical articles for a few months and may have wondered why? It is quite simple. I’ve only written about things I personally knew to be true. How our family came to South Florida in 1923, after having first immigrated to North Carolina from Switzerland and Germany some 150 years earlier.

How my grandfather, Hoyt Eller, a skilled carpenter and farmer in his early 30s brought his wife and five children here to live in a tent next to the Hillsboro River/Canal and Dixe Highway. How he worked directly for the famous architect Addison Mizner to do the finish carpentry work for the Boca Raton Hotel. How he saved his money and went to farming land he bought for $1 per acre at what is now Quiet Waters Park, and later on $15 per acre in what is now the City of Parkland.

I wrote about some of the farm families like the Butlers, Wiles and Jones, who were already in Deerfield at the time.

How my father, Marlin Eller, quit farming with his father at age 21 to start his own business manufacturing large water pumps to sell to local farmers and government agencies for irrigation or drainage.

I wrote about the fact that when I started first grade at Deerfield Elementary School in 1947, there were only six students, and I was the only boy. Now I’m informed that first graders in Deerfield are measured in the hundreds. Stories about other local families were included along the way, as I wrote many stories trying to share what it was like growing up here in north Broward County in the 1940s and ‘50s. The ‘60s began with me at Stetson University in DeLand, Florida, and then onto the University of Florida in Gainesville, which I graduated from with an engineering degree in 1964.

However, when I wrote the story about college, I suddenly realized that I was getting away from my original objective of writing about the history of this area, the north Broward County/South Palm Beach area. Therefore, in order to stay true to my initial objective, I will attempt now to combine the two, by telling some of what was going on in my life at college and, at the same time, to tell what was simultaneously going on back home in Deerfield (using the Observer archives). Eventually, the two storylines will merge when I graduate from college and come home.

For instance, while I was away at college, in 1962 the Observer newspaper first began publishing under the direction of Margaret Moore (the mother of my good friend from high school, Adrian Moore) and the first Publisher, Bill Beck of Delray Beach.

Meanwhile, in the morning of my first day at college in DeLand, we freshmen engineering students found seats in the auditorium before the head of engineering, Dr. Lowry entered. Very distinguished-looking with a white beard and wavy white hair he told us to “Look at the student sitting in front of you. Now look at the one to your left. Now look to the right. Only one of you will ever become an engineer. The others will flunk out … or become a lawyer… or something else.” That was my first day and introduction to college. And he was right.

David Eller, Publisher

Since our family, the Eller family, has lived in Deerfield Beach since 1923, I’ve often been asked to put in writing some of the history of the area, either experienced personally, or that I heard from my parents or grandparents. For some of you old timers who might be worried about certain old “scandals” don’t worry. I won’t be writing about those (smile).

— David Eller, Publisher

College life was good, but not always fair

In my last Historical Essay, I shared about my first day in college at Stetson University in DeLand, Florida, where I played a guitar with my new friend, Bob Bidwell, learning rock and roll. I then went out and pigged out on green olives the first evening, making myself sick.

My first roommate in that dorm turned out to be a rather difficult fellow named Dale from New Jersey, who did not want to be there and was determined to make both our lives miserable. He succeeded for a few days before I was able to arrange to get a new roommate who was more compatible.

David Eller and Bob Hutson

His name was Bob Hutson from Tampa, Florida, a quiet type fellow engineering student whose family owned an orange grove and who could have been a twin of the movie star Tom Selleck. We soon found out that he could attract the ladies with his tall good looks and I would schmooze them along with personality and guitar. We made a good team and had a great time the rest of our five years together in college as engineering students, 2½ at Stetson University in DeLand and 2½ at University of Florida in Gainesville.

Since I was on a scholastic scholarship, however, I had to make exceptional grades to keep my scholarship. Fortunately, I had had a high school teacher named Joe Calis at Pompano High School who had given me some good advice. He told me, “David, when you get to college, it is very important for you to make really good grades your first semester. If you make mostly A’s your first semester, the professors the second semester will know you are a good student and will ‘carry you’ going forward, giving you the benefit of the doubt and blaming themselves if you’re not doing quite as well in their class. They will grade you up. Meanwhile, most of your freshmen classmates will be partying their first semester, many flunking out. So, their second semester, they will have to study all the time and you can ‘take over’ their first semester girl friends. It’s a win/win for you.”  He was right, and it worked. Life was good.

Wally Smith was another friend I made on our dorm floor. His nickname was “spider” because he was real skinny with long legs and could literally walk up the wall in the hallway by spreading his legs out to each wall and jerking each leg up in spurts until he could touch the ceiling with his hands. He once bragged that he could get us good seats on Saturday night in the normally crowded theatre in downtown DeLand. When we got there, he bought a small bag of popcorn and water which he mixed together and took it up to the balcony of the theatre, telling us to stay below. He then leaned over the balcony, over the best seats in the theatre, and made loud “throw up” noises as he scattered the wet popcorn on the people down below. They started jumping up and running to the rest rooms to remove what they assumed to be nasty stuff. Wally ran down and directed us college boys to assume the great seats, which had just emptied. We tried not to look at them or smile when they came out of the bathroom and went down to find new seats down front.

Life was good, but not always fair.

David Eller

Since our family, the Eller family, has lived in Deerfield Beach since 1923, I’ve often been asked to put in writing some of the history of the area, that I either experienced personally or that I heard from my parents or grandparents. For some of you old timers who might be worried about certain old “scandals,” don’t worry, I won’t be writing about those (smile).

— David Eller, Publisher

From Pompano High— to Stetson University in 1959

In September of 1959, I packed up my belongings in my green 1949 Ford and headed north to DeLand, Florida to attend Stetson University on scholarship. About a one-hour drive west of Daytona Beach, Florida’s first private university was established in 1883 by Henry DeLand, in cooperation with the Baptist Church organization. Later endowed by the famous hat maker, John B. Stetson, it was best known for having Florida’s first College of Law, as well as its first School of Business Administration, School of Elementary and Secondary Education, Pre-Ministry and Florida’s first intercollegiate basketball, baseball and football teams. I was enrolled in its well-respected pre-engineering program, which was co-operating with Georgia Tech and the University of Florida to educate mechanical and civil engineers.

Having been pre-assigned a dormitory room, I drove my green ‘49 Ford up to DeLand – 40 miles west of Daytona Beach – found a parking spot in front of the dorm and got out to go find my room. Not wanting to leave my solid body Melody Maker Gibson guitar in the car, I strapped it over my back and started in. Suddenly, I heard a strong male voice say, “Hey, can you play that thing?” I looked up from under the baseball cap I was wearing to see a tall fellow with wavy black hair and a big grin on his face. I thought for a moment that he looked like a poor man’s version of Elvis Presley. I smiled back and said, “I wouldn’t be carrying it if I couldn’t play it!” He laughed and said, “My name is Bob Bidwell and I’m the sophomore in charge of this freshman dorm. After you get your stuff inside, bring your guitar down to the dorm lounge and show me what you can do. I’m looking for a rhythm player for the band I’m forming to play at fraternity parties.”  “That sounds great!” I replied. (Thus began a friendship that continues unto this day).

When we got together later that evening to play for the first time, I quickly realized that, although I knew most all the chords and had played a lot of country music and church hymns, I knew nothing about playing rock and roll. My new friend Bob started off by calling out different chords for me to play. When he was satisfied that I knew the chords, he started asking me to play them using several different types of beats or rhythms. I confessed that I only knew the standard rhythms used in country and church music. He laughed and said, “That’s alright.” He then picked up his guitar and said, “But now I’m going to teach you some rock and roll, which begins with learning how to play the “blues.”

I was excited and immediately agreed. He continued, “Watch the fingers on my left hand press the strings down at the right places right behind the frets, and do the same thing I do. Now, with the pick in your right hand stroke only the top two strings at the top, eight times on rhythm, then drop down a string and do it again but only four times, then back up for eight, etc, etc….” I caught on quickly, and was soon able to follow his lead on several blues songs. We played for over two hours without stopping. Suddenly, I realized the tips of the fingers on my left hand had started to bleed from the continual pressure on the strings making the chords. I’d never played continually that much time before, thus hadn’t developed the calluses needed on those fingers.

So I bid Bob goodbye and drove to a nearby convenience store to get some snacks to keep in the room. I picked out a few items when I noticed a bottle of pimento-stuffed green olives. My mind flashed back home, where my mother would only let us have two or three olives at a serving with a meal. I was never satisfied and always wanted more. Suddenly, I realized that in my new freedom away from home, I could have all the green olives I wanted. So I started eating them and I didn’t stop with two or three. I ate the whole big jar of olives. Then when they were all gone, I drank all the brine juice. Shortly afterward, my stomach started to hurt. And my sore fingers hurt. Thus, my first day at college taught me two important lessons: Don’t overindulge in anything. All things should be done in moderation.

David Eller, Publisher

How I made it to college!

In the spring of 1959, my senior year at Pompano Beach Senior High School was rapidly coming to a close. I had applied to the University of Florida in Gainesville, the University of California at Davis and Stetson University in Deland, Florida, and they had all accepted me into their mechanical engineering programs. I had assumed, with Principal Walden’s encouragement, that I would get the substantial scholarship offered to an engineering student from Pompano High each year by a certain unnamed benefactor. However, about a month before graduation, Principal Walden called me into the office to let me know that the benefactor had decided instead to give the scholarship to one of my classmates who was planning to study electrical engineering.

When I got home that night, I shared the bad news with my parents and apologized to Dad saying, “I hope you’ve got some money to send me to college.” Dad looked surprised and blurted out “I don’t think you need to go to college. You’re a good machinist. You can stay here and make good money as a machinist.”

I reminded Dad about the big pump project our company had lost to a sugar company in Belle Glade because we didn’t have a graduate engineer on staff. Although our prices were the best, they gave the job to a company that had professional engineers on staff to certify the product.

I told Dad, “I don’t want to ever be in that position again wherein a potential customer doesn’t buy from us for that reason. I intend to get an engineering degree and ultimately a professional engineering license, so that kind of thing can never happen again.” Looking exasperated, he said, “Well, good luck. But I don’t have the money to send you to college.”

Taken aback, I went to bed and prayed. The next day, I went to Principal Walden and told him what happened. He responded with compassion saying, “David, I’m so sorry. Don’t you worry. I’m going to get on the phone today and see if I can get you some scholarship money! Come see me in two days.”

I knew he had good news when I walked into his office two days later. “Come on in, David,” he said with a big smile on his face. “I’ve got your whole engineering education planned out for you. My alma mater, Stetson University has agreed to give you a substantial scholarship to their pre-engineering program — they co-operate with the University of Florida. You can go there for two years and then enter the University of Florida as an upper classman. I’ve arranged two other scholarships, one local and one from the State of Florida, to make up the rest of your financial needs as long as you maintain high academic standards.”

Impressed, happy and surprised, I jumped up to give him a hug as he stuck out his hand instead, which I grabbed and shook with both hands. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mr. Walden, I will never let you down,” I said.

I didn’t let him down and graduated a few years later from the University of Florida with an engineering degree and a minor in business. The fellow who was awarded the original engineering scholarship by the unnamed benefactor ended up flunking out of college. It seems he was great in math and science classes, but could not spell or write very well.

By my second year, my father relented and bought me a new car and helped pay expenses.

David Eller, Publisher

Volunteer Fire Department

Sounded sirens to bring in the New Year

Growing up in Deerfield, there were a few events which happened for so long that it was thought of as a tradition. One of them was the annual celebration of the New Year coming in by having the fire department sirens sound off exactly at midnight on Dec. 31 and continuing for a few minutes into the new year on Jan. 1.

As a child, I was normally in bed when it occurred and I remember being gripped each time by a feeling of nostalgia, realizing I would never experience that particular year again.

The siren otherwise was used to notify citizen volunteers that they were needed to fight a fire. They would rush in from all over town, jump on the fire truck(s) and proceed to the fire to put it out.

Eventually the city went from volunteers to full-time firemen and a very tall main siren was located on Fire Department property at 928 E. Hillsboro Ave. The tradition of midnight sirens went on for decades, but ended for some reason in 1976.

Deerfield police Chief “Pappy” Brown, with officers Roy Bennent and Lloyd Newman standing guard in the mid 1950s in front of Deerfield’s two fire trucks. Fire volunteers include “Chief” Merle Johnson (sixth from the end) flanked by Mr. Blackwelder, to his right, and Bob Butler, to his left. Leaning on the other truck is Milton Vincent.

David Eller, Publisher

How Christmas used to be celebrated

— at Pompano Beach Senior High School

With students from Pompano, Deerfield, Hillsboro, Lighthouse Point

In the fall of 1958, when I was elected president of the student body at Pompano Beach High School, there was a lot of stress going on in the schools of our country. Students in the schools of the South historically had been separated by race, including our school. Therefore, there were usually “white” schools and “black” schools in each town. When the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that to be illegal, and demanded they be integrated, there was a lot of stress occurring within the schools. President Eisenhower even had to federalize the National Guard and send troops into Little Rock Arkansas’ largest high school in May of 1958 to force racial integration there.

Meanwhile, by September 1958, here in Florida, at Pompano Beach High School, the stress was palpable also. Part of the reason was that our school’s official name for its sport’s team was the Pompano Beach Bean Pickers because beans had been the most prominent crop in the area. However, since most people actually picking the beans were black, confusion reigned; especially among the newcomers from the North arriving. Many of them complained to me, and it became an issue during my election campaign for student body president. Consequently, I took a position that if elected, I would lead an effort to change our school’s name.

After my victory, I sat with our Principal Larry Walden, who agreed we could change the name, but it should be voted on properly. Since a tornado had recently struck the area, and blue and gold were our team colors, we came up with the idea of changing the name of the school team to The Pompano Beach Senior High School Golden Tornadoes, which it still is today.

How to win an election

In my previous essays, I’d explained that back in the early 1950s, Deerfield did not have school for its children to attend beyond elementary school 6th grade. For 7th grade through 12th, we all had to take a bus to Pompano High School. Sometimes when we were getting off the bus, the Pompano kids standing around would laugh and say “Here come the kids from Deer Patch!” We would mostly just smile, but sometimes a couple of our boys would show them a finger.

The area was growing fast, however, and Deerfield, Pompano and Margate all got junior high schools within a couple of years. So, by the time I was in the 10th grade, our Pompano Senior High School was limited to 10th, 11th and 12th grades.

There was one Pompano boy, Robert Moore, whose widowed mother was a teacher at Deerfield Elementary. I got to know him pretty well, even though he always attended Pompano schools, because he sometimes came to Deerfield with his mother.  When I started school at Pompano, he and I became good friends. With blond hair and a big smile, he played point guard on the basketball team and was popular with the girls. He used his popularity to get himself elected as President of each and every grade class.

When 10th grade came, he had some tough opposition for President. So being smart politically, he asked me to run on his team as his Vice President to bring in the Deerfield votes. It worked, we won. I got my first taste of politics and liked it.

When our junior year (11th grade) came around, Robert Moore, as usual, ran and won President of our junior class. But I decided to run for Vice President of the whole Student Body instead of just being a junior class VP.  I won. It was fun and very satisfying as I represented our entire school at many events.

But toward the end of spring of 11th grade, Robert came to me one day and said “I just want to let you know I’ve decided to run for President of the Student Body next year instead of class president.”  Momentarily taken aback, I practically shouted at Robert: “You’re not qualified to be Student Body President — you’ve never even served on the Student Council! So why do you want to do that?” He laughed and said “Because the Student Body President is ‘higher’ than class president.” He continued: “You can be senior class president, and I will be Student Body President next year!”

“I don’t think so,” I practically shouted at him. “I should be Student Body President as I’ve had a year of preparation so I can do a good job!” “Good luck,” he laughed, walking away, “but you will never beat me!”

Devastated, I didn’t know what to do. So I prayed about it and came up with a plan: Aware that people like it when you greet them by name, and knowing that the election would be held the second week of classes after school started in the fall, my plan was to memorize over the summer the first names of all the new students who would be feeding into Pompano High in the fall from junior high schools in the area. When school started, I would work the hallways and sidewalks where new kids would congregate and greet them by their first names. All I had to do was arrange to get a copy of the yearbooks from the feeder schools and every day during the summer, practice connecting names to faces. To help them know who I was, I would wear a big button saying “ELLER’s the FELLER for Student Body President.”

By the time school started in the fall of 1957, I had memorized faces with the first names of over 300 entering sophomores. I walked the hallways where they typically congregated with a large “Eller’s the Feller for Student Body President” sign on my chest and back. I’d study each face and if it registered in my memory bank, I’d say “Hello Sally” or “Welcome to Pompano High, Fred” for a whole week before the election. The students would typically look surprised that I knew their name, then read my sign. The results of the election were Robert and I split our own Senior Class about 50/50. He carried the junior class by 65/35 percent, but I wiped him out in the largest class — the new Sophomore class — by getting nearly 85 percent of the vote!

Robert came over to congratulate me and asked how I’d done it. When I explained how I’d memorized names and faces of most of the sophomores, he laughed and said, “Well you certainly earned the victory. Congratulations!”

Robert and I remained friends, and after high school, a local doctor sponsored him for a scholarship. He went on to become a medical doctor in Alabama, specializing in microscopic surgery.

David Eller, Publisher

My First Formal Date

It was 1958 and the Pompano Beach Senior High School Prom was coming up soon. The first thing I noticed was the girls were suddenly a lot friendlier than normal. They didn’t just nod their heads in recognition as you walked by, but actually started smiling big and saying something like “Hi David” as they passed by in the hallway. As the big day got closer, some of them even started asking who I was planning to take to the prom. I found that to be embarrassing because I didn’t have a girlfriend yet and wasn’t planning to go.

However, I had been elected Vice President of the Junior class by then, and Mr. Hagman, our student advisor, told me that “as an elected leader” you are expected to go to school events, including the prom. So there I was, kind of stuck. Then, I soon found out that most of the girls, who had previously caught my eye, already had dates.

Social pressure was building. There was one possibility, however, that came to mind. A new girl, a petite brunette named Gwen, had recently moved into town from Georgia. She hadn’t had a chance to get hooked up with a boyfriend yet, so I moved quickly. I knew where she lived, drove there on Saturday morning and introduced myself to her dad when he opened the door. He invited me in, offered me a seat on the couch and said “Gwen is still putting her face on.”

Not used to that term, and a little taken a back, I started thinking that was the one thing I hadn’t liked about her when we first met. Too much makeup turns most guys off, including me. But then, I thought: “beggars can’t be choosers.” So I sat there and talked to her dad, it seemed like an hour.

Finally, she came out. The first thing I noticed after the makeup was the puffiness under her eyes. Of course, we all have some of that when we first wake up, so I don’t know why I was being so critical. We talked briefly about Friday night’s football game, and then I blurted it out “Would you like to go to the prom with me?” She smiled and hesitated for a moment. I was beginning to hate her when she finally said “You’ll have to ask my dad.”

Her dad had stepped outside, so I went out and asked his permission. He didn’t hesitate, but did say “As long as you have her home, I mean in this house, by 12 o’clock.” I immediately agreed and sighed in relief. I had a date for the prom! Whew!

David Eller

My First “really big” kiss was a surprise…

In previous Essay No. 61, I shared about how I bought my first car, a 1949 Ford, for $100, from my Sunday school teacher, Joel Horne. I didn’t have a girlfriend yet, but I did notice the girls started getting a lot friendlier when they found out I had my own car.

We lived in Deerfield on Dixie Highway, where the tennis courts are now. One night, I drove my car across the street to Pioneer Park to watch the Lions Club men play softball against a Pompano team. Proud of my first car, I parked close to the bleachers and decided to sit on the front fender to watch the game and simultaneously show off my “new” brown Ford. Sure enough, within five minutes, two girls I’d grown up with came swaggering over.

One of them said “Oh David, is that car yours?”  I smiled and nodded affirmatively. “Take us for a ride.”

I said “Ok, jump in.” They both climbed into the front seat. I backed out, being careful not to bump Uncle Jim Butler’s car parked next to me.

“Take us to the beach,” one of them said. So off we went, turning east on Hillsboro Avenue, crossing Federal Highway and over the bridge to the beach where we parked for a few minutes and looked for sand crabs at the wave break.

Then one of the girls said, “I better get back before my parents notice I’m gone.”  So we hurried back to the game, where she got out of the car.

The other girl immediately slid right up next to me and said “Let’s go back to the beach, I want to show you a neat place.” Anxious to drive my “new” car some more, I agreed but asked her to move back over to her side of the seat. She did, so I backed out and headed back to the beach. Just as we passed over the Intracoastal bridge, she told me to make a left turn, and then another, which headed us onto a small dirt road surrounded by cabbage palms where Hillsboro Landings is today.  I stopped at the Intracoastal waters’ east edge and started to back up. Suddenly, she slid over, grabbed me by the back of my head and planted a big sloppy kiss squarely on my mouth. Astonished, I pushed her away, proceeded to back up, and drove her directly to her home.

On the way home, I explained that I thought of her as a friend, like a sister, not a girlfriend. This didn’t seem to help. When we got to her house, she refused to get out of my car, saying “Kiss me or I won’t get out.”

I told her “No!” and demanded she get out. This went on for about 10 minutes when I gave her my final ultimatum: “Get out now because I’m about to drive home and you’ll have to walk back home alone.” She still refused to get out. So I drove to my house (about three blocks away) with her still in my car. I parked in my usual backyard spot, told her “Good night!” went into my house and went to bed.

I’d only been in bed a few minutes when my mother, who had looked out her bedroom window and saw someone in my car, came to my bedroom and asked, “David, who is that in your car?” I told Mom what had happened. She chuckled; then she asked for my keys and went outside and drove the girl home. When Mom returned, she came to my room and told me I’d done the right thing. I slept well that night, and the girl and I remained just good friends for many years.

David Eller