Within Close Range: At the Edge of the Bluff

It’s an early spring day in the heartland.

Anemic, damp and miserable.

Clumps of stubborn snow and ice,

grey and grimy,

still dot the sidewalks and lawns.

Faces look pale and anxious for sun.

After the usual sermon of incense and absolution,

followed by stacks of pancakes and sausages,

we know something is up

when Dad drives past our neighborhood,

further and further from home.

by unfamiliar faces and unfamiliar towns,

until backseat boredom’s about to grow horns.

Passing a tiny town,

and a solid white, storybook farm,

Dad finally slows and signals a turn.

“Shoreacres Country Club, Members Only.”,

reads the uninviting sign.

Swallowed by the dark of the woods,

the wide, low wagon drifts silently down the road,

flanked by a small, trickling brook,

winding past towering trees

and long stretches of green.

Everything is covered in a fine, frigid gloom,

including another set of pretty, white buildings

silent and still on this dreary afternoon.

Passing a faded, old, green water tower,

headless and frightening in the fog,

our destination is finally divulged:

a new home.

I sink further into the wagon’s rear seat,

where the unfriendly neighborhood disappears

and I can see nothing but the thick, dark clouds.

The silence is broken only by the sound of gravel

crunching beneath the wheels of the wagon,

now weighted with disappointment.

We twist down a long driveway and stop.

So inching my way back up,

I survey at the house.

It’s dark and sullen.

Like the day.

And my mood.

Dad says, “We’ll just take a peek.”

But even I know what that means.

So, like prisoners into an exercise yard,

we file from the car,

and stand in an unhappy cluster in front of the house –

which isn’t yellow –

like ours.

Which has no sign of neighbors,

a school,

the Good Humor Man,

or a new treehouse –

like ours.

We’re coaxed to a long row of windows

which look through the cold, empty rooms,

and beyond,

where lies a huge expanse of lawn.

And water.

Racing to the rear of the house,

we stand the edge of the bluff,

looking out over the grand, Great Lake

right there at our toes.

The Windy City silhouette, 40 miles south.

Excitement now erupts for this strange, new place.

This decades-long breeder of unsupervised fun.

First beers.

First cigarettes

And, of course, first bongs.

Secret rendezvous for teenage loves.

Havens for fainthearted runaways

who soon long for home just a few feet away.

Follies of youth are such glorious days.

Until this world begins to erode.

To implode.

And all begin to scatter.

But, oh, what fertile earth it was

living life in the woods at the edge of the bluff.

Author: Anne Celano Frohna

I have been writing for as long as I could hold a pencil in hand and would not feel complete without it. And I actually made a meager living at it (and as an editor) for 25 years. I worked for newspapers and magazines, in graphic arts and advertising, and wrote several local history books. But I have also taught English in Japan, been a Nanny in Italy, worked in and for museums, was an Airbnb Superhost for four years, as well as an Etsy shop owner where I sold vintage items I found over the years of thrift and yard sales. After moving to Arizona with my family in 2010, I completed a series of different writing projects, including two books of creative non-fiction: Just West of the Midwest: a comedy (Based on journals I kept during my two years as an English teacher in rural Japan.) Within Close Range: short stories of an American Childhood (Short stories and poems about growing up as the middle of five children in suburban Chicago.) I've also written children's stories and continue to write short fiction, but have recently found my voice in poetry. This blog, however, is where my greatest passion comes alive. I am also a mother of two wonderful girls, Eva (23) and Sophia (21) and wife to one wonderful husband, Kurt.

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