His movie, Son of the Sheik premiered the first week of July 1926, and then it took another week for it to make it out to our little citrus farming community of Covina, California, but both Margaret-Ann and I knew we had already seen the best it had to offer. We had seen HIM in all his glory as a real person, even a nice person – the most romantic and glamorous movie star ever: Rudolph Valentino.

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     Margaret-Ann Morton and I both had turned thirteen only the month before, and in truth sometimes I think we were more friends of convenience than anything else. The biggest things we have in common are a shared property line between our fathers’ orange groves, and our love of the movies.       

     It’s not that Margaret-Ann is really a bad person, but she can be very exasperating, excitable, and given over to wild schemes.  Which is why I knew I was crazy to go with her that early April morning in 1926. But I’ll always be glad I did.

     Splat, splat, thunk, splat. It was still dark, and as I lay in bed I had trouble deciphering what was a dream and what was reality. Thunk, the sound on my bedroom window came again. It was real.

     “Elora. Elora, wake up. I’ll tell you my plan in a little bit, but we’re going to have to leave right away so you’ll need to get dressed first. Then I’ll explain.”

     It was Margaret-Ann’s voice coming from up the yard in the loudest possible whisper you could imagine.

     “Sssh, Margaret-Ann you’ll wake up everybody,” I genuinely whispered as I ducked one last rotten orange section as it came sailing straight toward my face. (I think Margaret-Ann may have thrown that last one on purpose.) “I’ll get down there real quick, you just hush up, and stop throwing those things in the meantime.”

     I rushed to get dressed and be down in our yard before she caused any more commotion. I judged the time a little after 5:00 AM, too early even for the citrus farmers to be out on a Saturday morning. I could tell that Margaret-Ann most certainly had a plan, one that she didn’t want anyone else to know about – except me. That meant she wanted me to be part of it, and when that happens I always get a sort of shaky feeling.

     I grabbed my plaid cotton shirt and denim overalls still lying on the chair from where I’d undressed the night before. With a pair of hopefully matching socks and my comfortable old work shoes in hand, I silently crept down the stairs and out of the sleeping house.

     Although the light was very dim, Margaret-Ann’s shape looked larger and lumpier than normal. But it was she who commented on my appearance.

     “Elora, why did you dress like that? That ensemble makes you look extra plain.” Ensemble was a fancy word we’d looked up after seeing it in Movie Star magazine. Margaret-Ann truly enjoyed trying to talk like those magazines. “And there isn’t time for you to change into something nicer.”

     No need to ask her what she meant by extra plain, with my freckles and straight mousey-brown hair. “How am I supposed to know how to dress when you wake me up without any warning or clue as to what you are doing? And I think you look a little odd too, what have you got on?”

     “You will be amazed at my forethought.” Margaret-Ann replied still much too loudly. “On the outside I’m wearing my brother’s work shirt and pants, but underneath them are my long white stockings and best church dress—so they won’t get dirty. In the pants’ pockets I’ve got my good shoes, some oranges for our sustenance (culls from her father’s orchard I knew), and one bottle of store-bought root-beer. I’ll even share the root-beer with you, although it would only be fair if you paid me back for half of it.”

     Even in the dark, just by the sound of her voice I could tell Margaret-Ann was smirking. She can sure have a high opinion of herself.

     “Why are you worried about being dressed up? It isn’t Sunday, and there aren’t any movie houses open at this hour.”

     Still she eluded giving me a straight answer. Margaret-Ann loved suspense, and as I was her only audience, she was going to make the best of it.

     “Write your parents a note telling them we are going over to San Jose Creek to catch fish and won’t be back until afternoon.”

     “Catch fish,” I replied, “everybody knows there’s no fish there. Beside you know I can’t just lie like that, especially in writing.”

     “All right then, say you are going to catch polliwogs—there’s oodles of them down there, and the creek’s in the same direction we’ll be heading to get to our d-e-s-t-i-n-a-t-i-o-n.”

     Margaret-Ann rolled the word out as much as possible for the dramatic effect. My curiosity usually isn’t greater than my sense of honesty, and I still don’t think I would have gone until she said one magical, magical word.  

     “Valentino.”

     The very air of the quiet orange groves seemed to quiver in excitement on hearing the name. Here was the personification of all my daydreams. He seemed to have sprung up ready-made to merge all favorite childhood tales of the Arabian Knights onto the silver screen as the lead actor in my most favorite movie ever, The Sheik. I was in love with all things exotic and mystical, and the name Rudolph Valentino was the most exotic and mystical of them all.    

     “How… where… what do you mean? You aren’t teasing me are you? Tell me, TELL ME.” Now my voice was the one overly loud next to the sleeping house.

     “First you write that note to your family, and I’ll explain while we’re walking. We have a long ways to go.”

     So I wrote that untruthful note. Just like Margaret-Ann knew I would once she had uttered those four syllables of Valentino’s name. His magnetism could have pulled me up a mountain, which was to prove not too far a stretch from the truth during the next few hours.

     In the front yard, Margaret-Ann was impatient. “Come on, I want to be well away from our houses before someone sees us. If I’m spotted, I’ll have to do all my morning chores, and then we’ll be too late.”

     As we walked, Margaret-Ann finally began to tell me how this trip came to be.

     “You remember reading in the newspaper a ways back about that cereal millionaire W. K. Kellogg buying a lot of land near Pomona to build himself one mansion, and then another for his stable of imported Arabian horses?”  She continued without waiting for a reply.

     “Well it seems a lot of movie stars go there to see the horses, take pictures, and of course get their own pictures taken. We both know Valentino is a real-life horseman with horses of his own and such, so I figured it was just a matter of time before he’d have to show up there too. And sure enough, he’s going to be there today to ask about using one of the Arabian stallions in his next movie, which is, can you believe it, Son of the Sheik! My brother heard Old Giuseppe talking about it at the orange packing plant during the nightshift, and Old Giuseppe heard it from some sort of cousin of Valentino’s chauffer. So it has got to be true! And we are going to walk over the hills to see him ourselves.” She finished this last bit twirling around on one foot.

     However, I stopped in my tracks. She made it sound so easy. Just like a stroll to your next-door neighbor’s house. Worries like trespassing, bodyguards, or long steep hills were just insubstantial details to Margaret-Ann.

     Yet, I knew I had to go on with her; something inside me just took over. I could never have given up even the remotest chance of actually seeing Valentino. My feet began to keep pace with Margaret-Ann’s seemingly of their own accord.

      In the meantime, Margaret-Anne’s mouth was briskly moving on its own accord.

     “This visit should be educational for me since you know I am planning to be an actress. Getting to see a movie star up close might help me practice my dramatic technique. ‘Cause in the movies it’s not just facial expression. Your postures and gestures have to be dramatic too. Just looking at actresses like Lillian Gish and Mary Pickford, you can really tell what’s happening even if there’s no sound.”

     “I know Margaret-Ann, I’ve been to as many movie as you have. And I’m not so stupid as to have failed to figure out the stories without sound. What I am worried about is knowing how we are going to find a way onto the millionaire’s property and simply go up to Rudolph Valentino.”

     “I have a plan.”

     I should have known she’d say that instead of just coming out with it.

     “Well, what is it?”

     Margaret-Ann continued. “We can’t just walk in through the main gate at the entrance off the new road from Covina to Pomona. Instead we’ll take a shorter, but more uphill way. We’ll go through the Henkel’s pasture and over the hills by Buzzard’s Peak, and come down onto the backside of the Kellogg Ranch! Isn’t that super?”

     She did have a point, but it still sounded pretty chancy to me.

     “Have you ever been all the way through Henkel’s pasture, or over Buzzard’s Peak?”

     “No, but that shouldn’t matter. Where cows can go, people can too. It’s a known fact.”

     “But the pasture doesn’t include the backside of Buzzard’s Peak…” my voice was small enough to be easily ignored by someone in Margaret-Ann’s frame of mind, and so we marched on in silence as the sun began lightening the sky for another California day.

     And it was a beautiful day. There had been enough well spaced rains that winter to make the hills a beautiful tapestry of greens dotted here and there with bright wildflowers. Off in the distance to the north lay the San Gabriel Mountains in a deep shade of purplish-blue, with just a little snow left on top Mt. Baldy to give it a light blue cap. The birds were awakening now and beginning to twitter, and it was easy for me to see this as a good sign. Even nature seemed happy that Rudolph Valentino was coming, and my spirits were rising.

     Soon we came to the wooden bridge above the creek. Margaret-Ann waited restlessly for me as I went down alone through the wraiths of ground fog to the creek bed. I knelt down at the water’s edge and in the dim light scooped my cupped hand into a spot where polliwogs were likely to be hiding. It was hard to tell, but I think I managed to get one on my third try. Now I could honestly say I had gone polliwog hunting in the creek. I headed back up to join Margaret-Ann.

     Soon after this though, came my next trial of conscience. It was time to sneak into Henkel’s’ cow pasture. I felt guilty even though all Margaret-Ann did was crouch down and pull up the bottom strand of barbed wire, and give me a nudge indicating I had to crawl under first. Slowly I went under, hugging the wet slippery grass to make myself as thin as possible.

     The morning stayed quiet. No one appeared to shout at us, no barking dogs came our way. Everything seemed just as the same on Henkel’s side of the fence, and soon I was holding up the barbed-wire strand for Margaret-Ann to go under. But I also felt we had crossed some invisible boundary and there could be no turning back.

     “Here’s the cow trail.” I was proud I was the one who found it. Margaret-Ann had been getting a little too carried way with her leader-of-the-trip role. Cow trails are usually only wide enough for one person at a time, which meant Margaret-Ann had to follow me for the first time all day. But that didn’t stop her from talking as much as before.

     “It’s too bad the flickers are only in black and white. My red hair is such a beauty asset that it’s a shame it won’t show up on film.”

     I rolled my eyes at the dawn sky above us. Her hair isn’t really all that red. More what I would call reddish, and I corrected her on that once at home where Mama overheard me. Mama took me aside and told me that since Margaret-Ann doesn’t have all that much in her life to brag on, and if red hair was one the few things she owned to be proud about, then let her be. It’s just that Margaret-Ann can be so aggravatingly superior while kind of poor at the same time.

     The sun grew higher, the spring morning warmer, and still we marched our way eastward and upward on the San Jose Hills. Margaret-Ann was beginning to look a little flushed under her two layers of clothing.

     “Elora, you carry something for a change instead of making me do all the work for you.” Meaning of course, the oranges and the root-beer.

     “Why don’t we just stop and eat some of the oranges.” I said suddenly noticing my empty stomach.

     “That’s an excellent idea, let’s sit on the rock over there in the shade.

     After we sat down and had quickly gobbled two oranges apiece, Margaret-Ann began one of her long-winded pronouncements. 

     “I’m going to have to change my name to become an actress. Nobody ever heard of an actress with a name like Margaret-Ann Morton.”

     “But don’t you want a name no one else has? Isn’t that the point so you can be identified?” I asked. 

     “Not one that sounds so homely and old-fashioned. Ugh! I need something glamorous and sophisticated. What about Margann Morton? Yes, Margann Morton, I’m surprised I didn’t think of it before! Don’t you just love it Elora? From now on I want you to call me Margann.”

     “Margaret-Ann, how can you expect me to call you something different than your name after all these years? People can’t simply change their names while sitting on a rock in a cow pasture. Besides, everybody else would still be calling you Margaret-Ann. Nobody would pay any attention to just me. You’d have to get someone more important than me to do it before it would work.”

     “Well, somebody has to be first. If you were really a good friend you’d start calling me Margann.