After several years of requests from friends and family, I started writing these historical essays in the fall of 2006. It has taken 15 essays over nine months to get from my Grandfather Hoyt Eller’s arrival in Deerfield Beach in 1923 to the point historically where I was born on October 02, 1941, and became Deerfield’s youngest citizen. Well almost the youngest. It was actually a tie. Owen McDougald, who was destined to become one of my best early childhood friends, was born the same day at the same Good Samaritan Hospital in West Palm Beach. But his mother died in childbirth. His mother was a good friend of my mother. My mother for some reason used to feel guilty that her friend died, while mother lived through child birth, and was able to take me home.

Owen’s father was a farmer and Owen was his only child, which now had to be raised alone. The two of them lived in a large wood frame house painted gray, south of the present day US Post Office, about half way between Hillsboro Boulevard and 10th Street. However, before Owen was six years old his father also died, making Owen an orphan.

Owen was then “adopted” by an uncle, a County Deputy Sheriff by the name of A.J. Peterson and his wife (also a deputy sheriff). They lived across the street from Deerfield Elementary School’s northwest corner in the “Kester” house mentioned in the previous essay. However, Deputy Peterson and his wife were having some marital problems. Not too long after Owen moved in, as a small child, the Petersons got into a serious argument, shots were exchanged and one of them died. Owen became an orphan for the second time. Other relatives got involved this time, and using the money from his father’s estate arranged for Owen to go to a military school for boys up in Georgia. From then on we only saw each other for a few weeks every summer when he came “home” to visit. His story ends well, however, as when he grew up he married a pretty red head, had some children, and followed in his father’s footsteps as a horticultural farmer in Palm Beach County. He retired a few years ago with a considerable fortune made in nursery agriculture and real estate.

Meanwhile, I was the center of attention at the Eller household in Deerfield. They named me James David Eller, then proceeded to call me David. I had blue eyes with crinkles on the outside edges (which I still have). The quantity of my brown hair left much to be desired, but there was enough to make a little wave toward the front top (which I still maintain). But horrors of horrors, they then put me in a dress! Why? It seems that this was the custom back in those days. A custom, incidentally, that I’m pleased has disappeared with time.

My mother was knockout beautiful. Framed in black wavy hair, her face was a slightly lighter complexion than mine. This probably reflected the fact that on my Dad’s side, his Great Grandmother was a Cherokee Indian.

I was born just ten weeks before the beginning of World War Two. Therefore I used to wonder whether I was planned to keep my Dad from being drafted into the military. My parents always denied that, but their sly smiles when I would ask the question, gave them away.

I wish my parents had not named me James David , with the intention of calling me David. They should have named me David James if they intended to call me David.  It would certainly have made my life a lot easier.  Every time I do something official, like passing through an international airport, I’m called James. Often times I miss it when they call out that name. I complained once to my parents, but Dad explained that it was a family named which had continued for many generations. A few years ago I received a call from a man in California who was researching the Eller name. He explained that the name James, and/or Jessie, identified from which of the original immigrant brothers, our family was descended. I thanked him, and decided to stop complaining.

– James David Eller

David Eller