Within Close Range: The Youngest

We watch the station wagon back out of the driveway. Mom waves through the open window before slowly pulling away. It’s just a few errands, but Mark is inconsolable. Tries to follow her.

Chris sweeps him up, but he squirms with all of his might and wins the fight. Falling to his knees, and then to all fours, the youngest of five laments the loss by slamming his soft head on the hard blacktop.

Shocked by the scene, I race to the street, hoping Mom will see me wave and shift to reverse. But the station wagon turns the corner and disappears from sight.

Back in Chris’s arms, I can see Mark’s forehead is already swollen and bruised. Pockmarked from the pavement. Gravel still clinging to his brow.

Silently, the three of us turn toward the house, motherless and miserable.

Within Close Range: Tiny Terrors

I save every penny I can to buy things for my very first household: a two-story, six room, pale yellow Colonial with black shutters, rose-filled window boxes, and a square footage of about three.

Placing my tiny, new items in their tiny, proper places, house proud and satisfied, I head downstairs to the laundry room for dusting rags. I’m only gone a few minutes, but as I come around the front facade of my beautiful home – thinking of fake-watering my fake flowers – I’m shocked and horrified.

The tiny patriarch of my miniature clan is not where I left him, sitting on the living room sofa with a wee book in his lap.

Daughter is still at the piano where I left her, but slumped over. Arms splayed across the keys.

I find Father directly above, in the four poster bed, pant-less and laying rather indelicately on top of Mother; while in the bathroom, next door, Baby has been stuffed – diapers up – in the porcelain toilet with the long chain pull.


My fearful but transfixed eyes move to Grandmother’s room next door, slightly disappointed to find nothing – no one. Maybe Grandmother’s safe.

But the thought is fleeting when in the kitchen below, I find my sweet, old, grey-haired Grandmother, and her tiny bun I carefully brush with the tip of my finger, has been shoved in the oven of the cast iron stove. The soles of her sensible shoes searing into my memory.

But where’s Son? He’s not in the fridge, under the sofa, in the clawfoot tub. Searching both floors of the colonial, there’s only one place left…

Slowly raising the balsa-shingled roof of my pale yellow, Colonial house with black shutters and rose-filled windows boxes, (which Jim was forced to cut and glue as punishment for his last dollhouse infraction), I can’t see him anywhere.

Then I spy the tiny trunk in the corner…

Oh, the tiny horror.

Within Close Range: The Universe Upstairs

The adult-free upstairs is our universe, our private world of fun and games and funny voices, where Jim’s rolled up socks turn into stink bombs of such infamy that as soon as you see him take off a shoe, you run… as fast as your stockinged feet along a polished wood floor can take you.

It’s also where fuzzy, red carpeting turns to molten lava as chairs and tables become bridges, and the sofa, an island where captives and carpet monsters fight to the death in battle after battle.

In the universe upstairs, sloped-ceiling closets and dark crawlspaces (too-small-for-adults places) become hideaways where we can bring pillows and posters, flashlights and stuffed animals, and write secrets and swear words on the 2 x 4s and plaster board; as we listen to Mom in the kitchen below.

Until the heater switches on and the great metal shafts fill with air and fill our ears with rumbling.

At the very top of the back steps, behind a tiny door (not more than three feet square), Jim spent all day building a spaceship. Fabricated from old outlets and switches and a roll of duct tape.

With Mark as his co-pilot and imagination as his rocket fuel, he rallies us to climb into his crawlspace capsule. I sit back in the darkness, surrounded by boxes of memories – Mom’s heirloomed wedding dress at my elbow and Christmas decorations at my back – anxious for the countdown.

Excited for blast off.

For leaving the earth far behind.

Calling to his co-pilot to flick switches labelled with a big, black magic marker, then moving his hands up and down his own duct-taped controls, I hear the sputters and rumbles of Jim’s vocal-powered rockets.

Hugging my big, Pooh Bear, I watch our fearless pilot, in the beam of a dangling flashlight, lean back and call to his unlikely crew through the cup of his hand, “Hang on! Here we go! Ten… Nine… Eight…”

Jim’s rumbles begin to rise.

“Seven… Six… Five… Four…”

I feel the crawlspace shake and rattle.

“Three… Two… One… BLAST OFF!”

I squeeze that silly, old bear and close my eyes to see the fast-approaching cosmos…

And there I float in the infinite black. In the infinite stars. Until Jim shouts, “Meteors!” and all hell breaks loose in our top-of-the-stairs cockpit.

The hallway light suddenly cuts through the cracks and the dark – and the meteors – and the call of dinner brings us back to earth.

Within Close Range: Inspection

Mom and Dad’s bedroom is on the first floor of the house (at the southern end of everything) allowing them to frequently escape to its sunlit, coziness and away from the five, wild seeds they chose to sow.

This leaves the entire second floor almost entirely adult-free, except for the occasional laundry delivery from Mom and the much less occasional visit from Dad – more ceremonial than social – and usually the result of winter restlessness or weekend thunderstorms keeping him from the golf course.

We only know of his plans when we hear, “INSPECTION in ten minutes!” sound from below, at which point all present scatter from the upstair’s common room to our respective bedrooms, where we begin frenzied attempts to hide all clothing, toys, towels, glasses, plates, books and general shit we’ve left strewn everywhere.

Depending on his level of bother, Dad might only scan the surface of the bedrooms and bathrooms. It’s something each of us quietly prays for as he passes dressers, drawers, desks and closets, cluttered and crammed with quickly concealed crap.

If his heart really isn’t in it, he might demand some dusting and vacuuming, to be inspected later – which will likely not occur – and then disappear below. Knowing this, we’ll half-heartedly obey before returning to reruns, twitching on each other, and littering.

However, if Dad’s disposition is grim, he delves further, looking under beds and behind shower curtains, and, if he’s in a particularly foul mood, sliding open a closet door…

At which point, we’re positively doomed.

Within Close Range: Tornado Watch

The cement-floored, window-welled basement of the house is the biggest indoor space we have to spread out, but it comes at a price. My bare feet are regular magnets for misplaced thumb tacks; while misplaced gerbils, who disappear beneath appliances, leave the already dank underground smelling like fabric softener and tiny, rotting corpse.

It’s also the first place we head every spring when tornado season arrives and the local siren sounds, sending neighborhood kids scattering to their homes, and Mom shuffling everyone down below, where we wait for incoming reports.

With the TV and radio competing and other siblings playing, I stare out the small, ground-level window, half-hoping to see the funnel at the end of the our street, moving down its center, like a spinning top, whirling and powerless.

But I know a tornado isn’t powerless. It’s dangerous and threatening my world.

Comforting is the sight of Mom ironing; while through the grimy glass I wait for the mean, dark sky to lighten, the all-clear to sound, and life in the neighborhood to return to its routine.

Within Close Range: The Pressure of Writing

She moves up and down the rows of desks, filled with tiny, crouched figures, hovering over lined paper, clutching #2 pencils. Filling the aisle with her middle-age width and Avon perfume, I feel the warmth of her body and breath as she leans over me and sighs.

We’ve been here before.

I’m just not getting this pencil-holding thing.

I thought I was doing it right. The letters on my paper look pretty much like everyone else’s. Pretty much.

But every time she stops at my desk, she gently, but very firmly cups her hand over mine and squeezes, until she forces my tiny, anxious fingers to curl around the long, yellow pencil with the well-worn pink eraser.

“A firm grasp,” she says, trying to sound patient about my substandard pencil holding, “is the key to proper penmanship, my dear.”

Not wanting to disappoint her – again – I clench that pencil as if my very breathing depends upon it, until my fingers cramp from it, and the lead of the pencil presses so hard against the paper that the letters bulge through the opposite side.

When she asks us to turn our papers over and sit quietly until everyone finishes, I close my eyes and feel each raised letter with my fingertips. Wondering whether any one else has to press that hard – work that hard – to squeeze out the letters and words, and sentences, anxious to burst forth.

Within Close Range: The Phone at the End of the Hall

The phone at the end of the hall, right next to my room, comes to life in the middle of the night; its merciless metal bells clanging, resounding off the tall walls of the winding front steps, and down the long, carpet-less hallway.

Startled from my dreams and tormented by its unanswered ring, I crawl over whichever dog or cat is hogging most of the bed and quickly shuffle toward the noise, hoping to get to the phone before another blast of the bell pierces my brain.

Fumbling for the receiver – and words – I already know that the only kind of news that comes in the middle of the night is usually bad. Or at least not very good – and if I’m answering the phone, it means Mom and Dad didn’t, and I’m about to be made the reluctant messenger.

Sleepless in the hours that follow. Anxious to hear the garage door rumble. Hoping the yelling and the lecture happened during the ride home.

And that all the gory details will come over a bowl of cereal in the morning.

Happy everyone is back and in bed. And all is quiet at home again.

Within Close Range: The Nights There Are Fights

My bedroom is at the end of the second floor hallway.
Right above the living room and Mom and Dad’s bedroom suite.
I hear fights my siblings don’t – or at least don’t tell me.
A hard thing to bring to a game of H-O-R-S-E.
On the nights there are fights, I never feel more alone in this full house.
Sinking through the empty blackness of my room.
Drowning in the fury and the screaming and my pillow.
Desperate for it to stop, or for me to find the courage to make him stop.
Picturing the nearest item that will offer the hardest blow.
A cane from the stand, just down the stairs, and through the door below.
… If I hear it once more…
But I never find the courage, just anger and confusion,
and early recognition of a marriage in malfunction.
Making monsters in the madness and words into weapons.
And me into a quivering mess under my blankets in the dark of my room.
Praying for it to stop, or me to sleep.

Within Close Range: Speech Class

Walking hand in hand through the woods to Sherwood Elementary – just Mom and me – I stay in the playground, hanging by my knees against the cool, metal monkey bars; looking upside down at the grey, September sky, wondering what I’ve done to make Mrs. Paschua, my first grade teacher, want a meeting.

On our way home, Mom explains that they talked about the way I speak and why I might have troubles with certain sounds. Mrs. P. thought Mom might be the reason – perhaps a foreigner (with that foreign-sounding name). I giggle when Mom tells me how surprised my teacher was to discover that Mom – that we – are as alien as apple pie.

But I love the thought of someone thinking I’m different. It makes me feel special – a little exotic.

Sherwood Elementary thinks I’m special too. Enough to take me out of class each week to send me to speech therapy, where they work the entire year to make me sound just like everyone else.

Within Close Range: The Great Chicken Debate

Whether going out or eating in, food either consumes Nonnie’s thoughts or busies her hands for hours each day, managing laborious feats and four-course, Italian feasts – piping hot dishes of handmade manicotti or tender, breaded cutlets, garlicky vegetables, hot rolls, vinegary salads and sweet desserts.

Second helpings are always encouraged at Nonnie’s dinner table and praise for the cook, expected – as well as a little too vehemently rejected.

The three greatest mis-steps at this Italian table?

One: cutting spaghetti. Either twist it or prepare for a gentle cuff on the back of the head from Papa.

Two:  if all diners are not seated at the table while the food is still visibly steaming… Nonnie will burst several blood vessels.

And three:  never…EVER… say you’re not hungry. Utter blasphemy.

We like to rattle her with unexpected visits and ravenous appetites, watching her forage through the refrigerator and freezer, brimming with outwardly unidentifiable, but doubtlessly delicious leftovers, sealed inside ancient Tupperware and old Cool Whip containers. Happy to see us, but perceptibly agitated that she can only offer what she sees as barely acceptable fare, each serving is dished up with a generous dollop of misgiving.

I’ve never known anyone as good at cooking as Nonnie, who complained about it more.

So it’s little wonder that while visiting in Florida, the moment Papa announces we’re having dinner out, a palpable – near frenetic – excitement  electrifies the apartment.

Following the proclamation, Nonnie spends most of the day in her housecoat, in a walk-run, making sure everyone’s dress clothes are pressed precisely, her hair is maintaining its proper “do” beneath a sea-green hair net, snack intake is severely monitored, and her sisters, Camille and Rose, are consulted and updated (via long distance) on EVERYTHING.

For Nonnie, dining out is the equivalent to an audience with the Pope.

For me, such an event proves far more predictable than papal. More “Holy Cow” than Holy Spirit.

And it most definitely means Italian – old school – with its enticing smells and curtained nooks, smartly dressed waiters with thick accents, and an animated maitre d’ who greets everyone like family. It means trompe l’oeil walls of rural Tuscan scenes, rich, red fabrics draping doorways, and rolling dessert carts filled with cannoli and tiramisu.

From well below the mouthwatering chaos, I watch the loaded serving trays — piled high with pastas and soups, roasted chickens and fresh seafood — pass deftly overhead, with a “Scuza, Signorina!”, until a hand on my shoulder gently guides me out of the busy traffic and into a chair in front of a round table covered in linens and complex table settings.

A fast-moving figure from behind casts a well-aimed cascade of ice water into one of the two stemmed glasses set at eye-level before me.

Tempted and tormented by big baskets of breadsticks and freshly baked rolls, my hand’s gently spanked away from a second helping.

“You’ll spoil your dinner,” Nonnie scolds. (When what she secretly has in mind is a bakery heist for tomorrow’s breakfast.)

Excitement rises with the arrival of the menu which ignites imaginations and appetites.

Wherein the problem lies… with inexplicable regularity, when presented with an abundance of choices, Nonnie almost inevitably orders veal.

The choice seems harmless, but it’s enough to make family members cringe and Papa’s blood boil – not because baby cow meat is one of Nonnie’s favorite things to eat, but because every time she orders veal (whether Marsala or Picante, upscale joint or neighborhood favorite), she usually ends up taking only a couple of bites.

One for eternal optimism.

The other, raging cynicism.

Then raising her head from her plate and, wearing utter disappointment as a mourning veil, complains meekly but unmistakably.

“This isn’t veal… This is chicken… I’m sure this veal is chicken.”

And like clockwork, another battle in Nonnie’s tireless crusade to unmask poultry dressed in calves’ clothing begins, prompting children to slip lower in their seats and adults to start commenting about the day’s weather; while Papa bows his head and sighs with exasperated disbelief.

He and his wife then begin a short-lived, but emotionally escalating and frustrating exchange that will end with Papa vowing to never take Nonnie out to a restaurant again, and Nonnie looking self-righteous, misunderstood and miserable, as she rummages through her dinner-roll-filled-handbag looking for a tissue.

The drive home is what I imagine floating in space is like.

Silent. Solitary. Dark.

Except for the lights emanating from the dashboard (most particularly, the green turn signal arrow which Papa habitually leaves blinking) which let me know other life forms still exist.

A few days pass, then Papa announces we were going out to dinner.

Again. (Sigh.)

Nonnie’s excitement rises anew…

Until the waiter approaches her with his pen and pad in hand, and with all eyes anxiously upon her… she orders the veal.

And Papa ends up swearing that it’s the very last time he’ll ever take her out to dinner.

A vow he’ll repeat until the day he dies.

Nonnie, however, will work tirelessly in her quest for veal for decades more.

Within Close Range: The Car Ride

Much of my early views of Florida are seen above a sea of car upholstery, through rolled up windows, where the only things visible are the tops of Palm trees and passing trucks, condos and clouds, and Nonnie and Papa’s heads hovering over a wide expanse of leather stretched across the latest Cadillac’s cavernous front seat.

Here, conversations are muffled, and occasionally in broken Italian, so young ears can’t possibly understand; and elevator music-versions of Rock ’n Roll songs play softly; where Papa’s cautious, half-mile-to-execute lane change regularly causes the turn signal to remain blinking.

It must be an audio-visual black hole, oblivious as he is to both the flashing green light and the constant clicking for miles on end.The sound of it lulls me into a stupor, until Nonnie finally notices the signal of perpetual motion and snaps at Papa to turn it off.

A few miles pass and all is peaceful, until the car begins to fill with a terrible smell.

I turn to my cousin, John, who’s holding the backseat’s cigarette lighter, with a smug yet sorrowful look on his face, as the smell of flaming follicles slowly wafts through the well-sealed compartment.

“What’s burning?!” Nonnie shrieks, “Something’s burning! Jimmy, something’s on fire!”

Papa pitches the lumbering Caddy to an empty parking lot at the side of the road, unrolls the windows, and orders everyone out of the car. Nonnie stands there mumbling and grumbling and shaking her head while he makes absolutely sure nothing else has been set on fire.

Throwing John one, last incredulous look – Papa orders everyone back in the car before signaling his return to the road. Where, for the final miles to the restaurant, I lose myself in the smell of burnt hair and the click of the sedan’s left blinker.

Within Close Range: The Elevator

From the time the youngest of us is moving independently of a parent, Gina, Mary, Mia and I are seen as a small, drifting quartet of cousins at family gatherings. Two distinct gene pools, one common goal: to discover new spaces and unknown places, where no eyes and “No!”s could block our intentions.

Not to sit and behave, but explore the dark closets and dusted cabinets of quiet rooms far from grown-ups, though never far from mischievous brothers.

Gina usually rouses us to expand our adult-free borders; opening doors and waving us through – and when things don’t kill us – boldly stepping past us. Reassuming command.

And we follow.

Just as we do when she leads us out the door of Nonnie and Papa’s apartment and down a long, humdrum hallway of dubious hues, and thick, padded carpet that silences our patent leather footsteps and makes us whisper.

Without any wear on my new, leather soles, I slip and I slip as we pick up the pace of our great escape, past dark, numbered doors behind which come the murmurs of TVs and mumbled voices, and other people’s lives.

Our little flock focuses on the big, brown, metal door at the end of the hall which will lead us to uncharted worlds and unsupervised floors; to a quiet, pristine lobby where unsat-on furniture needs to be sat on, and plants are dusted; and the floor is so highly polished, it glitters and gleams like a magical, marble lake that I want to skate in my stockinged feet.

Mary presses the button with the arrow pointing down. The elevator hums and clicks and begins to move, and the newly learned numbers over the door blink in slow succession, until the lift stops and the door slides open.

In our reluctance to fully accept our independence, we hesitate and the door glides shut. But there’s an unspoken allegiance, so Mary re-presses the button, and back open it slides.

Pushing us into the small, room with dark wood panelling, Gina reaches for the lowest button, and off we go to the little known land of the lobby. I can see its floor before the door is fully open. It shimmers and shines and lures me from the safety of my flock and the moving box.

Gina follows.

Mary follows.

Mia doesn’t.

We watch her tiny body disappear behind the sliding, metal door.

Mary and Gina’s big, brown, Italian eyes go wide and I feel something – panic – suddenly rise. The elevator starts moving, the numbers start lighting, and Mia’s now off on her own adventure – without Captain or crew, or even a clue, as to where she’s going.

At a loss for what to do, we just stare at the door of the moving contraption which slowly ascends to the top floor and stops. Will she get off and try to find her way back to Nonnie and Papa’s? Does she even know what floor they live on?… Wait… Do we?

With this grim realization, the once strong lure of shiny floors and silky chairs is now replaced with powerful thoughts of Mia and Mom and home; of familiar faces, full plates of pasta, filled candy dishes.

And facing consequences.

Worried and wordless, we hear the elevator again click into motion and anxiously watch the numbers descend, kind of hoping when the door slides open, we see a familiar grown-up, or… Mia!

Standing in the exact same spot in center of the elevator where she’d been deserted, looking slightly startled, but happy to see us. Before losing her again, we jump in and watch the elusive lobby disappear behind the sliding door.

Now all we need to figure out is what button will lead us home.

Gina presses all of them.

When the elevator next stops, we hope to recognize something or someone, but nothing and no one is there. The next floor offers a replica of the last and I feel tears bubbling just below the surface. As the door opens to the third floor, it reveals a sight I thought I’d never be happy to see, Jim and John, sent out to search for their sisters and cousins.

“WE FOUND ‘EM!”, Jim hollers, as the boys race back down the brown and beige hall, to the front door of the apartment where Nonnie stands shushing… and waiting… with oven mitt and apron, and a look of consternation.

A scolding is at hand.

Gina smiles at each of us, then turns toward Nonnie.

And we follow.

Within Close Range: The Devil at Lake Forest Cemetery

There’s a grave in the corner of the Potter’s Field at Lake Forest Cemetery.
Rumors tell of devils and demons,
of curses and misfortune;
of strange things happening to graveside visitors.
But I’m curious.
And bored.
Finding two equally bored cohorts, we head out in my convertible.
Autumn whipping our hair.
The heater blasting on our legs as we wind along Sheridan Road,
beneath the red, yellow, orange and brown leaves
silently floating to the ground on the fishy lake breeze;
shrouding the lawns, the sidewalks, the forests, and the last season,
in moist, earthy layers.
Entering the cemetery beneath its great, grey gateway,
we haven’t a clue as to which way to go;
only away from the grand mausoleums and stone angels
that mark the graves of the rich and powerful.
We find the unmarked field down a short, dead-end lane
already twice passed.
A small, unkempt and inconspicuous patch.
No statues, flags, or flowers.
No benches or shade for mourners.
Just a sad stretch of grass, cornered by a chainlink fence,
choked with neglected vines and scraggly branches of struggling pines.
Phil and Betsy step into a small ravine separating us from the forgotten field.
Their feet, ankles and shins sink into a river of yellow and brown leaves
and I’m startled by the thought of them disappearing.
Swallowed by some, strange, autumnal underworld.
Eased only when both climb out on the other side.
Wandering up and down the quiet plot, we find nothing but nameless headstones. Unadorned and unnoticed.
So many stories untold.
Until we happen upon a half-buried cross at the very corner of the lot
where the wealthy suburb’s poor were given their unsung plot.
Barely legible, Damien, is scratched in a crudely made crucifix,
toppled by wandering roots of the towering, lakeside trees.
Smothered by overgrown grass and thick, green moss.
Who cared enough to mark a life among the many lost?
Hovering over the grave, we tell our own tales about death, the damned and Damien,
until the daylight suddenly disappears behind a dark cloud rolling in off the lake,
silent and mountainous, like a great, grey whale.
All at once, wicked gusts of wind turn the sky to twisting, twirling, whirling leaves.
Turning our backs to its unexpected violence, we race to the car,
laughing and swearing and shivering in our meager layers.
As the last roof latch clicks into place, the sky over us turns black and wild,
shaking the convertible.
I clutch the wheel and smile at my friends.
A seasonal storm… or something more sinister?
Best to ask later.
I turn the key, but nothing happens.
After a moment of startled looks and nervous laughter, I try again.
Not a sound, except the pounding rain and my impassioned pleas.
On the third try, the engine fires up and my shaking hands quickly shift the car into gear.
Phil and Betsy urge me forward a little too loudly.
Just as the cemetery gates appear in the rear view mirror, the violent storm ends,
and the sun, as quickly as it had abandoned the scene, reappears
as we hurry away from Damien’s grave
on this strange, but strangely perfect autumn day.

Within Close Range: The Dance

When the station wagon rolls away from the curbside, dark and swarming with youth, I begin hunting for familiar faces or voices amid the chatter and the laughter. Desperate not to be standing alone among the dimly lit clusters huddling on the church lawn, cowering, I weave toward the bright light of an open door where a line of my peers is slowly filing into the basement for the Friday night dance.

Plenty of familiar faces dot the scene, but not a friendly one in sight. Until there, at the bottom of the crowded stairs, flash the comfortable smiles of good friends, as happy as I am at the sighting.

Into the dim and din of the dance, we move in a small, giggling mass to areas of equal un-interest: the drinks table, the snack counter – then, to the sidelines surrounding the dance floor, where tiny gangs of nervous pre-teens and new teens twitch, taunt and tell tales.

A group of boys laugh and push and swat at each other as they glance across the floor at a particular ring of girls. Finally, the boy with red hair and distractingly long limbs plucks enough courage to cross the floor toward the girl he’d been dared to ask to dance.

But just as he’s making his way across the vast, sparsely populated stretch of beige and green-checkered linoleum, a popular song comes on which springs the crowd – and his targeted partner – into action.

The dance floor erupts with awkward motion.

The moment – and momentum – are lost.

But the darkness emboldens, and as the first slow song starts spinning conquests are won, as the line drawn between the opposite sexes begins to blur.

Now the dare proves not only daring, but profoundly stirring.

Alluring.

One song leads to another, and another, and another.

New couples on the dance floor encourage others across the hot and cramped basement.

And the boundaries blur further.

Are any eyes on us? On me?

Retreating to the easy obscurity of a dark corner, I watch the clock on the wall – and my friends – whose eyes now focus across the room.

Across the divide.

Within Close Range: The Being in Basements

Some are reached by steep, wooden steps,
only at the end of which,
is a switch,
and salvation from the dark;
where cold, cement floors sting bare feet
and we search for cousins playing hide and seek
beneath an old, pine table,
and in cupboards stuffed with moth balls and old lives.

Down other stairs, parents send rapidly sprouting offshoots
(and their weedy accomplices)
to remain mostly out of sight, sound and smell.
New worlds explored in sunless rooms of cinderblock;
where mismatched 13-year-olds kiss, and later tell,
and budding musicians, mid black lights and bong hits,
learn to shake and rattle the house;
while in the dark and in a lawn chair, I learn to hang out.

Some sunken spaces are like snapshots
kept on a shelf in an old shoebox.
Still lives of vinyl bars and swivel stools
and down-turned glasses on dusty shelves, long unused.
Moth-eaten scenes of what might have been.
A gathering place for friends and kin
where woes of the week were drowned deep in cocktails
and lost in card games – or a top twenty song – to which most sang along,
as the stereo spun its new-fangled, stereophonic sound.
Curious but comfortless, being long-deserted and people-less.
Apart from the ghosts in the room.

My favorite sunken places are worn, but happy spaces
in which my favorite female faces
grow leaps and bounds beside me,
unconstrained and nearly unimpeded by upstairs edicts.
Sharing cigarettes, dance moves, inside jokes
and cases of beer bought just over the border;
making evenings fuzzy, and hangovers a new, underworld reality.
Playing pool, the juke box, the fool;
while trying to play it cool
when faced with firsts and friends far more in the know
about nearly everything that happens down below.

Within Close Range: Streets of Saltine

It happens every few months or so.

There’s never any warning… except that it can happen at any time.

All it takes is a gathering – a restless mob brought together by the arrival of bags from the grocers, the disappearance of anything mildly amusing on television, and as the most logical response to the endlessly gray, listless, Midwestern days.

All it requires are two essentials: a box of saltine crackers pulled from the aforementioned grocery bags, and the disappearance of the herd boss to the back forty.

The challenge comes forth – hushed but fierce – with the flash of a sneer, a glint in the eye, a furtive glance to the cupboard, the challenger, then the cupboard once more.

The seasoned contestants: Jim (spurred into battle by a thirst for victory and an appetite for salt) and myself (the middle, misunderstood child), roused to competition by the absence of anything even slightly better to do.

With the doors leading out of the kitchen quietly closed, siblings crowd around the kitchen island, anxious for some mastication action.

The challengers sit facing each other across the well-worn, linoleum countertop the color of vanilla ice cream. With the large, rectangular box of Premium Saltines placed between us, brows knit with steely determination, as eyes focus on the cracker skyscraper growing higher and higher before them.

“Water!” Jim calls to his ever-faithful minion, Mark.

“Wimp!” I prod my already over-stimulated sibling.

“Ready when you are,” he whispers through a half-chewed plastic straw dangling from the corner of his smirk.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I swallow, feeling the moisture completely evaporate from the tip of my tongue to my tonsils.

The objective: to finish the pile of crackers and be the first to whistle.

The rules: no water during the match and the whistle (as judged by spectators) must be crisp and clear.

At the call of “Go!”, the briny bout begins; hands greedily grabbing cracker after cracker, shoving them into already crammed mouths. Crumb fragments fly across countertops and cupboards, striking innocent bystanders who instantly retreat to all corners of the red brick, kitchen floor.

Teeth are gnashing.

Siblings laughing.

Opponents are trying not to choke, or chuckle.The cardinal rule of the cracker eating contest: He who laughs least has the last laugh.

Sadly, this is my Achille’s heel. Watching my brother spew saltines always brings me to trouble-breathing-can’t-swallow-verge-of-choking-hysterics, rendering me hopeless.

Expelling a final barrage of crumbs, Jim spits forth the first whistle, followed closely by a victory lap around the kitchen, passing the defeated and the disgusted. Arms raised victoriously, he waves to the imaginary crowds and makes cheering noises.

A pain in the ass in victory, and a danger in defeat.

There have been times when I spewed forth the earliest whistle, winning the coveted prize of immunity from all post-competition clean-up, but, for me, the fun has always been in the unfettered indulgence of doing something utterly pointless.

Within Close Range: Stanley

Having had enough of Florida’s winter fun and sun for the. day, I’m sitting in front of the television in Nonnie and Papa’s 18th story living room, when the doorbell rings. Papa’s back at his store in Chicago and Nonnie’s in the kitchen making lunch, so I shuffle across the plush wall to wall, to the large double-doors.

And there, on the other side, stands a tall, slender figure with short, blonde hair and frosted highlights; impeccably dressed in a pastel pink shirt, a flowered, silk kerchief, and crisp, white linen pants.

The stranger asks if Lenore is in.

I turn toward the kitchen and holler, “Nonnie, there’s some lady here to see you!”, before scrambling back to the television.

It’s the first time I’ve met Stanley, Nonnie’s friend (and hairdresser), who also happens to live in the same building with his boyfriend, Roger. I would have felt embarrassed after learning of my gender mistake, but according to Nonnie, he was never more complimented.

Not only is Stanley Nonnie’s most colorful and lively Florida companion – by far – but he can make her giggle more than anyone (besides my great aunts) I’ve ever seen. Even more intriguing is that Nonnie astonishingly and unreservedly gives Stanley center stage. (It’s hard not to.)

In return for stepping back from the preferred spotlight, Stanley showers Nonnie with adulation for her fashion sense, culinary skills, and interior design flare.

It’s a match made in heaven. (Even though Nonnie has to whisper a lot when it comes to talking about her new friend.)

At Stanley’s invitation, we visit their little slice of beach-side paradise two floors up.

It has the same exact layout as Nonnie and Papa’s, in reverse. But that isn’t what disorients me.

It’s the feeling that I’ve just entered another dimension where Nonnie’s alter ego is given free rein. Where, with unimpaired power, her better dressed Doppelgänger has adorned every nook and cranny, every floor and piece of furniture, with textile and tactile expanses of purple.

With chintz and animal prints.

Golden cupids and satin pillows.

Velvet love-seats and silk bed sheets.

And endless yards of draped chiffon.

Where opulent silk flower arrangements sits on every gilded credenza and a colorful porcelain dog, cat, or bird resides around every corner.

As Stanley sweeps from room to room with measured grace and exaggerated ease, Roger – a dark, quiet man (who left a wife and kids, and a lie behind) – stands in the background, smiling contentedly. Proud of his plush and private paradise, where he and Stanley are completely free.

Even though, to me, Stanley seems as free as he can be; floating ahead of us into the newly wall-papered kitchen.

Stepping in behind Nonnie, I first think the effect of the sun streaking through the large bay window overlooking the Atlantic is playing tricks on my eyes, until I realize the walls are choked with make-believe flowers of reds and yellows, oranges, pinks and whites, splattered against a dark purple backdrop – as if the Spring, or perhaps the Easter Bunny, had exploded.

It’s absolutely glorious.

And so is Stanley.

Within Close Range: Sixteen Steps in Three Parts

Part One:

At the end of the front hall is a door leading to steps – sixteen in all – winding one-eighty to the upstairs hall; a four-paneled portal to the children’s domain, keeping first floor parents separate.

And sane.

It’s also vital for a game we play, set into motion by two things:  a large box arriving, and Mom and Dad leaving.

As soon as headlights disappear down the driveway, we begin grabbing every cushion and pillow from every sofa, chair and bedroom; and meeting at the top of the winding staircase, toss one after another over the railing until we’ve created a tottering stack of softness, penned in by the aforementioned door.

Flanked by wild smiles at the top of the stairs, Mark, in a Magic Marker race car (we secretly souped up earlier), is pushed down the steep, carpet-less track. But the dreaded hairpin turn half-way down, quickly ends the Cardboard Box Jockey’s run, just inches from where the ocean of cushions begins.

When the race car gets totaled and tossed aside, there’s still the pile of pillows.

We all agree.

Mark’ll jump first.

To make sure it’s safe.

And when he climbs from the pile unscathed, we each take turns taking the plunge, until failing to recognize Jim’s bored, half-crazed eyes, things take a turn and Mark suddenly finds himself dangling over the railing, as a Swanson’s T.V. Dinner threatens to reappear through fearless, but foolish, upside-down taunts.

Inverted arms defiantly crossed.

Jim slightly loosens his grip around the youngest’s ankles, and smiles like the devil.

But we know he’ll never let go… not intentionally.

Not specifically intentionally.

Part Two:

Changing Malibu Barbie’s outfit for her big date with Ken, I hear Jim making his way along the hallway, moving toward the curving, front staircase next to my bedroom.

As he passes the door and starts down the stairs, I’m suddenly, impulsively, spurred to action. (My future line of defense: Lack of Premeditation.)

Quietly reaching around the corner to the light switch at the top of the staircase, I-

Click.

Thump-bump-bump-HUMPF-thump-bam-thud.

Down Jim goes like an angry sack of potatoes.

“GOD DAMN IT! Who turned off the lights?!”

Tittering nervously, I creep away in the dark, feeling both revenged after years of big brother torment, and remorseful for my utter lack of foresight.

My ad-libbed evildoing results in a broken, big toe. And Jim’s thirst for my blood.

Damn my telltale tittering.

History soon has the gall to repeat itself when a few days later, there in my room – with no thoughts of wrongdoing, whatsoever – I hear familiar footsteps (now favoring one foot) heading down those cursed stairs.

Then something wicked this way come.

I tip-toe to the door, again, and quietly reach for the switch.

Click.
Thump…thump-thump-thump-bump-BAM-thud!

“ANNE! I’m going to kill you!”

With no parents home for refuge, I run for my life. Ducking and covering. Trying to avoid any siblings who might give me away. Which means ALL of them.

Finally hiding in the dark of the sauna, desperate for the familiar footsteps of a returning adult, I can hear Jim hobble and rage, screaming my name and vowing retaliation.

“I’ll plead temporary insanity.”

But un-consoling are the cedar walls surrounding me.

Guessing the worst is over (or a parent has returned) when the house goes quiet, I open the door to the outside world.

“Even if he’s still mad,” I reason aloud and unconvincingly, “he’ll never catch me with a broken toe.”

“Two broken toes!” growls a voice from behind the door.

Part Three:

With my bedroom right next door.

I know the comings and goings of all stairwell travelers.

I hear when Chris is breaking curfew

and Jim is looking for trouble;

when Mia is sleepwalking,

and Mark is shuffling downstairs for comfort.

From the bottom step, Mom’s “Sweet dreams”

gently rise into our bedrooms and into our dreams;

while Dad’s call for Inspection

bursts up the stairwell and down the hall,

like an air raid siren,

sending bodies scattering in all directions.

I listen for Mom and Dad’s footsteps below.

For Dad to toss his keys into the pewter bowl.

I listen for the sound of the staircase door opening.

Pleased to hear Mom’s high-heeled footsteps

slowly ascending the winding staircase,

to give good night kisses all the way down the hall.

Within Close Range: Runaway Days

My appointment card for our dentist, Dr. Van Hoozen showed up, which means getting to visit a really sweet man – who not only cares for people’s teeth, but the entire village of Hebron, Illinois, acting (at some point or another) as their president, fire chief and police chief.

However, it’s what takes place after the appointment that I’m most excited about: spending the day – alone – with Mom, wandering in and out of the small, rural towns at the northernmost tip of Illinois.

Mom always sees doctors’ appointments as day-long affairs away from household chores, homework givers, and other family members.

And I go along gleefully.

Quietly.

Watching her.

As she takes any turn she wants. Without a care as to where it will lead.

And there, between fields of crops, we discover chocolate shops, donuts stands, and greasy spoons, where lingering over plastic-coated menus, we truants smile at each other; then wander the narrow streets of farming towns, past century-old storefronts. Pausing, here and there, at the buildings needing care.

Checking to see that I’m trailing, Mom swiftly strides from one shop to the next, until disappearing through a large door of wood and glass.

And I give chase.

Soon blissfully lost amid rooms piled high with dusty shelves and dilapidated boxes, stacks of tables and towers of chairs – and books, filled with history and mystery and beauty.

Overwhelming my curiosity.

Here, she buys me an antique, tear-shaped compact of brass and rusty brown leather. Still inside, is its powder and flattened pink puff; under which I discover a tiny, brass hatch and remnants of bright, pink rouge.

Every now and then, as we meander home, I open my tear-shaped treasure to look at my reflection through its stained and smudged, tear-shaped mirror and wonder how many more reflections it has seen…

And what those faces might have been?

None happier than mine.

Spending the day running away with Mom.

Within Close Range: Rocky

You came to Dad as a hired thug,
but found a mentor and friend instead.
And a family who adopted you like so many strays –
the scarred, the scared, the castaways.
Giving you shelter and a place at our table,
away from the streets, the violence and struggle.
Into our home and into our hearts,
like each lovable loser, you’re family now.
Showing duty and reverence to Mom and Dad,
you become a different creature with just us kids;
when you shadow box and dance in an imaginary ring,
reciting poems of your strength, your knock-outs, your wins.
Filling our minds with fact and fiction,
which is which hardly matters when told with conviction.
We hang on every word from your kind, but battered face
and marvel when you flex your “guns” and chew on broken glass.
Your prized possession is a gold championship belt –
that you sometimes like to wear when doing work.
Yet something tells me you’d give the belt away
if you could simply sit and draw all day.
Freeing your imagination and your wonderful art;
which colors the brutal truth of your life
and what you did for the sake of the dollar,
for food for your dog and bread for the table.
With a smile ear to ear and a clue in your eyes,
I sense your words are mostly lies
to camouflage the things you’ve seen,
the things you’ve done.
Thrust into this world misaligned and alone.
Third grade over and you were gone.
Fighting to survive, then fighting on demand.
Forced to do that with your gentle heart and creative hands.
While the real you, the sweet, curious and tender you,
would prefer to make art of comfort and meaning.
A good reason for being.
In your white t-shirt and rolled-up jeans
above ankle-high army boots and a head shaved clean.
you lean on a rake, on a break from your chores,
spinning glorious tales to the curious, young horde.

Within Close Range: Racing the Dark

Mia has a complex relationship with the Night. She’s a creature of it – active and creative – and stays awake well into it (later than most in the house), yet also seems determined to shun it with the use of every light available.

And when Night finally acquiesces to Sleep, it does so half-heartedly with Mia, often leaving her restless and wandering between this world and slumber’s.

Rare is the night she goes to bed before me, so lying quietly in our shared bedroom, I’ve listened and become well acquainted with her almost nightly routine.

With the rest of the house long dark and quiet, it begins.

CLICK.

On go the back staircase lights, and then, footsteps – Mia’s – coming up the old, wooden staircase. Her movement, quick and skittish. Around the corner she scurries, to the main hall and –

CLICK.

Her target, two doors down, is illuminated.

Muffled by a thick, carpet runner, I know Mia reaches our door only when she flicks the switch, re-illuminating our brightly patterned wallpaper of orange, green and yellow flowers.

After making as much noise as possible (slamming drawers and sliding closet doors, testing her alarm clock, etc.) does she slip beneath her covers, leaving every light on her path from family room to bedroom, burning bright.

Just as dependable as this, is the dialogue which follows.

“Mia, turn off the lights.”

“You turn them off.”

“You were the last one in bed! AND YOU were the one who turned them on in the first place!”

“So?”

“So? So, it’s only fair that you turn them off.”

“No.”

“Dang it, Mia, you know I can’t sleep with the lights on!”

Well-stashed below her covers, “Too bad,” comes her muffled reply. “I can sleep just fine with them on.”

I always claim I’ll do the same, but in less than a minute, with the lights searing wholes through my eyelids, I climb from bed and shuffle just outside our door.

CLICK. CLICK.

Off the hall and staircase lights go.

CLICK.

Off our bedroom lights go.

“Brat,” I call through the dark, as I feel my way back to my bed at the other end of the room.

It’s gone on like this for years.

But now Chris is off to college and Mia’s been given her own room, and I can’t wait. Not only because I’m anxious to have my independence, but even more, I’m anxious to see how Mia will handle hers.

However, she keeps delaying the move, bringing her things into her new bedroom next door one article at a time – over days, which is now turning into weeks. I offer to help. She gets offended and disappears. Mom finally has to intervene.

Begrudgingly, Mia throws the last of her belongings into the heap already in the center of her new bedroom and, tonight, faces sleeping on her own for the first time in her life.

I lay in my darkened room and wait for the familiar sounds of Mia making her way upstairs, speculating over and over again how she’ll handle the lights with no one in the next bed to do it for her. Will she leave them on all night? Doubtful. Dad has a sixth sense about these things and will be demanding “Lights out!” before long. Will she have the gall to call through the walls for me to do it?

She wouldn’t dare….or would she?…

CLICK.

On go the back staircase lights. Creak, go the steps.

CLICK.

On go the hallway lights.

CLICK.

On go Mia’s bedroom lights.

I listen carefully. Tracking her footsteps. Picturing her every move. Anticipating her thoughts.

CLICK. CLICK.

Off goes the stair and hall lights from below, as Mom calls “Sweet dreams.” and Dad warns “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Minutes later, there’s only one light left on in the entire house.

“Come on, Mia,” I whisper into my pillow. “How’s it gonna be?”

Then it happens.

CLICK.

Off goes the light.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter—grumpf-creakity-creak-creak-cree.

And that’s the way it will be from this day forward. Night after night.

It’s a sound that never fails to bring a smile to my face.

CLICK.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter—grumpf-creakity-creak-creak-cree.

Mia running from light switch to bed. Fleeing the unknowns of the night.

Racing the dark.

Within Close Range: Strange Bedfellows

I once woke to find Mia tucked snugly beside me in my twin bed, with most of the covers and most of the space. When I tapped her on the shoulder to point this out, she rolled over (our noses nearly touching), blinked, and groaned, “Anne, what are you doing here?”

“You’re in MY room.”

Looking around briefly, she rolled over again (taking the remainder of the covers with her) and, giving me a swift backward kick, sent me to the floor; where I lay, bewildered, but slightly in awe of her sleep-walking pluck.

We never really know when or what to expect from Mia’s nocturnal wanderings.

And so, returning home late one night, noticing that the light is still on in the den…

“Crap,” I mumble into the open fridge, that must mean Dad’s waiting up.

I begin to formulate one-word responses to his inevitable interrogation. With munchies in hand and alibis at the tip of my tongue, I open the door to the den, only to find Mia on the pumpkin orange sofa, sitting up and staring at the paneled wall ahead.

“Hey.”

No reply.

“Meem, it’s late. Coming up to bed?”

Nothing. Not even a blink. So, I shrug and turn for the stairs.

“Where’s my friend?” I hear from behind.

Turning back around, I ask, ”What friend?”

“My FRIEND!” she replies sharply.

“What friend, Mia? I don’t who you’re talking about.”

“My FRIEND!” she repeats for the third time.

“Look, maybe if I knew what friend you’re talking ab-“

“Shut up, Anne.”

“All-righty, then,” I say as I head toward the stairs and bed.

Passing the boy’s room, I notice that the television is blaring and Mark is still lying on the sofa, face down, with a cat on his shirtless back and a dog at his feet. I turn the T.V. off and gently tap him on the shoulder.

“Kid, you should head to bed,” I whisper, and then start for my own.

Mark raises his head suddenly and calls out, “Anne-Anne-Anne… Would-you, would-you, would-you…open-the-open-the-open-the-open-the-“

Then nothing. He simply collapses back onto his belly and into his dreams.

“Open the WHAT?” I scream from the inside, fearing that if I turn around I’ll likely see Rod Serling, cigarette in hand, furrowing his thick, dark eyebrows as he begins to explain the strange tale of the my sudden plunge into madness.

“I’m way too stoned,” I mumble as I head to the comfort of my room.

Before I get there, however, I notice the lights on in Mia’s bedroom and feel compelled to investigate.

Damn you, Rod Serling.

I find Mia sitting on her bed, doused in light, with a drawing pad in her lap and a peculiar look on her face.

But what I find even more disconcerting is how quickly and stealthily she made her way from the den to her bedroom – up the creaky stairs and down the equally creaky hallway, just feet from where I was in the boys’ room – without my noticing.

I glance up to the mirror above Mia’s desk, where I find instant comfort in seeing both our reflections, and enough cool to ask Mia about her missing friend.

She looks up, but says nothing.

“Your friend,” I’m tortured to press. “The one you were looking for earlier?”

She scrunches her face and tilts her head, slightly.

“Where’s my pink purse?” are the next words out of Mia’s mouth.

I don’t know how to respond. We just glare at one another.

“What?!”

“My pink purse!” she repeats unhappily.

“Okay… now you’re looking for a friend whose name you don’t know AND a purse that’s pink… Am I getting this right?”

“Shut up, Anne.” is all she has to say. And all I can take for one night.

The following morning, both Mia and Mark deny any knowledge of the previous night’s events.

But we know the truth, don’t we, Rod?

Within Close Range: Midnight Swim

The house is quiet.
All are sleeping.
I strip down to nothing
and dive into the dark of the deep-end,
where unabashed, unheard and unseen,
I howl.
For as long as my breath will hold.
Unleashing my teenage discontent and crippling self-doubt.
I howl out the sadness.
I howl out the funk.
I howl until it hurts.
Then I float.
Facing the night sky
and the barely discernible stars
with my rather dysfunctional eyes.
There’s peace in the blur and the sound of my breath
and the occasional call of a neighboring owl
hidden somewhere in the silhouettes
of the tall trees surrounding me.
Shivering, I climb from the water
and into my bed.
The smell of chlorine drifting me into watery dreams.

Within Close Range: The Backyard Ogre

Seeing Dad unreel the hose and stretch it out across the yard from my bedroom window, I throw on my still damp swimsuit crumpled up in the corner and race down the upstairs hall, broadcasting the new development as I pass each bedroom door.

All five of us are soon suited up and scattered along the edges of the backyard lawn, freshly mown and striped like a big, green flag.

Bound by woodlands, lake and home, the Backyard Ogre’s grassy realm is small, but lush and coveted. And crossing it, irresistible.

Standing in the center of his sodded sovereignty, wielding his long, green, garden weapon, the ogre goes about the business of tending his land; well aware of the surrounding interlopers hiding behind large oaks, lawn furniture, and each other.

Taunting him to take aim, we leap and dance and cartwheel across the well-loved lawn, attacking en masse from the front and sneaking up, one by one, from behind. But the Backyard Ogre’s lengthy weapon, and cunning, and speed, make him fearless and formidable.

All are quickly drenched, but delighted by the cool of the spray in the hot summer sun, and by Dad’s massive grin and momentary focus.

Wearing shoes of fresh cut grass, we follow the Ogre, when he deems the backyard fun is over, and heads to the cool of the pool.

Diving in, always slightly aslant, Dad finds his first target, who, giggling and excited, braces themselves for the certain lift that will come from below and hoist them high with his powerful arms, for a glorious, airborne instant before the splash.

Each of us impatiently waiting our turn, of which there are never enough, before the ogre’s off… usually to golf… while we stay behind, water-logged and pruny, but confident the Ogre will soon be back to tend to his kingdom again.

Within Close Range: Laps

I look into Mia’s bloodshot eyes for the challenge.
And off we go.
Stroke for stroke. 
Lap after lap.
Ten, twenty, thirty.
Keeping an even pace.
No sign of the other’s weakness.
Forty, fifty, sixty. 
Tiring, but single-minded.
Who’ll be first to surrender?
Seventy, eighty, ninety.
I can hear, in my non-submerged ear, Mom calling.
But grumbling stomachs and dinner be damned.
Closing in on a hundred laps, Mom calls out again.
“Okay,” Mia gasps, “let’s stop at a hundred and four.”
Rejecting her offer, I push off once more.
And she follows.
Hundred and four. Hundred and five. Hundred and six.
Mark’s now standing poolside.
Tiny hands on tiny hips.
Dinner is getting cold and Dad is getting mad.
I call an immediate draw.
My opponent responds with a nod.
I climb out, expecting her to follow.
Instead, Mia slowly sinks back in the water.
And with an enormous grin,
pushes off the shallow end
for her victory lap.

Within Close Range: Spring

When wildflowers peek through the damp, leafy forest floor,
windows are flung wide open,
welcoming in the cool, lake breezes
and the smells of spring in the land’s reawakening,
like the thawing corral, heavy with sweet-smelling muck
flung here and there by high-spirited ponies.
Impatient to walk barefoot across the newly sprung lawn
emerging from the still cold ground,
I make tracks across the yard to the edge of the bluff, and back
and coat my toes in mud and early grass.
Spreading spring throughout the house.

Within Close Range: Spring Break

My siblings and I burst onto the season like the first, rowdy chorus of Spring Peepers rising from the woodlands and wetlands, from the new growth and leafy debris. Noisily ascending. Anxious and energized after many dormant days, we find instant succor in the newness, in the re-gathering community; bolstered by the constant influx of free-wheeling teens.

Arriving at the house with a brand new,1978 Chevy pick-up truck filled with boys bent on seeing “what this baby can do” Jim quickly talks his best friend, Phil, into letting him behind the wheel. Caught up in the excitement, Chris and I follow, piling into the truck bed with the others and heading to the one place where its off-road ability can be properly tested, the golf course.

Of course.

Entering on the service road, Jim’s exaggerated twists and turns along the winding, gravel road quickly bore him, so veering from the narrow lane, we’re soon bouncing along the edge of the fairways, heading toward the woods and the short, very steep, ravine hills.

Failing to do the science of what might happen when rear tires meet level ground from a near forty-five degree incline is Jim’s biggest mistake that day. As soon as he starts down one of the small, steep hills, we helpless, hapless, truck bed accomplices sense things aren’t going to end well.

They don’t.

As the rear tires hit the ground from practically perpendicular, the truck bounces – hard – sending all bodies in back aloft.

Arms and legs flail.

Looks of surprise, morph into alarm.

Trying to break the fall, my right hand contacts the metal truck bed first, followed painfully by all other parts. When the pick-up finally comes to a standstill, everyone begins righting themselves, rubbing their bruises, and screaming at Jim.

Everyone except me.

I’m looking down at my arm… and my hand… which is no longer at the end of my wrist where I normally find it.

While the others continue to berate the driver, I cradle my arm and speak.

“You guys. I think my wrist is broken.”

No response. So, I say it a little louder and with a lot more conviction.

“You guys, my wrist is broken.”

Still unnoticed amid the verbal thrashing Jim’s receiving, I finally scream as loud as I can, ”YOU GUYS, MY WRIST IS BROKEN!”

All goes quiet and everyone turns my way.

“Anne’s wrist is broken,” Chris suddenly screams, “and she’s bleeding all over the place!”

I’m not.

Jim and Phil leap from the front cab to find those in the back surrounding me, shuddering and exhaling, “Whoa!” and “Holy crap!”

It seems that on impact, the bones attaching my arm to my hand snapped cleanly in two, and my hand – now detached beneath unbroken skin – has been forced from its usual place and lay awkwardly on top of my wrist, like a slab of raw meat in a rubber, flesh-toned glove.

Finding any movement enough to inspire hysteria, no one’s able to convince me to relocate to the cushioned front seat of the pick-up, so a couple of the boys closely flank me as I sit cross-legged, still cradling my unrecognizable arm.

As Jim very slowly and very gently steers a course for home, I try to concentrate on something else – the leaves still unfolding overhead, the gentle, spring sun. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. Then another. Immersing, ever briefly, in the wonderful smell of new grass.

And teen boys.

Pulling up to the garage just as Mom happens to be walking by, Chris jumps from the truck and with the subtlety of a crow in a cornfield blurts out, “Anne broke her wrist!”

(So much for Jim easing her into the bad news, as agreed upon moments prior.)

“Oo-oo-oo!” Mom says, jumping in place, and then into action, as only a mother of five can.

Gingerly lifted from the back of the pick-up and placed into the car, I turn to see my off-roading co-horts all sheepishly waving and smiling, except Jim, who’s having a hard time looking at me and looks miserable.

Which makes me feel slightly better.

At the emergency entrance, Mom tries to get me out of the car and to my feet, but I won’t – I can’t – for fear the slightest movement will make the pain unbearable, or even worse, that I’ll lose hold of my arm and have to witness my detached hand dangle.

Approaching the car, a handsome stranger, with a sweet voice and a smile to match, asks Mom if he can help, and before I have a chance to refuse, he lifts me from the car with an effortless swoop and carries me inside, where he gently sets me in a wheelchair, smiles, and disappears.

“That’s Walter Payton of the Chicago Bears,” the nurse smiles, but I know exactly who it is.

Welcomed back again to the emergency room (puberty has not been kind), I’m x-rayed by a sadist, drugged, yanked, drugged again, and eventually yanked back into place by the two attending doctors – the process of which finally becomes too much for Mom, who’s led from the room in a faint.

“I feel jush-fiiiiiiine,” I giggle, all tucked in my bed back at home, as I casually wave the heavy, plaster, arm-length cast (the first of two I’ll be toting for the entire, interminably itchy, sidelined summer), not bothering to notice Mom and Jim’s faces alluding to the pain and discomfort that’s sure to follow once the double dose of painkiller wears off.

“Itsh-okay, Jim,” I slobber with a smile, oblivious to the drool trickling from the side of my mouth, “I’m not mad at you anymore.”

How could I be? Wracked with guilt about badly disfiguring me, he straightened my room, folded down my bed, and picked flowers for my bedside.

Unfortunately, like the pain meds, Jim’s sympathies and “too-injured-to-tease” policy won’t last through the night.

Within Close Range: Mutton Stew

I’m in the middle of the pine-paneled restaurant at Boyne Mountain Resort (somewhere at the top of Michigan’s mitt), sitting in a large, carved pine chair – twice as large as it needs to be. 

Looking around the big, round table, there are siblings to the left and siblings to the right, with Mom and Dad straight ahead; and everyone capable of reading the menu, is. Scanning mine for a third time, my eyes keep returning to the word “stew”, which conjures a mouthwatering picture in my head – big, chunks of tender meat in a rich, dark gravy.

“How different could mutton be from beef?” a voice in my head insists – repeatedly – drowning out all inner arguments and already placed orders.

It’s my turn.

“I’ll have the Mutton Stew, please.”

The waitress looks up from her pad, hesitates, and then looks to Mom and Dad.

“Oh, Annie, you won’t like that,” Mom gently suggests. “It has a very strong flavor.”

But I protest.

“Anne Elizabeth.”

“Please, Dad,” I plead, revving the perpetually high-powered motor that drives most eight-year-olds.

Mom urges, once more, to reconsider, but I remain unflappable. The lady is waiting and “The Troops” are hungry and restless. Dad raises his eyebrows, then nods to the waitress.

“All right then, Mutton Stew for the young lady.”

Triumphant, I can already taste the dark, rich gravy. Minutes seem like hours. The baskets of crackers and breadsticks and the pats of butter on small mountains of ice in the center of the big, round, constantly spinning, Lazy Susan are rapidly disappearing.

Beyond the large, glass windows overlooking the resort’s ski hills, the slopes are ablaze and white and dotted with skiers still eager to slip and slide down the gentle, rolling, Midwestern hills. It’s a wonderful sight, but the hungry voice in my head has recently enlisted my stomach, now rumbling, low and loud. Until the waitress returns with her overburdened tray, all I can think about is stew.

Burgers and fries pass by my eyes. Mom has soup and Dad’s given pasta. It takes two hands to carry the large, shallow bowl heading my way. I’m so excited, I can hardly keep still in my seat. My eyes eagerly follow the large, round bowl to the place setting in front of me and I look down to see…

… a sea of grayish-brownish goo; its foul smell already invading my nostrils.

Pungent.

Powerful.

Horrible.

My hunger instantly retreats, but all eyes at the table are on me. Even the waitress is loitering nearby, which means I can’t possibly back down before the first bite and so, with reluctance, I grab the smallest spoon and in it goes.

Releasing more stink from the bowl of brown-gray gloom.

I scoop up a small, dark morsel; highly doubtful about this dubious-scented mouthful.

It’s instant repulsion. Unbridled revulsion. A funky chunk of grisly meat that my tongue and teeth want to reject and my throat wants to eject into the clean, white napkin in my lap. But it’s swallow it, or my pride. 

The mutton punishes me all the way down.

Without a word, Mom and Dad turn their attention to their own plates. All follow.

While I’m left alone to stew.

Within Close Range: Family Vacation in Ten Small Helpings

In the early 1970s, Mom and Dad take us on a Christmas ski holiday to Park City, Utah.

 Airplanes

Seven eager faces.

Shiny new snow suits. 

Plane bound for Utah.

Minor complications.

 Airplane sickness.

Brothers’ twitchiness.

Three hour restlessness.

Homicidal stewardess.

Snow Bound?

Five anxious, young passengers 

press noses against windows 

as we climb the mountain in the rental sedan.

Looking for that wonderful white fluff. 

But all we see is brown and green stuff.

Dad keeps saying, “Just give it time.

The more snow you’ll see, the higher we climb.”

We have little reason to doubt him. 

Bloody Mess

Quietly miserable, swabbing her bruised, stitched and swollen gums, and wanting no part of the fight over first-night bedroom rights, Chris waits for things to settle, then drags a blanket, grabs a pillow, and collapses in tears on the sofa til morning.

Raising myself from a battle lost and the living room floor, I’m at the ready with my couch-envy unpleasantries as soon as I open my eyes. But my intentions are met by Chris’s very pale face pressed against her blood-soaked pillow and all that comes out is “MOOOOOOOOOOOOM!”

Arriving at the grisly scene, Mom keeps repeating the same strange thing:  “She’s hemorrhaging!” she screams, hopping in place, “She’s hemorrhaging!” But Chris insists she’s doing okay – with trembling words, blood-encrusted lips, and a heartbreaking smile – better everyday.

Insensitive commentary and contorting faces are nudged toward the kitchen, before she has a chance to think differently upon seeing her reflection.

10-point Dismount

“Ka-tonk, ka-tonk” echo the steps of our rigid boots off the neighboring condominiums and mountainside. Though the surrounding snow looks old and icy, the skies are cloudy and promising and our spirits are high. Even Chris (who barely has enough blood to raise color in her cheeks) manages to perk up. 

She and I board the first ski lift together, admiring the birds’ eye view of our alpine surroundings, paying little mind to the conditions below until we reach the top of the run, where we see attendants shoveling meager remnants of old snow onto the chairlift landing. 

Clearly groggy from blood loss, Chris readies herself by putting her hand firmly on my left leg, then pushing off my thigh, shakily slides forward at the designated mark, leaving me involuntarily planted in the seat and quickly heading toward the 180 degree turn that will take me back down the mountain. With lightning reaction, one of the attendants yanks my arm and whisks me off the chair and onto the ramp they’ve been trying to repack with snow. 

“Scraaaaaaaaaap-p-pe,” go my brand-new skis over the exposed gravel, and down I go, into a pile of hard, dirty, grey ice. 

Lifted from the ground by the fellow who launched me there, humiliated and bruised, I grimace and sidestep over to Chris, who smiles weakly, revealing her black and blue gums and blood-stained teeth.

“Sorry.” 

I want to kill her, but her oral surgeon seems to be doing the job for me.

Albeit very… very… slowly. 

Oh Christmas Tree

Snow-barren slopes concede to an afternoon of hot crepes, holiday displays, a Scotch Pine and rekindled spirits. 

But the yuletide log is soon doused by the grunts and frustrated grumblings

of father and eldest son unsuccessfully attempting to level and stand a 10 foot pine without the aid of a saw – or a tree stand. 

Trying bowls and buckets, waste baskets and garbage bins, tempers are fraying.

Shying away from the ill-fated scene, Mark heads to the television. Click – OUR PRICES ARE INSANE!! – Click – and the lord said unto Mos – Click – BLAH – click – RAH – click – click – click –

“LEAVE IT!”, Dad ROARs. (Had there been any snow on the mountain, we’d likely have just been buried by it.)

This startles Jim, who lets go of the tree, which crashes to the ground, mere inches from Dad, who suddenly decides to take a long, walk, where he’ll cool off, giving Mom time to devise a tree-standing plan, leaning but triumphant.

Out of Order

We all stare wildly at the television, newly kaput. 

Jim and Dad fiddle futilely with its back.

Mom turns on the radio hoping to lighten the mood.

But the only thing she can find is static. 

No music.

No television.

No snow. 

No skiing.  

No reason to go on, really. 

If Walls Could Talk

“Eeeek!!,” comes a scream from the downstairs bathroom. 

With absolutely nothing else to occupy the hours, everyone runs to where Mia is standing, wrapped in a towel, dripping with soap. 

“Who’s using the hot water?” she cries out, shampoo stinging her eyes. 

But all who can be blamed stand before her. 

“Mom, are you running the dishwasher?” 

“I would be IF it was working!” she snaps, finally showing signs of strain. 

With the news of no hot water for days, the cursed family lets out a collective sigh – as if the condo sprung a leak.

Which, at this point, seems entirely possible. 

From Here On Out

After three hours in the car, searching unsuccessfully for snowier resorts, the mood has dipped so low it’s nearly impossible to think of what else could go wrong.

It isn’t long before we have the answer.

Pulling up to the condo, the rental car begins to sputter and choke, and then… it dies. 

We remain still and silent in the back seat, exchanging frightened side glances, waiting for the explosion. 

Dad and Mom sit staring straight ahead through the frosty front windshield.

Neither moving. 

Or speaking.

Then, as if a sweet, tropical breeze blew in through the now dormant air vents, they turn to one another… and start laughing.

Loud. 

And hard. 

Causing a chain reaction.

Drop Kick to Victory

At the suggestion of Charades, family members begin frantically looking for ways out – fiddling with the dead TV and staticky radio, pretending to read, or to die, suddenly. 

And even though total indifference finally sits itself down for the game, it isn’t long before everyone – including Dad (who rarely participates in such things) is wise-cracking and happily taking their turn. 

Teammates are syncing like well-oiled, mind-reading machines. Pantomimes are performed with dexterity and artistry. Guesses are made with certainty.

I’m up. My clue: “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.” 

I begin by acting out the hand-cranked camera. 

“Movie!”, my partner, Mia, calls out. 

I tip one finger to my nose, then swiftly thrust forward a number of fingers.

“Six words!” she fires in succession.

I tap my nose and squeal with delight. My brain is reeling. 

Catching a glimpse of Dad out of the corner of my eye, his infamous intolerance and abhorrence for the family cats suddenly flashes before me. 

Meeting Mia’s eyes, I drop kick an invisible object, then point to Dad. 

“Cat on a Hot Tin Roof!” she screams, leaping from her seat to join me in a victory jig around the living room. 

Stunned by the veiled clue and breakneck victory, everyone is laughing. 

Everyone but Dad. He just looks confused.  

As One

Snowless.

TV-less.

Auto-less. 

No hot water or dishwasher.

No music or phone.

No one restless for change.

Just contented days together

in a world we,shape and shift 

with our individuality,

our familiarity,

our imaginations.

Within Close Range: Ms. O’Hara

She strides down the halls of Lake Bluff Junior High, with her shoulder length, ginger hair parting seventh and eight graders like the Red Sea. Always looking as if she’s ready to mount a spirited steed, wearing brown and beige tweed, and a steely, determined expression.

She tries to fill young minds with old tales of the rise and fall of nations and heroes, cultures and convictions; and her classroom walls, laden with maps and relics, attest to all she has invested in the cause.

Rarely standing still, the fiery, young teacher has a fiery will to make her students listen; marching up and down the crowded aisles, often wielding a rather persuasive attention-getting device, which comes down with a “CRACK!” on desktops of students attempting to nap.

NOT in Ms. O’Hara’s Social Studies class.

As she canters through the halls with her tousled, red hair, Ms. O’Hara seems fearless and confident and cool, loath to play any part the fool. No one dares question how tough she can be. But I can see.

I can see in those eyes often wild with frustration, an impish will and inclination, lurking in the quiet shadows of a stern reputation. And once in a while, a small, smirking smile, which she’s been hiding all the while, will arise; first in those eyes, then form upon her lips – hands on hips – and eventually she’ll soften, dissolving my inhibition to hang nearby and feed on her powerful presence.

Made even more formidable in her red, Camero convertible.

She likes to rev its engine and make the boys grin, revealing the mischievous side within. Then hitting the gas when all signs of the school are past, she vanishes amid the village trees, in her brown and beige tweeds.

Into the reds and yellows and browns of autumn, and into my earliest images of a strong, modern woman.

Within Close Range: Mr. Hastings

I don’t like science.

But I like Mr. Hastings, my 8th grade science teacher.

A tall, unlikely comrade with his horn-rimmed glasses, bow tie, and barely there, gray hair; with his starched, white, short-sleeved shirt – which never varies – but for the cardigan he wears when a chill is in the air.

Schooling restless, new teens hovering absent-mindedly over Bunsen burners and long braids, sharp scalpels, squeamish lab partners, and former frogs, must have its days.

Especially with the likes of me, barely squeaking out an apathetic C.

Yet Mr. Hastings rarely raises his voice. Rocking the cinder block walls with his frustration only once. Maybe twice.

Still I keep myself invisible behind students and books and beakers. Slipping in and out of class. Answering questions only when asked. Until I see some things on the science teacher’s desk.

Sitting on an old newspaper, near little, brown bottles, some brushes, and neatly folded rags, sit several pieces of small-scale dollhouse furniture, which somehow this giant-of-a-man created with his two giant hands, and a crippled right arm due to Polio.

Even though my female peers are now more interested in boys than theirs, there is little else that I adore more than my dollhouse.

Earned, gifted, and more than occasionally lifted from my Dad’s loose change I amass what cash I can to fill my two bedroom, one bath, pale yellow Colonial, with its newly shingled roof of hand-cut, balsa wood. (Jim’s community service for repeated dollhouse abuses.)

I inch my way closer to the old newspaper, longing to get a closer look at the tiny treasures which I normally have to view behind a locked, glass, display cabinet, guarded by a grumpy, old man, mistrustful of all youth.

Mr. Hastings notices. And there we begin – girl to man – sharing a common devotion.

Lifting a teeny-tiny chessboard into the palm of his illogically enormous hand, this towering 8th grade science-teacher-of-a-man describes with great care how he cut and varnished each itsy-bitsy square.

And I listen.

Ignited by his dedication.

Astonished by each delicate piece of miniature perfection.

I still don’t like science.

But I’ll always like Mr. Hastings, with his perfect bow tie, his pressed short-sleeved shirt and barely there, gray hair, and his remarkably gifted hands.

Within Close Range: Mr. Dieden

I hate P.E. and the sight of green once again spreading across the corner of Artesian Park across from school each spring.

The southeast corner, to be exact, where I suffer through the tortures of Physical Education with activities such as catching a first softball… with my nose… and the annually humiliating 400 yard dash, a quarter mile of side cramps and red-faced misery.

Nauseous and breathless.

Always one of the last to stumble over the finish line.

Destined, in Mr. Dieden’s eyes, to be stuck at the bottom of life’s climbing rope forever.

“Walk it off!” he likes to holler unsympathetically to us stragglers, scattered and collapsing at the side of the coned-in track, circling the corner patch of park grass.

Mr. Dieden, with his crisp, white, short-sleeved shirt and shiny, bald head.

Mr. Dieden, with an ever-present whistle around his neck and clipboard in hand.

Who makes me write: “I will never say ‘Shut Up’ in Mr. Dieden’s 6th period gym class again.”

1,973 times. (One sentence for each year.)

Didn’t even get the “up” out before his voice echoes off the old gymnasium walls, “Miss Celano. I’ll see you after class.”

Like he’s been waiting for it. Hoping for it.

Never a word to Jeff, on the other side of the net, about his “gold bricks and rich brats” remark.

Within Close Range: Megan’s 1959 Split-level Ranch

In Megan’s bedroom, half a flight up the 1959 Split-level Ranch with pink brick and putty colored paint, I fidget with a funky, multi-colored fiber optic lamp, while she plays records and introduces me to jazz, and we wait for her parents to leave and best friends to descend upon the many leveled house. 

We use the un-parented hours to nurture this hand-picked clan, filled with constantly morphing personalities birthed from overactive glands and imaginations, and recently recognized skills as poets, actors and musicians; as Pig Out Queens and Homecoming Queens, Make Out Queens and Dancing Queens. 

Never enough crowns for all those Queens. Never enough time to be all the things, but always enough room on the dance floor. Though all signs point to clumsy and shy, my pelvic-thrusting friends are determined to try to make me Hustle and shake my groove thing in the ground-level living room of metallic gold and green.

Sweating and spinning and dipping. Air Band greats ever in the making. Drinking and joking and choking with laughter. Using voices and faces to find inner traces of people and places. Writing truly foul lyrics to sweet Christmas carols – using every nasty word we can muster to repulse and to fluster.

Years of piano lessons color the scene, mixing Joplin, Pachelbel and Winston into the frenetic hours of being girls, and being teens. Ceasing only long enough to ransack the family’s world of snacks in the very lowest level of Megan’s Split-level Ranch. Like chubby, pubescent picnic-bound ants.

A fairytale kingdom of infinite munchies. Tupperware and tins and tightly sealed snacks of caramels and pretzels and cookies – wafers and Fudge Stripes, shortbreads and sugar. Enough to make teens, with all their snacking needs, merry and me, ecstatic, for all the food my Mom’s cupboards have never seen.

Megan’s kitchen is where I first try it, but Mom refuses to buy it, so I look for this Chef Boyardee diet on other kitchen shelves. I like my SpaghettiOs straight from the can, finding the same comfort in it as in my friendships and the many hours spent at the 1959 Split-level Ranch, being terribly saucy, truly effortless, full of crap, and distinctly gratifying.

Within Close Range: Ice Cream and Convertibles

“Who wants ice cream?” comes the call from the bottom of the stairs.

I’m first to the car, just behind Dad (who’s more excited than anyone) and quickly take possession of the coveted front seat when Mom chooses a quiet hour alone over a waffle cone.

With all on board, off we go down Shoreacres Road, as the last of the day’s golfers drift down the final, shadowed fairway, toward the old clubhouse at the edge of the lake. Rolling along at country club speed, I look to the trees heavy with green and suck in the waning day, the moist lake air, and the strong, sweet aroma of fresh cut grass and wild, roadside onions.

Once on Sheridan Road, Dad presses the gas pedal and summer soon whizzes past, behind a veil of windblown hair continuously plucked from my inescapable grin. It’s a straight shot to Lake Forest. 

Twenty minutes to ice cream, to Baskin-Robbins in the old, brick building at the corner Deerpath Road – half a block from the theater where, once, waiting in line for a movie, Chris covered my eyes as a streaker streaked by.

We follow the train tracks all the way to town, past The Lantern and the best burgers in town; past Market Square where, in the late summer twilight, people are milling about with happy, summer smiles on their happy, summer faces.

Behind the brightly illuminated windows just ahead, I’m happy to see the ice cream shop crowded. It gives me more time to stroll up and down and in between people to inspect all 31 flavors of colorful, ice-cold goodness. 

Rocky Road, Mint Chocolate Chip, Bubble Gum are almost irresistible, but greedy for more, I order the Banana Royale, with its two scoops of vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, chopped nuts, whipped cream, topped with Maraschino cherry…

…and a dubious look from Dad. 

Eating the bright red cherry staining the peak of the whipped cream pile reminds me of Uncle Louie and his big Oldsmobile, with its massive back window filled with baseball caps; and his massive trunk filled with giant bottles, including the largest jar of Maraschino cherries I’ve ever seen.

Still unopened in our kitchen cupboard.

Loath to re-admit offspring with fast melting ice cream into his always pristine car, Dad leads his troop toward Market Square where we admire the stores from a drippy distance. 

Scanning the dimmed display cabinets and shiny glass countertops of Marshall Field’s Department store makes me think about the deliciousness of Frango Mints, and the distinctiveness of the peculiar, old lady in the first floor makeup department, who looks as if she’s been there absolutely forever. 

She fascinates me. 

Always, always, dressed in black, which perfectly matches her jet-black bob, accentuated with a precisely penciled-in, black as pitch, widow’s peak.

A steadfast fancy from her flapper days? 

Her happy days?

Past the old rec center and the stationary store, I pause at the window of Kiddle’s to dig at the fudge from the bottom of my bowl and marvel at the bicycles and basketballs, the helmets, t-shirts, bats and rackets covering every inch of wall from its old, wooden floor to its elaborate, tin ceiling. (Where someone’s day was made the day Dad bought bikes for all seven of us.)

From here, I set my sights on Market Square Bakery. On the same old, dusty display cakes sitting in the same, old dusty display windows. Knowing well what glorious, sugary delights will soon be baking on the other side of the “Closed” sign, making Mom’s after-school errands bearable. 

Always scanning the sidewalks and the square’s grassy center for a friend among the small crowds gathered around the fountain and benches, relishing the cool of the evening. Delighted by the sight of any familiar face and the feeling of community. Intimacy.  

So I make my Banana Royale last. Savoring every moment in every bite as we round the square and pass a real estate office where lighted photos of formidable houses make window-shoppers dream… big.

As the last of the ice cream disappears, and the end of the fourth side of the square is near, I know we’re almost to the car, but not until we pass my very favorite spot –  Pasquesi’s, now dark and quiet.

Inside, there’s a bell on its door that signals Mr. P. to look up from the back of his simple, splendid, tiny purple lunch counter, as he offers up the best and sloppiest of Sloppy Joe’s, the cheesiest of cheese dogs, and the warmest of warm smiles. 

Greeting all as if long lost friends finally coming home. 

Always making me feel that I belong.

Back at the car and forced to relinquish the front seat for a sibling demanding their turn, I lower myself from the cool, night air and, in the quiet of an ice cream coma, count the streetlights passing above, until the stars and the dark replace them, the crickets’ song grows strong, and my eyes grow heavy.

  

Within Close Range: Heroes

Bundled past our noses to keep the icy lake winds from turning our ambitions, seeking refuge from the great indoors of winter, we head outside. No destination, just going forward, down the well-plowed road, gritty from salt.

Climbing the piles, pushed in great, icy, grey chunks to the side of the road, we reach the unmarred snow blanketing the golf course and “CRUNCH”, break the layer of ice formed overnight on top of the thick, powdery snow.

Shattering the winter scene’s muffled silence with each noisy footstep. 

The drifts almost swallow Mia and I, who are trying our darnedest to keep up with Jim and Kim, our cousin from Springfield – a tall, burly fellow, several years our senior, with a lilting voice, cherubic face and gentle soul; our very reason for forming this unlikely quartet which trudges on, until we come upon the frozen creek that crosses the course.

We follow this to two small ponds, where climbing down its banks, Jim slips and skids along the edges of the ice, while Mia and I head to a large culvert under an old, planked bridge dividing the ponds. Kim following, ever vigilant over his temporary wards.

Scrambling over the bridge to other side of the culvert, Mia shouts for me through the cold and dark, and I answer back, across the frozen water, from the opposite end. Clear is Kim’s silhouette hovering behind Mia, like a new mother bear,  

and our small voices sounding strong against the corrugated steel. 

Mia takes off one of her mittens and slides it through the giant, metal tube, along the leafy ice, right into my hands. I toss it back… and back it comes again. We do this several times, but Mia’s enthusiasm fades with each toss and I find myself stretching a little further into the dark. Her final, fainthearted throw lands the tiny, snow-caked mitten smack dab in the center of the culvert. 

“Whoops,” is all she has to say, having already sacrificed the mitten to the creek.

Hoping to avoid a lecture from Mom about another lost mitten, I begin a slow crawl toward the center, inching closer and closer to the wooly stray, hearing only my breathing, tinny and low, and Kim’s voice whispering, “Be careful, Annie.”

As I reach out to grab the mitten, all sounds cease, except one.

The ice below me pops and cracks and gives way, and suddenly I sink, face first, into the water. Swallowing it and gasping for air, I open my shocked eyes to the muddy scene at the mucky bottom of the culvert a foot below. 

Seconds tick forever, until someone takes hold of the hood of my bright pink jacket and yanks me from the icy water. 

Before I even have a chance to process what’s happened, Kim grabs me from Jim’s arms and starts to run toward home. Shock soon gives way to tears, as shivering wracks my small, drenched body. 

Kim’s worried mumblings make me cling ever harder, as he plows through the snow drifts toward home. 

Hand in hand with Mia, Jim follows quickly. Like a hero, silently.

Pressed against Kim’s heaving chest, I hear only his heartbeat and hurried footsteps fumble along the fairway and onto the road, never slowing until I’m safe within the warmth of Mom’s arms.

Where he apologizes profusely for something that wasn’t his fault.

Within Close Range – Grand Safaris and Sunday Afternoons

Dad regularly rallies the family into the Pontiac Grand Safari for destinations unknown; the adventure often beginning after all that Sunday genuflecting, and gobbling down stacks of syrupy pancakes from the Golden Bear Pancake House. 

Dispersed from fore to aft, in the enormous, paneled wagon. Mark’s in front with Mom and Dad. Chris and Jim, by birthright, take the center. Leaving the rear-facing, back seat to Mia and me. The perfect spot for making faces at innocent travelers and gesturing to passing truck drivers to sound their horns; and when a trucker pulls the wire and toots his horn, there’s plenty of room to hide down below, where we can squirm and giggle until the semi rumbles past.

Once we catch on that we’re not going home, through a series of lipped words, nods and head tilts, one of us will be chosen to ask Dad where we’re going – all of us knowing full well what his glorious answer will be.

I’LL never tell!” he sings as he smiles and looks to us in the rear view mirror with his dark, playful eyes.

It’s electrifying.

Sure to be somewhere wonderful, we’ll find ourselves in a faded, old amusement park on its very last go-round; an old-fashioned, ice cream parlor, in a long forgotten neighborhood; an apple orchard serving cold, sweet, back-teeth-tingling cider and fresh made cinnamon-sugar donuts, thoroughly warm and wonderful.

Somewhere we can be all together in the moment and in the memory.

Admittedly, the excitement of the adventure sometimes wanes with the miles it takes to get there, and things can get ugly. 

Ugly enough for Dad to pull over on a long, straight, narrow, stretch of road in rural Illinois, near a solitary farmhouse surrounded by a seemingly endless pasture. Here, he makes each of us exit the wagon – even the littlest, Mark, who’s lifted from Mom’s lap and placed unceremoniously into Chris’s surprised arms.

Mom stays quiet and seated for our expulsion, but all eyes are focused on Dad, who’s already back behind the wheel.

Who wouldn’t.

Couldn’t.

Does.

The Grand Safari disappears over a small hill… and then the horizon. 

No one has words for what just happened. We just stand there, stunned and silent. 

Leaning against the barbed-wire fence surrounding the field, looking at the farmhouse in the distance, I wonder what it would be like to live there. 

There’s finger-pointing, but few words spoken because each of us is well aware of our role in this road trip gone wrong.

Mark’s becoming a burden between Chris and Jim’s arms, the blood from a cut on my knee (from leaning against the barbed-wire fence) is beginning to spread across my new, thick, white, knit leotards, now torn; and all promise of a happy outing has been extinguished by the time we see the Grand Safari re-appear in the distance.

Dad steps from the station wagon, as if from a hearse, and lines us up against the fence, steps back, and… smiles – huge, laughing smile, moving each of us to do the same – which is when Dad makes his move, revealing the Polaroid camera hidden behind his back.

“Click!” 

Still grinning with the photo now in his hands developing, he orders us back to the wagon. 

Overjoyed to be back in our rear-facing, upholstered prison, I console myself with a handful of mints swiped from the hostess counter of the pancake house, and in the certainty that the next time Dad turns the Grand Safari toward another Sunday adventure, all thoughts of past car trip hardships will be disappear in a “click” from the moment we hear the words: “I’LL never tell.” 

Within Close Range: Flying

I dream of flying –
like the Flying Nun –
Lifting off the edge of the bluff with the wind.
Rising quickly toward the fat, lazy clouds
hovering over the great lake,
I swoop and circle the nearby harbor
where scattered sailboats bob below
in the calm of the bay.
But the familiar forms, 
hidden back among the trees,
at the edge of the crumbling bluff,
soon call me to the dusky shore.
To home.
And the glowing, kitchen window.
And the figure of Mom in her pink, plaid apron.
Ever regal, ever busy, in her blue and yellow kitchen.
I hover there, in the cool lake air,
listening to the oh, so happy sounds
of pots and plates clinking and clanking.
I try to guess what’s cooking
by what’s wafting through the windows.
Until a strong breeze lifts the aroma and me
back out, over the vast, rippling water.
Past the sunken, old pier
where giant carp spawn year after year.
Past the rocky harbor walls
standing hard against the waves.
Until the house and the cottage and the beach disappear,
and I begin to really soar
over endless stretches of dark and deep.
Crestfallen to find my bed
and solid ground beneath me
when I wake.

Within Close Range – Florida Days, the teen years

Florida Days: the teen years

Driving from the airport to Nonnie and Papa’s new winter retreat – The Claridge, a 16-story, oceanside condominium in Pompano Beach, Florida – it’s clear things are going to be much different than in Hallandale, where their old apartment used to be.

Gone are the 1950s neighborhoods with small, tidy bungalows and low-rise, pastel-colored apartment buildings. Gone are the small, neat streets with big, American cars and the quiet, inland canals with their 90 degree curves.

Modern high-rises now loom along the crowded coastline, casting long shadows over old neighborhoods struggling to stay relevant. Mostly replaced by “The Strip”, a popular stretch of beach along Ft. Lauderdale’s A1A – and the only route from the airport to the new condo.

Where nubile, bikini-clad, beer drinking college students on spring break have flocked and balanced precariously on the fence between adolescence and adulthood for generations.

Having to navigate through the hoards of unruly, unkempt, half-naked youth makes both Nonnie and Papa mumble and grumble – a lot – but I’m mesmerized by this uncharted world, this untamed, southern gateway to my teen-dom; which Gina and I are slowly cruising past in the back seat of a tightly sealed Cadillac filled with the sounds of Perry Como and the smell of Jean Nate.

The further The Strip fades into the distance and the closer we get to Nonnie and Papa’s, the older the demographics skew; until a stone’s throw from this modern day Sodom and Gomorrah, beers and bikinis are completely overcome by beer bellies and Platex bras.

The upside to the new zip code is the bigger apartment – which means a happy, across-condo relationship between Nonnie and Papa and Gina and I. Like the apartment in Hallandale, this guest room has a separate door to the outside world (or at least to a main corridor), and much to our teenage delight, the next door over leads to an unused stairwell, Marlboro Lights, poorly rolled joints, and late night escapades with New York girls and their East Coast drinking games.

Gone are Nonnie and Papa’s halcyon Florida days of total authority and complete control. These are the carefree days of baby oil and B-52s, getting stoned in the sauna and drinking beers on the beach.

Of convincing Nonnie to hand over the keys to the Caddy, rolling down the windows, turning up the radio, and inhaling the salty air, the Florida sunshine, and the sweet smell of being newly licensed.

Of boys on the beach noticing us and Nonnie – through binoculars from her balcony sixteen stories up – noticing them, noticing us.

These were the Florida days of pushing boundaries, especially ones poorly guarded.

I blame Gina.

Mostly.

I’d never have the guts to go beyond the Claridge’s pool gates if she didn’t first get that glint in her eyes, which always urges me to follow.

Down to the beach.

Well past dark.
Well past curfew.

Who knows how long Nonnie has been pacing in front of the newly identified escape route, but we’re barely through the door before the tirade – which nearly lifts her off her tiny, bunioned feet – begins.

She cross-examines, reprimands and threatens expulsion; then leads us to Papa waiting in the living room, leaden and pacing.

Looking angrier than I’ve ever seen him.

Louder than I’ve ever heard him.

When all is said – which isn’t much – he turns his back and sends us to bed.

Things are now different between Papa and me, not being who he wants me to be.

When Gina and I un-eagerly make our way to the kitchen the next morning, the first thing we see is a newspaper article with the headline, “Girls Charred on Beach”, scotch-taped prominently on the refrigerator and Nonnie, fiddling with something at the counter, with her back to us, sighing and tsk-ing, but not saying anything.

She spent the remainder of the morning behind closed bedroom doors on a call with her sisters, Camille and Rose, filling them in on two of life’s latest disappointments; heralded, at times, in a pitch so high, dogs throughout the 20-story building begin to bark.

This leads to quieter Florida days, when solo visits mean I’m more observer than observed; studying Nonnie and Papa in their well-aged routine of marital indifference.
Wondering if I know what a happy marriage looks like?

Watching the old ladies down by the pool; with their straw sun hats and bad romance novels, their games of Canasta, endless cigarettes, and overly suntanned skin… wondering if they were ever truly Young?

When Papa returns to Chicago to tend to the store, it means hours of Gin Rummy, alone with Nonnie, on the breezy, but sheltered balcony, way above the Atlantic ocean; where 8-track cassettes of Liberace and Lawrence Welk teach me tolerance, and the importance of a wickedly good game face.

Happy to see the rainy skies. Happy to stay indoors and in our nightgowns.The condo is especially quiet on days like these. No washing machine or television reminding us of other things. Other lives.

No dinner out or big meal in.

We barely move. Rarely talk.

Occasionally, Nonnie disappears (while I practice the art of the shuffle) and returns with a plateful of sweet, powdery pizzelle and cold milk, or calzone, cheesy and crusty, and hot from the oven.

Delicious Florida days of doing nothing.

Within Close Range: Florida, the early years

Florida Days: the early years

The first apartment Nonnie and Papa buy to escape Chicago’s meanest of seasons is in Hallandale, on Florida’s east coast. It’s a small, but airy, two bedroom built at the corner of an inland canal; brightly decorated in yellows, greens, blues and whites, and perpetually shaded from the Sunshine State.

A peculiar land of tropical scents and strikingly unfamiliar sights. Far removed from the only place I know, home.

Put to bed too early, I lie in the back sitting room-turned-bedroom for hours on end, tossing and turning on the hard and lumpy sofa-bed. Listening intensely to the unfamiliar sounds of apartment living, made especially audible by the glass-vented door in my room that opens onto the building’s exterior hallways.

My slatted portals to this unknown world.

The sounds of the apartment people returning from the pool, the shops, the grocers; of doorbells ringing and little feet skipping, and hugs and kisses and friendly greetings. Of moist, ocean winds, carrying the scent of orange blossoms and creeping jasmine, algae, brine and fresh oiled asphalt.

Breathing in the ladies’ perfumes as they stroll past the open vents, I’m fascinated by how to their laughter bounces against the cement walls of the nearby stairwell and how happy words instantly disappear with the slam of a heavy car door.

Murmurs from the television in the living room add to my apartment-living symphony with its familiar sounds and flickering lights that seep through the bottom of the door, casting short, cryptic shadows on the thickly carpeted, recently vacuumed floor.

Comforting is the knowledge that Papa is in his chair in the room next door. Feet up, arms folded high across his belly, and a large RC Cola at his side. Grinning at Clem Kadiddlehopper, or growling at the Chicago Bears.

Lying in the still and unfamiliar dark, after Papa finally turns the television off, the inland water’s slow, buoyant motion, lulls me into a deep, scented sleep.

Waking in the morning to mist creeping through the vents, I linger on the lumpy mattress and listen to the apartment people as they begin their days, until wooed by the sounds of those stirring, I stretch toward the clanking of kitchen utensils and the smells of breakfast cooking on the other side of the wall.

Oh these, my Florida days.

Of sand slipping away beneath my feet at the edge of the ocean and seashell hunts as the sun dips low; of Nonnie’s bunioned toes and skinny, seagull legs dipping into the foamy waves, but never past her ankles.

These early days of sunset walks along a stretch of beach that leads to a lighthouse and a tottering, creaky wharf where Papa likes to walk.

And I like to walk with him.

Where fishing boats have funny names and a tiny gift shop, in a weather-beaten shanty, sells orange gumballs packed in little, wooden crates.

Which Papa buys for his Pie-Face.

Of bright, green lizards skittering across pastel walls, and pats on the head by terrycloth clad men playing cards in the shades of umbrellas. Where suntanned women with their giant bosoms and ever-blooming swim caps wade in the shallow end, with big, dentured smiles for the little one visiting Lenore.

Oh these, my Florida days.

Within Close Range: Sledding

The toboggan’s scarred and battered prow, with its narrow strips of varnished wood, scratched, warped and dinged, attests to its long history of snowy campaigns.

Trees and rocks eternal foes.

Its red, vinyl pad, cracked and beaten. Its plastic rope ties ever-untying.

It takes little prodding to initiate sledding on the golf course near our home. After a few phone calls, friends from town gather at our back door with a variety of apparatus, ranging from plastic school lunch trays to super-duper downhill racers.

Like a procession of well laden ants, we head down Shoreacres Road and into the heart of winter with spirits high. During the mile or so journey to the ravines, the boys can’t wait for the final destination before throwing themselves and their sleds at slopes of snow – even the dingy, frozen piles left by the plows.

Cheeks crimson, noses dripping, devilish smiles rising, and big boots trudging heavily, they jettison themselves, scraping briefly atop the icy, roadside heap.

Undeterred, the flatter, frozen road ahead spawns another attempt, and the unsuspecting walking there find themselves not indirectly in the path of another misguided trajectory.

Leaving victims strewn in the wake, shouting obscenities, in between fits of laughter.

Crossing thigh-high snowdrifts, pushing against the penetrating Lake Michigan winds, we know there’s reward in the shelter of the woods. In the rise and fall of the ravines just ahead.

By the time the last of the stragglers arrive, bodies are already hurtling down the small, steep hills – feet first and head first – as untouched, uncharted snow is quickly trampled smooth and slick.

So the boys and their sleds can go fast and faster toward the woods below, laughing like hyena, until the next sound is cracking plastic. Followed by moans, grunts, more laughter… and a few more well chosen profanities.

More than slightly apprehensive to sled in tandem with these boy rocketeers, I also know I’ll never gain the speed I crave when sledding solo. So I climb aboard, wrap my arms around their thick, damp, denim layers and look below, to a hand-packed jump designed to make you fly.

Pleading for caution, I know full well that caution is about to be damned.

Down we go, straight toward the jump and into the air. But the moment is fleeting before losing my hold, my pilot, a boot, and a glove. Yet gaining a face full of snow and a smile from ear to ear.

From a resting spot at the top of the hill, I watch the boys with their boundless bravado, attempt daredevil moves of surfing and spinning and bumper sleds. Determined to create one more spectacular crash before the snowy adventure can be considered a success.

By the time the sun begins its early descent, the dampness has sunk deep into our layers and it’s time to stumble home, iced-over and exhausted. The older boys taking turns pulling along the little ones with nothing left to give.

Each step energized by the thought of the warmth that will embrace us when we open the back door. Fueled by the knowledge that a crackling fire and hot chocolates wait at the other end.

Within Close Range – Dad and the Double Date

Home from college and my dance card empty, as usual, Jean has ignored my protests and arranged a double date with her latest boyfriend’s best friend. So, I’m making my way toward the kitchen to rehydrate my bone-dry nerves before they arrive.

Dad’s in the den, sitting in the swivel chair with his back to the window, pretending to be engrossed in a book. He’s also pretending not to see me as I slow and look his way. I know he isn’t happy about this evening.

With boys ever at the heels of Chris and Mia, he takes great comfort in my being almost invariably dateless. But really… is he finding The Gardeners’ Dictionary so captivating that he can’t even look up at the sound of my way-too-high heels skidding across the floor?

Unbelievable.

Can’t suppress eye roll.

And what about Mom? Still hovering in the kitchen, without a purpose in sight. For god’s sake! This isn’t my first date. I just need to keep moving. Rein in those jitters, drink lots of water, and think happy thoughts.

But how can I think happy thoughts when each step on this godforsaken brick floor – now dangerously slippery, thanks to my newly lost ability to swallow – feels like burning coals on my wish-they-were-bare feet?

Through my water glass, I watch Dad slowly swivel his chair around to face the oncoming headlights bouncing off the dimly lit den walls, as the car makes its final turn toward the front circle.

A swivel further left, he can see Jean and our dates get out of the car and step onto the patio, just of few feet from where he’s sitting.

The doorbell’s ringing, but Dad’s not budging.

Passing him on my way to the front door, I can see he’s swiveled the chair back around and is fake reading again (that book might as well be upside down), still no eye contact.

Unreal.

Can’t suppress eye roll.

Take a deep breath, Anne, and turn the knob.

Jean’s smile is enormous. And frightening. As if there’s something she’s hiding – such as my date being about as happy to be here as I am.

Lame handshake. (What’s this guys name again?)

I hear swiveling. Dad’s up and he’s coming… and passing. No greetings? No teasing?

Unheard of.

(Eye roll mentally happening.)

And why is he stopping at the front hall dresser and pretending to be rummaging for something? What a sham. And now he’s coming back with empty hands?

I can almost hear the growl as Dad passes; keeping his fixed glare, swiveling like the chair, on both males until he quietly disappears.

I hope stepping out beneath the night sky will hide my humiliation and breathe new life into this double date situation, but I’m not counting on it.

Is Dad really peeking through the curtains, which he just closed to spy on us? Even from here, I can see him shake his head and call to Mom, “Well, she won’t be marrying THAT one.”

Unlikely.

Can’t suppress eye roll.

Within Close Range – Dinner at the Celanos’

Dinner means waiting for Dad.

It means setting the table with placemats and napkins, and neatly set silver, pitchers of water and plates for your salad; and waiting and waiting, as smells from the kitchen, from sizzling pans and simmering pots, waft through the house like an intoxicating fog.

Making it hard to concentrate on anything other than the clock, and the driveway, where we turn our attentions every few minutes, hoping to see our tormentor’s headlights.

Stomachs gurgling.

Tempers shortening.

Dad finally showing and ever so slowly, shedding his suit. Un-harried. Unhurried to get the meal going. Even though his children are moaning. Haven’t eaten in minutes. But dinner begins when Dad’s ready to sit.

And no sooner.

With full plates and mouths full, we vie for a spot, for a moment of Dad’s attention. Except for Mark, the youngest, who remains wordless, playing with his food. Making subtle, reactive faces to the different conversations.

Having barely touched his plate, Mark asks to be excused. It’s a radical move.

So was Dad saying yes.

Staring at the untouched stuffed, green pepper on my plate, I curse myself, wishing I’d thought of it first.

An unusual amount of commotion can soon be heard coming from the boys’ room directly above us. Strange, everyone agrees, Mark usually goes straight from table to T.V.

Then all eyes are drawn through the dining room window, overlooking the lawn, the bluff and the lake. To the darkening sky, where an airplane is crossing. Which wouldn’t be much, if the thing wasn’t smoldering.

Hearts jump. Mom lets out a shriek.

Until the tiny model plane on fire, stops in mid-air. Hung up on the wire Mark strung from his window to a large, old oak on the lawn.

In a tiny flash, the tiny, fighter jet (stuffed with pop-its and tissue paper) becomes a well-timed, wee inferno, and all those hours he spent building it, admiring it and high-wiring it, goes up in flames.

By the time my startled attention is back at the table, Mark has quietly returned to his seat and all eyes have turned to Dad, who seems, at first, not to know how to react.

But then we see it.

An almost imperceptible grin.

Mark’s scrunched shoulders soften.

“Nice job,” laughs Jim, as we file outside to examine the smoldering wreckage. “Twisted, but effective.”

I can see Mark is pleased. He’s impressed a tough crowd. Dare I say it? Made us proud.

Except for Mom, who’s still holding her heart.

Within Close Range – Curfew

Every mile or so, I glance to the clock in the middle of the dashboard hoping it will stop. Stop making me later than I already am.

The final mile along Shoreacres Road, with the windows rolled down to air out the smell of too many Marlboro Lights, I can hear the woodland creatures begin to stir and can smell the morning moisture from the trees and the grass and the great lake.

The last part of the driveway is with car lights off and engine hushed to a gentle roll, to where I park (outside the garage) and tiptoe into the kitchen – straight to the fridge – for an easy fix for the munchies.

With a kosher dill already half-eaten in one hand and leftover pasta in the other, I turn to head upstairs and see a light coming from under the door to the adjacent den. Regularly enraged by city-sized electricity bills, Dad enforces a very strict Lights Off Policy and regularly patrols the house, making sure it’s in full blackout mode before climbing into bed.

Seeing the lights coming from the den means only one thing, Dad is still awake… and waiting.

Perched on his favorite sofa, surrounded by portraits of his five, ungrateful children, he’s been watching for headlights through the large, paned window overlooking the front circle.

Growling at the dark, empty driveway.

My plan is stealth flight, but before I have a chance to make it up the first step, Dad rumbles, strong and low, “Anne Elizabeth.”

“Shit,” I whisper after the half-chewed pickle bite heads reluctantly toward my now knotted stomach.

Setting down the food no longer offering any comfort and opening the door to the den, I see Dad – arms crossed – sitting with his legs up on the sofa. Staring straight into my bloodshot eyes.

“Daughter, do you know what time it is?”

(I certainly do.)

“What on earth have you been doing until five o’clock in the morning?”

And without warning, the truth comes pouring forth. I tell Dad about hanging out with friends and making ribs, and taking those ribs to the drive-in movies to eat while watching zombies.

I tell him about the beautiful night and the roaring fire at the edge of the silky, smooth lake; about the moonlight so bright we could see our toes when wading in the cold, clear water.

I told him everything… nearly… and then I asked, “What are you still doing up?”

Confounded by my truths and the question, having to recalculate his intended tongue-lashing, he replies, “I’m just waiting for your sister to get home.”

Equally confounded by what just happened, already moving swiftly toward the kitchen, I nearly scream from excitement when I call out, “Okay. Good night.”

Grabbing the pasta from the counter, I head up the stairs, pausing to look for headlights through the hall window, just above where Dad remains on watch, but only see the sky turn brighter through the silhouetted trees.

Mia doesn’t stand a chance.

Within Close Range – Papa’s Store

As buildings begin to replace trees along the Edens Expressway, I watch for familiar signs that we’re getting nearer Papa’s store.

Up ahead, on the right, stands Nickey (with a backward k), a giant, winking, smokestack of a man urging motorists to take the next exit for their very own, souped-up Chevrolet. The first downtown-bound sentry means twenty minutes more.

Further along the constantly changing horizon, the magnificent, cherry red, neon lips of Magikist – 80 ft. high and puckering up for passersby for years – appears on the left, dazzling and hypnotic. Garishly separating the suburbs from the city; the quiet and conventional, from the wonder and the chaos.

Fifteen more minutes.

At the very edge of the highway, around the next bend, looms the monster of a Morton Salt building and a great expanse of roof (almost level with the highway) painted with it’s iconic logo. I like to count how many seconds its takes to pass this massive, salt-filled warehouse.

And the girl in the yellow dress, with her big umbrella and box of Morton’s.

One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand…

… until it disappears from the smudged rear window.

Ten minutes more.

Taking the next exit, we’re no longer speeding past the inner-city scenery. No longer isolated from the purposeful sprawl, but entering the industrial grime of Ohio Street’s massive warehouse district, desolate and dingy; where faded ads cling to crumbling brick walls and vast stretches of soot-stained windows lay dark and broken along shadowed streets, gray, cracked and worn from the Windy City’s daily grind.

I sink in my seat and cautiously scan the familiar but frightening streets for signs of trouble. My uneasiness arising from the barely discernible (except for the simultaneous “click” ), but habitual practice Mom has of locking the doors before the first red light.

Only after old brownstones and young professionals replace storehouses and seedy-looking characters, do I straighten up and welcome the city outside the window.

The constant beep of car horns trying to hurry along traffic below the tall buildings and shadowed streets. The constant movement of people of all types – not just well-off and white.

The dingy beads of water from the elevated tracks and platforms that plop, trickle and disappear down the window of the station wagon and tell me we’re very near.

Dressed in our Sunday best, fermenting with the pent up energy forty-five minutes in close quarters guarantees, our restless tribe is led in a disorderly row, through the perennially cold, dark, parking structure and onto the city streets.

One block down and around the corner, to Michigan Avenue, I know to look for the red and gold awning (between the fancy shoe store and even fancier department store). As soon as I spot it, I pick up my pace until reaching the revolving door of Papa’s store, Celano Custom Tailors.

Squeezing my way into the pie-shaped divisions and forced to spin a circle and a half – by a sibling pushing the rotating door too fast – I stumble onto a sea of cardinal red carpet.

Impeccably clean. Incredibly lush.

At the end of the long, narrow showroom, past smartly dressed salesmen and bolts of rich fabric, stands Papa.

Smiling quietly.

Waiting to give his warm, well-pressed, fragrant hugs to each of his progeny.

After which, he gently, but hastily, scoots all five of us to the back of the store. Away from the immaculate glass cabinet displays of silk ties, colorful ascots and men’s colognes. Away from the meticulously stacked cashmere sweaters, and roll after roll of expensive Italian wools, French cottons and Irish linens. Keeping us well clear of the handsome, silk robes neatly hung on racks with red, wood hangers, custom-stamped in gold.

Most of all, we are whisked away from his well-to-do clientele in their very expensive, custom suits, custom shirts and spit shine shoes.

But my interest lies down a narrow set of stairs, in the windowless world below; where little men, with measuring tapes hung around their necks and giant scissors in their hands, bend over large, long work tables, spread with dark wools and shimmering silks.

They always stop and smile, exclaiming how much we’ve all grown, but my attention is on what’s behind the glass partition where Papa’s bookkeeper works, and in the bottom drawer, at the side of her desk, piled high with ledgers.

As soon as I reach her side, she bends toward the drawer with her piled-high hair.

Casting a shadow over her bookkeeping.

And from it she takes out a full box of Turtles – chocolate and caramel and pecans in a gooey, luscious mound.

Papa’s favorite. And mine.

In our silent ritual, I smile and thank the bee-hived bookkeeper and choose a turtle from the box, before being pushed by an impatient sibling next in line.

Permitted back upstairs only after all hands have been inspected, we’re led to Papa’s office, where Jim plays boss with the many-buttoned telephone on the large, leather- topped desk. Until he dials the storefront and annoys the staff and Papa appears with playing cards and store stationary, and a gentle warning.

Stop fidgeting.

With Mom and Dad still shopping, we begin to take turns spying on the front of the store, watching the elegant dance of silent footsteps, hushed tones and controlled smiles in full-length mirrors. Making me feel as if I’m witnessing something sacred in the tending of well-to-do gentleman.

As if an ascension.

Until Jim discovers the stereo and starts pushing buttons.

Shattering the sober storefront with an unexpected symphony.

Instantly paroled from our conference room confinement, we race along the heavily padded, red carpeting, past the quiet clerks and perfect displays, and bolts and bolts, of dark, rich fabric.

Past Papa, who flinches when our many-footed exit shakes the cabinets.

And ruffles his clients.

Michigan Avenue is an eruption of motion and commotion, of which we’re swept up in, until we find ourselves among the tourists and the toilers at the base of the very new John Hancock Center.

Pressing my hands and body against its cool, black steel, I look skyward, trying to see the skyscraper’s top. Struggling to keeping my balance.

It makes me dizzy and suddenly anxious to see the red and gold awning.

And the thick, red carpeting.

And Papa’s outstretched arms, for one last hug, before returning north.

Past the giant girl in the yellow dress.

Past the giant, neon lips, now lighting the early evening skies with its rosy red glow.

Past the smokestack man disappearing in the dusk.

To the quiet woods.

To the dark skies.

To home.

Within Close Range – Shattered

It’s a new found freedom, riding a bike through my cousins’ neighborhood, unattended by an adult, or an older sibling.

The streets are busier and much bigger than what our secluded, little subdivision has to offer and Gina, Mary and I are headed, unattended, to Nonnie and Papa’s apartment a few miles away.

The furthest I’ve ever ridden my bike is two blocks over.

Hopped up on sweets (following multiple raids of Nonnie’s unrivaled candy stash) and the even sweeter taste of pedal-powered independence, it’s little wonder why, when Nonnie tells me she has something to give me for my birthday and shows me a beautiful, porcelain doll, I want to take possession of it.

Immediately.

Nonnie refuses, at first, insisting that she bring it to Aunt Ar and Uncle John’s when she and Papa come later.

But as an obvious and well-chosen favorite, my sugar-induced swagger wins her over and she wraps the doll in an old towel, puts it in a thick, white plastic bag.

Hesitating before handing it over.

With a frown.

She follows me out the apartment door. Her tiny, slippered feet shuffling at my heels all the way to the elevator. As the automatic door glides shut, I hug the plastic bag and lower my eyes, avoiding Nonnie’s last pleading look.

Seeing her watching from her living room window three stories up, I carefully place the reluctantly released gift into the metal basket of the bike I borrowed from John, grab the handlebar and, with an air of overplayed nonchalance, attempt to kick my leg OVER the center bar that boy’s have on their bikes for no apparent reason.

I fall short.

Brutally kicking the bike to its side.

Launching the fragile contents out of the basket and onto the cement sidewalk.

Mary and Gina, both straddling their bar-less bikes, each with a foot on a pedal and a look of fleeing in their eyes, are slack-jawed. Stunned silent. Like they’ve seen a terrible accident at the side of the road.

Neither can look away from the body in the bag.

Even though the sight of it is truly dreadful.

Yet nothing compared to what my eyes are about to search out: Nonnie, three floors up, bearing witness to it all.

Witness to my fall.

My failure.

Her eyes never once leaving me, refusing to budge from the window of her velvety world of gild and glass, of lacy figurines, candy-filled cabinets, and porcelain dolls.

Less one.

Of obvious favorites and grave disappointments.

Of which I’m now the latter.

With my sugar-buzz busted and my confidence shattered like the small, doll’s head, the procession home is silent and somber.

Nonnie never utters a word about it to me that evening.

(Helped by the fact that I avoid her like a tiny, Italian Plague.)

But her silence is deafening.

Within Close Range – Candied Abandon

Beside something scrumptious simmering on the stovetop
in an old, enameled, cast iron pan
that looks as if it has cooked a million meals
and I hope will cook a million more
being at Nonnie’s is a sweet tooth’s paradise.

A candy coated, chocolate covered, land of plenty.

Shelf after shelf of saccharine delights.
Coffee candy, toffee bits.
Circus peanuts, caramel nips.
Oooy-gooey turtles in a box of white and gold.
Tin boxes crammed with powdery, crescent cookies that melt in my mouth.

And leave telltale, powdered sugar fingerprints everywhere.

A wealth of sweet treasures easily discovered
in bedside tables and TV cabinets,
atop plush, well-vacuumed, wall-to-wall;
in pockets and purses, and small tin boxes
filled with tiny, hard, fruit-shaped candies.
Creamy, sweet, tart perfection.

Hopped up on sugar, I scavenge for more.

Scanning curio shelves for a glimmer of wrappers
through crystal candy dishes in glass cabinets.
Climbing up on the long, deep, velvety sofa,
reaching for the lid of the porcelain box on the mirror-topped table,
I follow my greedy reflection in the mottled gold glass.

Seeing no misgivings for more than my fill of butterscotch and Bulls-Eyes.

Within Close Range – Calzone

Every branch of our Italian family tree makes calzone. At least what we know as calzone: a round or rectangular, incredibly delectable, bread pie stuffed with five unvarying ingredients: ricotta, eggs, parmesan, mozzarella and Italian sausage.

Even though the main ingredients of calzone never vary among the families (or generations), each maker and baker adds their own special touch: a thinner crust, a little red pepper, more mozzarella, less ricotta, less filling, more filling, spicy sausage or sweet sausage.

But always sausage with fennel seed.

So distinct are the differences, I can tell who baked which calzone with just one bite.

In our house, it’s an all day affair of raising and kneading enough dough, cooking enough sausage, cracking enough eggs and mixing enough stuffing to bake enough pies to make it through Christmas.

Always making plenty to feed growing families and friends. But never enough to make it to Easter, when the whole delicious process starts over again.

Mom breaks with tradition, making each calzone something even more special than pieces of heaven, hot from the oven. She makes them a celebration. Golden, braided baskets of glistening crusts brimming with love and lusciousness.

A crime to cut into. A bigger one not to.

Calzone is family.

Uniquely individual.

Sometimes a little spicy.

More than a little crusty.

Ill-advised in excess, yet never around long enough, and missed when gone.

Within Close Range – Best Friends

We try to light it squatting beneath an old, planked bridge.
Like naughty, little trolls.
Laughing and cursing the unrelenting wind and an almost empty box of matches.
Coughing. Giggling. Coughing.
Startled by the snap of a twig.
Whispering and waiting for something in particular.
Not caring about anything in particular.
Until the tiny roach sticks to my mouth and I wince.
Pulling the burning paper from my lower lip.
Betsy laughs.
Which makes me laugh.
Even though it hurts like hell and my lip is already blistered,
making me to worry about how I’m going to explain the burn to Mom and Dad –
who notice every pimple.
But then I stop caring.
Content to be beside my friend.
Standing firm against the bitter lake winds.
Feeling happy just to be,
we walk beside the tiny creek.
Sudden cravings hasten our final footsteps.
Down the deserted road of my secluded neighborhood.
Stepping over acorns and twigs fallen from late October trees.
Side by side.
Stoned.
Smiling in the comfortable silence of a very, best friend.

Within Close Range – Bullies

Being the furthest away, I’m the first to be picked up by the bus in the morning.

Following the same logic, I’m also the first one dropped off after school.

This means that every, single kid on our route has to sit on the bus an extra forty minutes each afternoon.

Just for me.

Full of hormones and blind hatred, the kids in last few rows of the long, yellow bus make their displeasure over my arrival well-known almost daily.

Moaning and groaning as soon as I appear, making me nervously skitter to a seat near friendlier faces and the exit.

The hardcore insults come later, cloaked in the anonymity of the rumbling and motion of the bus.

“Fucking Loser.”

“Rich Bitch.”

“Father Fucker.”

Deaf to what he hears, the bus driver just goes where he’s told.

In the opposite direction of where every kid on the bus – except me – lives.

United by the same neighborhood, my after-school assailants snarl and nip at the back of my neck like chained dogs, piercing my thin skin.

It’s us versus them in every nasty word. But the “them” they think I am is absolutely absurd.

When their rabid, back row words have more than their usual bite, I step from the bus and veer off the road, searching for a way to shake their words in the thick, dim patches of unpeopled forest.

I disappear among the yellow and ember-colored autumn leaves which cap the many trees of Shoreacres, before the heavy freeze steals the color from the land.

Until the sound of my breathing, the movement of the clouds, and the wildlife going about their business, gives me the inclination to go about my own.

And to replenish my soul with the comforts of home.

Within Close Range: Shoreacres

Everyone we know is growing up across the street, around the corner, or the next block over from each other. Daily building a collective experience which connects friends, parents of friends, neighbors and neighborhoods.

Where we live, nothing and no one we know is a couple blocks over, or right around the corner.

Edged with acres of Oak and Maple, Birchwood and Beechwood rooted at the edge of the bluff, our quiet road hides a scattering of courtly houses where forests make good fences and privately schooled children are seldom seen.

And never heard.

A lovely, but lonely, dead end road that winds a mile past manicured grass and unflappably white, club buildings; where quiet, unflappably, white club members and their very quiet staff, raise their heads at our regular din.

We’ve shaken up Shoreacres in seven different ways. A constant breach in its buttoned-up ways.

Directly to our east, rolling onto the beach at the bottom of the bluff eighty feet below, is Lake Michigan.

Dark and deep. Dependably cold and unfriendly.

Built at the turn of the century beside this vast and often brutal body of water, Naval Station Great Lakes, a recruit training camp, sits on over 1,500 acres due north. We can see its harbor from our backyard.

Right next door to this is North Chicago – whose ambitious name reflects more ambitious days, before the lifeblood of the city fed on the flesh of young sailors far from home.

Sailors, sex, booze and Abbott Labs.

That’s North Chicago, just to our north.

To the south, in between us and everyone we know, is Arden Shore, a longstanding fixture in helping troubled kids amid troubled homes.

Here and there, we’ll meet a stray wandering away from its classrooms and confines. Drifting along the edge of the waves, on the ever-shifting sand, or beneath the trees, wandering through the dark and the green and the silence.

We’ll smile and wave and he’ll smile back – kind of – then disappear behind sunken shoulders.

Back into the woods.

And his troubled thoughts.

And us to our troublemaking.

Past Arden Shore, stand two large, lakeside estates of meatpacking magnates and old money, and privileged lives – one defunct, the other very much alive.

Just south of here is where the village streets begin; where lives criss-cross and meet at corners.

And nearness compels strangers to become neighbors.

But north of here is where we live.

Along a lonely, lovely, dead-end road. Among the quiet privileged. Where forests make good fences.

Within Close Range: Betsy’s Dad’s Den

Each time I lit the candle, a rich, earthy fragrance brought forward hazy memories, vague images which came briefly into view and then vanished amid so many forgotten days. 

I’d light the candle and back they’d come.

Out of focus, but strong.

One day, with the faint but familiar fragrance still in the air, still teasing my middle-aged mind, I reached for the smoky-colored glass containing the candle and turned it over, hoping the label would reveal something – anything, that might re-animate these mislaid memories.

And there it was, my answer. Pipe tobacco.

Almost immediately, a clear vision from those indistinct days came to me; a beautiful memory of Mr. Gould’s den, tucked in the corner of the Gould’s grey-green, two chimney Colonial, which sat a short block from the edge of Lake Michigan.

You could find it by heading straight east down Scranton Avenue, the main street of Lake Bluff’s hardly-a-downtown business district.

The old house sat in a quiet spot amid tree-filled lots and winding ravines and looked as if it had been there almost as long as the venerable trees which towered over it.

Stepping into the Gould’s house was like stepping out from the Way Back Machine with Mr. Peabody. Everything from its old plaster and uneven, wood floors, to its cozy nooks and small, sunlit rooms filled with old things, incited my imagination.

And the kitchen – old bricks and beams – will always smell of fresh-baked bread. 

Betsy and I would cut thick slices off a golden brown loaf cooling on the tall counter and sink our teeth into the still warm, chewy insides that hinted of honey and butter and left our fingers powdered with flour, and my stomach hungry for more.

With the final crusts of bread stuffed into our mouths, we’d climb the steep, narrow, crooked flight of stairs to Betsy’s room, straight ahead. 

Two rooms, really. One being her bedroom, the other a small, summer sleeping porch with northwest walls of old, paned windows; where generations of restless sleepers sought lake breezes during the dependably hot and humid Midwest summer nights. 

Cots and cotton nightgowns. 

Late summer sun and the strident thrum of crickets. 

An old Victrola winding down a ragtime tune – tinny, scratchy and lazy to finish.

Another time still haunted the corners of this room. 

Before the piles of fabric, patterns and sewing stuff cluttered the small, bright space at the corner of the Gould’s old Colonial near the lake, where we’d spread out across Betsy’s high bed and talk dreamily about our four favorite men: John, Paul, George and Ringo. Spinning their albums until daylight left and my ride home appeared at the front door.

The rest of the upstairs was a mystery to me, being two-thirds occupied by teen brothers, whose rare appearances and even rarer visits to Betsy’s room usually lasted briefly and annoyed her thoroughly.

It simply scared the shit out of me.

On occasion, when Betsy sought out her dad during my visits, we’d wander back down the creaky, old stairs, through the dark front entry hall (which no one ever seemed to enter through) to the one and only place I ever recall encountering Betsy’s dad.

His den.

With a timid rap on the solid, old door, we’d hear his gentle voice give permission to enter this space, his special place.

His sanctuary.

And it was here, as the door opened and I entered behind my best friend, that the smell of sweet and spicy, earthy and smoky, became an inexorable part of me.

As did Mr. Gould, ever at his desk. Smoking his pipe. Sweatered like the perfect professor.

Ever engaging his hands and his mind.

Creating. 

Drawing. 

Building dreams.

And ships in bottles.

Magnificent, masted vessels of extraordinary detail. Masterfully constructed. Delicately painted and meticulously engineered within ridiculously constrained glass confines.

When finished, each ship would join the miniature armada that floated on a sea of books on wooden shelves, near paneled walls and paned windows with mustard drapes and a glass-topped coffee table filled with shells and sticky sand from innumerable spilled milks.

Like the room above, the windows of Betsy’s dad’s den overlooked Scranton Avenue.

Each night (Betsy would tell me), without fail, her dad would close those long, mustard-colored curtains and sit at his desk to busy his hands and block out the world.

Yet each and every time a car drove past, she found it most mysterious that her dad would draw the drapes back – just enough to watch the car pass – and then close them again and return to his task.

And his deliciously fragrant pipe.

And his secret snacks – Pepsi and Fritos – hidden beneath his desk.

And there he’d stay, hour after hour, day after day, year after year, making beautiful things for make-believe worlds.

I could have sat in there for hours exploring the books, the shelves, the bottles, and the mind of a quiet, creative man. All of which, as a child, were out of reach.

Yet now reach out to me. 

Calling me back to the old, two-chimney, grey-green, Colonial on Scranton Avenue.

To Betsy’s dad’s den.

To his ships and his pipe and the sweet aroma.

To fresh baked bread.

And lazy afternoons.

With best friends.

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 lawns and sidewalks.

Faces look pale and anxious for change.

After the usual Sunday sermon of incense and absolution, followed by stacks of buttermilk pancakes and syrupy sausages, we know something is up when Dad drives past the walled entrance of King’s Cove, our subdivision, further and further from home.

Past unfamiliar towns and unfamiliar faces.

Boredom is beginning to grow horns, when just past a sleepy village appear several white, storybook farm buildings down a long, straight-as-an-arrow road. Enchanting and inviting, tidy and bright – even on this gloomy day.

My heart beats faster as we near.

And sinks as we pass.

Before I have a chance to exhale my displeasure – long and loud for all the car to hear – a glorious mural of colorful birds, ever taking flight on the north side of a barn, comes into view in the rear window, mesmerizing me until it’s out of sight and Dad signals a turn to the right.

“Shoreacres Country Club. Members Only. Est. 1916.”, reads the uninviting sign, as we turn into the dark of the woods just past the storybook farm. Mom and Dad keep silent as the wide, low wagon drifts down the winding road, flanked by a small, trickling creek, past long stretches of green grass and tall trees.

Everything is covered in a fine, frigid mist, including another set of elegant, white buildings belonging to the famously snobbish club (who will eventually and wholeheartedly reject Dad), silent and still on this dreary Sunday afternoon.

As we pass a green, faded, old water tower, headless and frightening in the fog, Dad finally begins to divulge our destination: a new home.

The inside of the car goes instantly silent.

I sink further into the wagon’s rear seat, where the strange, unfriendly neighborhood disappears and I can see nothing but the thick, dark clouds smothering the day.

The silence is broken only by the sound of gravel crunching beneath the wheels of the station wagon, now weighted with disappointment, as it twists down a long driveway and stops.

I inch my way back up in my seat to peek at the house.

It’s grey and sullen.

Like the day.

And my mood.

Mom and Dad turn to the back of the car with smiles from ear to ear. Not one of us can fathom what there is to be smiling about.

“We’ll just take a look,” Dad says. “If you don’t like it, we won’t buy it.”

But even I know that means: “You WILL like it.” and “We ARE buying it.”

Like prisoners into an exercise yard, we file from the car and stand in an unhappy cluster on the cold, stone patio in front of the house.

Which isn’t yellow, like ours.

Has no signs of neighbors, a school, OR the Good Humor man, like ours.

And most certainly doesn’t have the new tree house in its backyard, LIKE MINE!

Without keys, Dad and Mom look in the windows and talk excitedly about all they see.

I see nothing but despair.

Until Dad coaxes us to the long stretch of windows that look through the front hallway, into the living room, through its windows and beyond, where we see an expanse of lawn.

And water, for as far as the eye can see.

Five figures, all ranging in size, race to the rear of the house and the edge of the bluff, looking down to where the vast lake rolls onto the beach eighty feet below.

We take turns on an old tire swing at the very edge, watching the lake below and trees above disappear and return.

Serpentining down the overgrown path to the beach, we skip the first of thousands of flat, smooth stones across the cold, dark water of Lake Michigan; marveling at the silhouette of the Chicago skyline jutting out 40 miles to the south and the Great Lakes Harbor dotted with boats just a mile to the north.

I can feel the growing excitement as Jim lifts Mark so he too can peek through the windows of the property’s outbuildings, mostly hidden from the main house by a small patch of woods.

Breeding grounds for mischief and unsupervised merriment.

First cigarettes. First beers. First bongs.

Secret rendezvous for young loves and safe havens for fainthearted runaways.

More than once I’ll pack my technicolor suitcase and run to the greenhouse office, seeking solitude and distance from those who fail to understand me. Only to find that a short time later, I’ll long for home just a few hundred feet away.

The greenhouse office will become a verdant vessel of creativity and fantasy, with floor to ceiling cabinets where surprise attacks will repeatedly surprise, and where a wall length desk (lined with electrical outlets), beneath wall length windows overlooking the great lake, will become our cockpit, our control center, our helm.

In the attached, sunken greenhouse/laboratory/operating room, a deranged, mad scientist will run from staircase to staircase, table to table, laughing maniacally; while faithful minions, at his command, throw the elaborate array of switches that light the building like a giant firefly, and open and close metal shutters** on its plexiglass walls and ceilings.

Turning day to night and eyes to starry skies.

With the flick of another switch, an enormous vent in a small, windowless antechamber**, will belch and blast air at its latest victim or adventurer, and suddenly turn the strange, metal room into a tornado, or a torture chamber, a time machine, or space ship.

Our imaginations will rocket in the greenhouse.

Just north of here, the two-bedroom cottage is where newlyweds will test the waters and where Dad will keep a watchful eye over his seven acre kingdom when his own marital tides turn; where older siblings will taste independence for the very first time and I’ll pretend the tiny house at the very edge of the bluff is all mine.

Change will be ever-present.

The swimming pool will be added and give Mom nightmares. She’ll wake, paralyzed by the thought of one of her children drowning as she stands helpless and hopeless; and she’ll secretly wade into the pool every morning that first summer, where she’ll teach herself how to dog paddle.

Her head will never dip below the surface.

For which we will tease her mercilessly.

But Mom will never say a word.

In the decades ahead, a barn will go up, where playthings of the turbine and equine kind will be housed and I’ll first understand the responsibility of caring for another life; where I’ll curse our ponies, Chief and Billy Gold, on those bitter, winter mornings when I’ll be required to muck stalls before school; and where mice (at the bottom of the grain barrel) and I will constantly frighten the crap out of each other.

A barn will come down, lost to growing teens and changing needs.

The cottage will be sold and land subdivided, to help keep Dad precariously afloat.

New houses will encroach upon our woods.

Our world.

The swing at the edge of the bluff will be consumed by erosion, as will the greenhouse and its office.

Lives will scatter.

Life at the edge of the bluff will be lost.

But what a life it will be.

**Built in 1959 by Dr. John Nash Ott, the Shoreacres property included seven, wooded acres of lakefront, the main house (a New England-style country home), a small, two-bedroom cottage and an office/lab and greenhouse, where Dr. Ott did much of his groundbreaking research.

A former banker turned photographer, cinematographer and inventor, Dr. Ott’s achievements include the development of full spectrum lighting, light therapy and time-lapse photography. Ott was also a pioneer in the newly developing field of photobiology and had the first color TV program to be broadcast from Chicago, called: “How Does Your Garden Grow?”

The greenhouse’s windowless antechamber not only kept unwanted light out of the greenhouse, it’s large blower precisely controlled temperatures (blowing hot or cold air) when someone entered or exited the main building. The ceiling and walls of the greenhouse had fully-mechanized, metal shutters which allowed Dr. Ott to meticulously control light entering the space.

Dr. Ott’s book, “The Ivory Cellar” records his earliest work at Shoreacres.

Within Close Range: The Greenhouse

Defying the somber shades of dead in a Midwestern Winter,

hidden beneath thick, mean layers of snow and ice.

green was something you could see, smell and touch

in Mom’s greenhouse.

Stepping down into its steamy realm was like discovering a distant jungle.

Moist.

Pungent.

Earthy.

Exotic.

I’d sit on the cement stairs,

arms hanging over the metal railing moist from the humidity.

Galoshes and socks dangling precariously.

Watching Mom dig her hands into a soily concoction.

Inhaling strange, sweet smells of bone meal and blood meal.

Manure and lime.

And life.

Nurtured with the same intensity Mom tended her flock.

Passionate and determined all should flourish.

Cultivating her offspring with a unique and fertile mix of love and cynicism,

melancholy, curiosity and eccentricity.

Within Close Range: Anita

Anita was one of those agile, young gymnasts whose limberness and daring were a constant source of admiration and envy.

She seemed to be able to do it all: front flips, back flips, backbends, splits.

I couldn’t even cartwheel.

I did a relatively competent forward AND backward somersault, but this garnered little admiration or support from my peers. So, I spent a good deal of time laying back on lawns.

Observing.

Awed, in particular, by Anita’s long, lanky, bendy body twisting, turning and taking flight. Wondering why and how she could do the things she did, when those skills so skillfully eluded me.

Or was it the passion to try?

But Anita’s dexterity defied the norms of stretchability because Anita was (and still is, I’ll venture to guess) double-jointed.

Be it slumber party or playground, upon request, she would good-naturedly demonstrate this unusual trait by pulling the tips of all four fingers back until the tops of her nails touched her forearm; misshaping her long, slender, freckled hand and wrist, as if made of moist clay.

She could also invert her knees and shoulders until her bowed silhouette looked as if it had been blown inside out, reminding me of an upturned umbrella on a rainy, windy day in The Windy City.

Almost cartoonish.

Illogical and ludicrous.

Her semi-regular recess demonstrations gathered curious, new kids to circle around and gasp at her unearthly elasticity – almost as much as when our classmate, Amy, popped out her false eye.

With a delicate balance of respect and horror, her bendable ways made me think of my Barbie, whose own bendy parts had long ago broken from time after time of forcing bendy poses. There were times I attempted to be like Barbie and my friend, but my body resisted and instead of smiling through it (like Barbie) and pushing through it (like Anita), I felt impossibly cramped and uncomfortable.

Disjointed. Disfigured. Dysfunctional.

Graphic images of parts breaking – snap!, like a twig – were stubborn to leave my imagination. So I quit trying.

Preferring to watch from the shade of a tree, where rubbing my knuckles and elbows and knees with their imaginary aches and graphically imagined breaks, I marveled at my double-jointed friend, who could bend and bend and bend.

Within Close Range: An Evening with Officer Guildemeister

I’ve been sitting here for hours.

Staring at the damn floor.

Finding haunted, frightened faces in the contours of the dark slate below my restless, anxious feet; not knowing whether to be relieved that the last person who came through the door wasn’t Dad.

Officer Gildemeister keeps checking on me through the sliding glass window that separates the lobby from the rest of the station.

Like I’m a possible flight risk.

Asshole.

I know he’s just doing his job, but is all this really necessary? Dragging me in for a lousy can of beer? For God’s sake, I don’t even like beer. It was just handed to me.

Hadn’t even taken one, horrid sip before all hell broke loose.

Everyone saw the cop car enter the St. Mary’s parking lot. Everyone but me and the guy who got busted with his bong.

But even he’s been released… Where the hell are my parents?

And why isn’t there anything to read in here? Anything to stop the constant rewind in my brain: the bright headlights, beers flying, friends fleeing, and voices shouting for me to run. But I’m frozen and can’t see a thing with the squad car’s headlights now shining in my face.

All I can think to do is hide the full beer behind my back… they’d never find it there.

Idiot.

Why did I ever agree to leave the dance?

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I should have just stayed inside and listened to the band. It’s why – NO, Chuck is why I went to that stupid dance in the first place. And for what? Just to be a familiar shadow in the crowd?

“Still no word from your parents. Is there someone else I can call?”

Fuck. Who else can he call?…

“The Villates.”

“The Villates?… You are aware they have to be adults?”

“Dr. and Mrs.” (Asshole.)

He thought I was talking about Rick and Bob. Of course he knows the brothers. And I know what he thinks about them. I can see it in his soulless, pitiless, squinty, little eyes – dirty, hippy, punks – with their long, dark hair, ripped jeans, big, cocky smiles and cockier laughs. With their fast cars and motorcycles – especially Rick’s cherry red Moto Guzzi – which roars and rumbles, announcing his arrival minutes before he can be seen.

I can just see Officer Gildemeister’s sneering face each time my sister’s boyfriend rumbles by him in town…

But if he wants to be rid of me and end his shift, the Villates are his only choice.

Please, Mrs.Villate… please be home.

___________

That’s got to be her.

Unmistakable.

A tiny, fast-moving figure, topped in a tousle of blonde, darting through the doors with a tremendously generous and forgiving smile just for me.

Enter Officer Iceberg-Up-My-Ass.

Standing next to the big man with the gun, Mrs. Villate is nearly eclipsed. Her smile instantly disappears in his shadow.

“Well… are you going to tell her why you’re here, young lady?”

(Because you’re an asshole who couldn’t just slap me on the wrist?)

“I-”

“-She doesn’t have to tell me anything she doesn’t want to.”

Silence.

Did Inge just take down Officer Gildemeister?

He’s flustered. Can’t even look at her. She’s staring him down – or rather up – with a half-raised smile. Knocked out with one blow by a wee, little, German woman in a bad, blonde wig.

Don’t smile, Anne. Just look at the ground and suppress urge to hug Inge ’til later.

“I’ll be contacting your parents tomorrow, young lady.”

I’m sure you will, Officer Asshole.

Let’s get out of here, oh smallest, greatest and by far, very sweetest of all people.

You’re about to get a very tearful earful.

Within Close Range: Albert

Albert has scared the shit out of dozens of people over the years.

He’s been an integral part of our family since Mom first brought him home from a golf trip to Pebble Beach, California, in the mid-seventies.

Ever since then, Albert just hung around.

Year after year, after year, after year.

He’s originally from London, but he’s classic Scottish from the top of his thick, tousled hair down to his argyle socks.

Always in glen plaid and corduroy.

He’s of average height, a gray-haired gentleman, with a full beard – both of which hint of their ginger youth.

In the pocket of his kinsmen’s plaid jacket, for as long as we’ve known him, Albert has always carried his pipe. Right beside this, he used to keep a battered, old tin of Prince Albert (his namesake) tobacco. He still has his pipe, but years ago, some sibling borrowed the rusty, bright red tin – likely to store their weed- and never returned it to the old man.

Albert never said a word.

But that didn’t surprise anyone.

Even though he’s always surprising someone.

So still and silent.

You might find him sitting in the sun porch staring out at the lake, or lying beneath the covers in one of the boys’ twin beds. He might be in the front seat of a car one morning, or on one of the chaises lounging under the stars one night.

His familiar, nonetheless frightening figure would linger in the shadows as I snuck through the house after curfew.

But Albert never tattled.

It simply isn’t in him.

He’s very predictable, but never who some guess he is: an uncle, a grandfather, an unsocial neighbor?

An ever-present family sentinel.

His light blue eyes fixed on the room. Out the window. On you.

Never blinking.

As we speak, he’s probably sitting in the basement of Mia’s house, where he continues to startle guests just looking to use the exercise equipment.

A bit unnerving, but dependably docile… and flexible. Even after years of being forced into the most unflattering positions for the sole entertainment of ourselves and others.

Creepy, I know.

But what can we do? He was so amusing for decades and even though he hasn’t done much since the last kid left the house, he’s simply part of the family.

Certainly worth the $200 Mom paid for Albert before the store manager lifted him out of the pro shop window, packed him in a box, and shipped him home.

Within Close Range: The Checkered Beacon

At the corner of Sheridan Road and Sheridan Place, right across from East Elementary and Lake Bluff Junior High School sits Artesian Park, two blocks of village green where every Fourth of July the grassy field turns to festival and carnival and fun and every winter, the sunken baseball diamond is flooded to make an ice-skating rink.

As soon as the temperature dips and the rink freezes solid, villagers swarm to the park, packing the small patch of ice with skaters of all ages, sizes and skills; with races of speed and games of Crack-the-Whip, hockey sticks slapping and half-hearted “Hamill Camels” spinning.

Huge smiles crowding pink cheeks.

The park’s field house is also opened, where a giant crackling fire in a giant stone hearth, hot drinks, long rubber mats and long, wooden benches, welcome skaters looking for secure footing and a temporary reprieve from the nippy wonders of winter.

Such happiness in hot cocoa and crackling fires.

In being a part of village life, instead of apart from it.

Layered, bundled, skated and packed into the station wagon, anxious to get to the rink and our friends, we watch Dad re-shovel the shoveled path by the garage. When Mom finally steps through the back door, all heads swivel toward the flash of candy apple red which has newly invaded the icy, grey scenery.

There stands Mom in an outfit the likes of which Lake Bluff villagers have never – nor will likely ever see again – a red and white checkered snow suit, with its belted jacket and matching knickers (Yes, that’s right, I said knickers.), red cable knit stockings, white knit gloves, and a matching, white knit, helmet-shaped cap with ear flaps and a large, snowball-sized pom-pom on top.

It’s something to be seen… and near impossible to miss.

She’s something to be seen.

But that’s usually Mom: statuesque, blonde, beautiful, incomparable. Ever the model. Not afraid to be individual, and always, always fashionable – even when that fashion might be questionable.

… at least from the viewpoint of her five, young impressionables.

But Mom is glowing.

Excited for the family outing. Eager to put her weatherproof, yet fashion savvy snow suit to the test.

But Mom is GLOWING.

Like a giant, checkered barber pole.

And everyone from Dad (whose briefly raised eyebrows are a dead giveaway) to Mark (who strains his tiny, bundled body to turn and stare wide-eyed at the walking tablecloth) – are stunned silent by the new outfit that speaks volumes.

As Dad winds the wagon toward town, whispers around the rear seats are exchanged. It’s agreed that the best course of action is evasive. A rapid, rear door exit will surely guarantee reaching the rink quickly and losing ourselves in the nameless, motherless crowd in moments.

As luck would have it, a parking space – one actually big enough to accommodate our Grand Safari station wagon – opens up right in front and above the bustling rink. There’s no more delaying the inevitable fashion statement that’s about to be thrust upon the unsuspecting citizens of Lake Bluff.

As soon as Dad docks the wagon and shifts into park, Jim and Chris leap from the center seat and never look back. In the very rear of the wagon, however,  Mia and I are at the mercy of Dad who needs to open our escape hatch from the outside (a major miscalculation), and who is leisurely lacing his own skates; while Mom struggles to wriggle a wiggly four-year-old into a pair of hand-me-down, oversized skates.

Dad finally releases us, and leaving Mia to fend for herself, I make fast, teetering tracks to the ice, losing myself in a swarm of bladed, unbounded activity.

From the anonymity of the crowd below I watch, – mortified – as Mom’s checkered ensemble appears around the rear of our wagon, moving very, very slowly over ice and snow toward the rink. Giving everyone within a three mile radius ample time to take it all in.

Radiating red against the endless, ashen clouds.

Unembarrassed. Unaffected. Unbelievable.

Forcing me deeper into the throng of villagers, into the sea of somber, Midwestern winter gear. Commonsensical clothes in practical colors blending together like the dark waters of a deep, churning lake.

Unsteadying me.

Disorienting me.

Drowning me in denim and down; in unfamiliar faces and forms, swirling and twirling and lawless.

I feel panic rise and tears swell and wish everyone would just… STOP!

Until a beautiful beacon appears.

A sudden flash of something dazzlingly bright shining through the drab-colored chaos.

The most wonderful sight I’ve ever seen. Giving instant comfort. Guiding me home.

To the arms of Mom.

To the warmth of her hug.

Wrapped tight in all her red and white checkered glory.

Within Close Range: Chief – in three parts

Chief is an ornery Appaloosa, short and fat,

with black spots on the rump of his dirty, white coat

and the devil in his eyes.

Of little training and no past consequences.

A 9th birthday present from Dad – whose childhood pets were porcelain cats and poodles – and mostly Mom, a Missouri farm girl with her grandfather’s gruff, Scottish sensibilities, and steely confidence the challenges will make me a good rider.

I’m confident they’ll kill me.

From the other side of the pasture fence, Mom urges me to remount. Make him know who’s boss.

I struggle to my feet and limp toward the answer, now grazing on prairie grass and wildflowers from which he loathes to be distracted.

In between greedy mouthfuls, Chief raises his wild, blue eyes, beneath poorly cut bangs – which I like to cut.

Straight across.

Stooge’s Style.

No wonder he’s ornery.

He’s quietly watching my crippled approach and just as I’m within a few feet, with a flick of his tail, he’s off, across the long, wide pasture. Adding even more insult to my physical and emotional injuries with each unruly buck and bolt.

Mom’s words are unrecognizable from the far end of the field, but the tone is clear. So I move toward my spotted nemesis, expecting him to bolt again as soon as I get too close.

His long nose buried in the succulent grass, Chief stands his ground, this time, and lets me mount. A voice inside my possibly fractured skull warns me, but Mom’s is louder.

Barely settled in the saddle, I see something I hoped I wouldn’t. Chief lifts his head and pins his fuzzy, white ears flat against his thick skull. I know what’s coming and grab the reins and the saddle horn just before we take off in an uncontrolled and uncontrollable canter.

Somehow I remain in my mount, which annoys my little, four-hoofed devil, who swerves off his trajectory of terror, straight for a cluster of pines.

Two in particular.

Which stand a pony’s width apart.

I close my eyes, hold on tight and hope for the best,,, as Chief. – like yarn through an embroidery needle – threads us between the two pines at top speed.

Scraped from their stirrups, my legs are now bouncing off of Chief’s round rear-end as we pass through the pines into the open pasture toward Mom, who’s still lobbing impractical words over the fence.

I feel my grasp on the saddle-horn weaken.

And a resolve that I’ll soon be tasting earth, grow.

And I let go.

________________

Mom thinks a pal might keep Chief calmer. So early one spring, when the corral is beginning to reveal a winter’s worth of muck, comes Billy Gold: a blue ribbon, well-trained Palomino, which we trailered back behind the station wagon from St. Joseph, Missouri.

Chief dislikes the new arrival immediately.

I think he’s dreamy, with his white/blonde mane and ginger coat, still thick and warm.

I find great joy in feeling his hot breath and fuzzy lips tickling the palm of my cold, red hand as I feed him a carrot.

Mark and Mia are sitting on top of the pine log fence, watching – still unsure of whether we just brought home Chief’s evil ally – when I hear them both scream.

In my thickly lined hood, tied tight against the cold, lake winds, I don’t recognize any words – only warnings – and far too late.

Chief’s powerful teeth clamp down hard.

The pain in my right butt cheek is searing.

I’m howling.

Billy Gold bolts to the other end of the half-frozen corral, but Chief just stands there – a nose length’s away… staring… as I hop up and down, rubbing the wound he’d just inflicted.

Mark and Mia’s shocked silence explodes into laughter, followed by a closely contested race to the house to see who’ll be the first to tell the uproarious tale. Meanwhile, a purple-red welt the size of a small apple, banded by red marks defining each of Chief’s big, front teeth, grows and throbs with each step toward the kitchen door.

Where Mom, greets me with an ice pack and empathy.

_____________

When Chief isn’t trying to shed or eat one of us,

he’s astounding us with his ability to escape.

Devilishly clever.

Very regular.

The phone rings. Mom cringes, apologizes, then sounds the alarm,

steering the station wagon straight toward town.

We found him in a graveyard once, a foggy morning, one fall.

Striking terror in the old caretaker who thought he’d seen it all.

Until galloping across the graves, he saw a ghostly, pony-sized spright –

bad bangs bouncing in the soupy light.

Followed closely by a tall, beautiful, blonde

in flowing, full length, lime-green chiffon.

His hands still trembling when we waved from the road

as we slowly crept toward home with pony in tow.

But much of the time, Chief’s antics are close

and off I dash with grain and a rope;

tracking the wild-eyed Appaloosa’s sod-ripping route

through the blue-blood, buttoned-up neighborhood,

across disapproving neighbors’ pristine lawns

– while from behind windows, I see shaking heads frown.

One rainy, spring day, while watching my pony buck and bolt,

(as if in his very own, god damn, Wild West Show),

leaving hoof-sized divots pocking each meticulous yard,

Chief stops and pin his ears, which puts me on my guard.

Forward the pony charges and I’m sure we’re about to collide

When a voice – loud and fed up – calls from deep inside:

Make him know who’s boss!

I drop the bucket of grain.

I drop my pony’s halter.

I gather all my courage.

The universe is about to alter.

I set my feet and stand my ground and watch him close the gap

and just as he’s within arm’s length, I reach out and I SLAP!

I swat him at the tip of his long, white snout.

Suddenly, all Chief’s piss and vinegar’s done – run – OUT!

With a half-hearted snort, he lowers his poorly banged head,

turning his devilish focus on the grain bucket, instead.

And with noses aligned, we linger toward home,

understanding more about each other than we’d ever known.

Within Close Range: Summers on the Edge

There us peace in the familiar sounds of summer at Shoreacres.

The Northwestern train keeping to its schedule.

Bank Swallows calling to their colony as they swoop to and from nests pockmarking the sandy bluff wall.

The harbor’s baritone foghorn warning boats buried in Lake Michigan’s mist.

Even the sailors at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center to the north chime in, drilling up and down the parade grounds.

Marching.

Grunting.

Singing and rhyming.

Voices hovering in the air like ancient tribal chants.

Laying on the lawn overlooking the lake, I close my eyes and ease into the familiar sound of the sailors’ strong, low voices.

And the marching band practicing its spirited battle hymns.

Miles away, but strong and clear.

Carried to my ears by the lake winds cutting through the thick, moist air that smells of fresh cut lawn and freshwater fish.

Sun-filled days of climbing up and down the bluff where the path used to be before the lake rose and stole chunks of land, leaving little but swallow holes and sand – and killer cool ledges for daring leaps by reckless kids who take to the skies, then aim for the beach, landing in the soft, thick sand below – hot on the surface, but damp and cool just inches beneath.

Wriggling my toes further into the moist earth, I try to recapture the wind knocked out of me in the landing, until voices from above goad me into action and I’m forced forward again, down the soft, crumbling bluff, to a rugged line of boulders Dad had dropped on the beach in his failed fight against this infamously wicked lake.

Then one by one, into the water and waves we wade, trying to dislodge sand from our swimsuits and butt cracks. Feeling the lake’s strong, cold undertow at our feet and the strong, hot sun on our heads.

Watching our Lab, Heather, joyously and tirelessly swim after a stick bobbing on the waves.

Silly dog.

Then up to the top we head to bound down again.

And again.

And again.

Long summer days invade the nights, inspiring late nights of Ghost in the Graveyard and Sardines and a world of hiding places scattered around our acres and outbuildings, where we squat amid the fireflies’ ambitious flickering and whisper above the crickets and cicadas charging the atmosphere with their measured, mesmerizing songs.

Reminding me that I am never really alone.

Standing at the edge of the bluff on the Fourth of July, with the comforts of home just steps away, we watch the fireworks displays from Chicago to Waukegan, “Ooohing” and “Ahhing”, mimicking the faraway crowds and slapping at mosquitoes determined to disturb our private celebration.

Mom unfreezes boxes of brats and burgers to feed a small army, which eventually arrives with empty stomachs and pockets full of bottle rockets, sparklers and Roman candles ample enough to light the skies and the lake, and disturb our quiet neighbors long after the distant festivities have ended.

But the best displays I witness from the brink are the summer thunderstorms rolling over the Great Lake, and the lightening exploding in sky-wide, silver-white bolts and bursts.

I feel fortunate.

And irrelevant.

On gentler nights when the moon is full and bright and we can see our way down the bluff to the beach, my siblings and I wade into the vast, still water.

First, up to our knees. Then our bellies. Then our chests.

Eventually emboldened by the bright moonlight and calm, glassy water, I swim further from the shore and my companions.

Through strange patches of warm in the perpetually cold, inland water.

Scanning the dark stretch of water in front of me and turning to see the sparsely lit shoreline now well behind me, the calm in my mind begins to churn and I begin to worry about what lurks just below my feet – and in those warm patches – and start paddling madly toward the beach and the nearest sibling.

Not stopping until I’m close enough to feel the sand below my feet, or see a smile in the moonlight.

Finding enormous comfort and calm in the motion of another’s treading water.

In their laughter.

In their teasing.

These are the endless days spent layered in sand and sun tan oil. Brown and blissful.

These are the days of sleeping well into the afternoon, or until the smell of breakfast cooking below wafts into my room…

or my class schedule arrives in the mail all too soon.

Within Close Range: Starting to Drown

I struggle when Mom tries to put on my water wings, promising that if she lets me go in without them, I’ll be super careful – stay shallow.

Eventually, she gives in and along the pool’s edge I shimmy until my toes no longer touch the smooth, white bottom and Mom is no longer hovering.

Holding tight to the edge with one hand, I dip below the surface and open my eyes in the clear, blue where I can see the bigger kids dunking and diving in every direction.

Wingless.

Fearless.

Floating and free.

The center of it all is now the place I most want to be, so feeling the rough, concrete surface of the pool deck pressing into the fingertips of one hand, I stretch the other toward the forbidden zone.

The fun.

My future.

And I let go, stretching my nostrils skyward and doggy-paddling furiously toward the deepest waters.

I set my sights on Chris, who’s in the center of the pool talking to Dad, standing at the edge of the shallow end, but half way to her suntanned back, my arms and legs suddenly betray me and before I know it, down I go, pool water filling my nose and mouth.

I scramble for the sun and the air.

For a voice.

For Chris.

But each time I break the surface, my pleas are instantly drowned and I’m still out of reach of that suntanned back.

In the instant before I go under again, I can hear Dad’s voice, but I can’t see him and he can’t see me because Chris is directly in line between us.

And with all the commotion.

Someone please see me.

But no one does and, once more, I sink.

This time, the thought of not reaching air again – or even worse, reaching it and losing it again – terrifies me. I claw for the murky surface, now light years away, but desperate thoughts weigh heavily on my tired legs.

And I want to stop trying.

Arms abruptly pull me to the surface, then to the side of the pool, where another strong and sure pair guides me to the warmth of the concrete deck, where I vomit up pool water and begin to cry.

One Square Mile

We’d been in Prescott several months before I felt brave enough to wander the state trust land near our new home on a hill overlooking, well… almost everything surrounding us – valleys, canyons, mountains.

Being raised in the Midwest, the landscape of Arizona’s Central Highlands was like another world – harsh, seemingly barren, with strange creatures I’d been warned of: giant spiders, poisonous snakes, big cats, long-toothed peccary.

I expected an unwelcome encounter around every scrub, rock and corner, but soon found none.

Instead, I discovered in this small, square mile, an odd, new world of high dessert ways where life and death are on display with every cow for slaughter resting in the shade of a low, broad pine, every blade of blood red grass pushing through the dry, rocky earth.

In the great, bright white blossoms of the moon vine which shun the mid-day sun all summer long, closing their blossoms to everyone. Then as the earth begins to cool, the shrivelled blossoms slowly unfold and reach out to the gentler night.

In every piece of a recent kill, picked nearly clean from above and below, until nothing remains but full bellies and scattered bones to bleach and decay in the strong, abiding Arizona sun.

Each time we wandered its rolling terrain, it begged more questions and felt more sane.

Because every new path helps me see; helps me become part of the marvelous whole which co-exists so beautifully on the highland square beside my home.

One still, cool, autumn day the dogs and I went walking, making a dubious circle inside this small square of land. About half-way round, we climbed a small ridge near the northern fenceline, alongside a jarring stretch of a dirt road that leads to Chino Valley.

There, on the other side of a wide, shallow wash, some 15 yards away, we encountered a herd of pronghorn – two dozen, or so – grazing. Though every creatures lifted its head from meals, naps, and play, they didn’t seem bothered enough to take leave.

To take flight.

Even as the dogs whined and pulled hard at their leashes.

It was a remarkable sight. Small groups of juveniles, females and males, spread out, but close at hoof, with earthy colors of wheat, white and black blending with the vast desert grasslands where they like to roam.

I once found one of their dark, slender, knobby horns on one of our walks, having just been shed.

Still pungent and warm.

Feeling the aching resolve of the dogs’ interest in my arms, I soon turned away, toward the west and home. Happy to have been able to get so close to such remarkable creatures – the fastest land mammal our hemisphere. (The cheetah might be fast, my friend, but the pronghorn has the speed and endurance.

The dogs were frantic and frightened and nearly pulled me off my feet.

All I could do was dig my heels into the dry, hard earth and with nowhere else to look, stare straight into the eyes of the leader, who seemed somehow surprised by our meeting. With the herd at her heels, and us just ahead, it was up to the lead as to how this would end.

So glad she decided, at the very last moment, to dart to our right.

The spray of dirt from her hooves shot into my wide open mouth, as we watched the leader take her swift-hooved family around the other side of a short, fat scrub, just a few yards away.

I held tight and dug my heels deeper, as the dogs turned with the pronghorn, and me with the dogs. Yet instead of continuing forward and away, the leader suddenly turned the panicked herd and circled back to where all of this began.

Instantly surrounding us on all sides. Lifting the dust high above our heads.

The dogs, now howling, kept yanking and yanking, but I kept them anchored,  all the while bemoaning the unreachable phone in my back pocket because no one was going to believe that we were at the very center of a neighborhood stampede.

When the bright white backside of the final pronghorn disappeared into the dust, I finally looked down from my tired, trembling arms to see that the dogs were not in the least bit tired, but trembling too.

Holy shit,” I laughed, repeating the sentiment a few more times, as my sore, quaking, anxious fingers fumbled for the phone in my pocket to call Kurt.

I found my breathe again on the slow, wobbly, happy journey home.

The Wind and the Owl

When the central highland winds howl through the valley and rattle the windows of our house on the hill, shaking and bending the juniper and pinion trees I see beyond the shuddering panes, my body and mind still brace for the only thing that comes of such blustery warnings to the Midwestern me.

The menacing advance of a fearsome storm.

Intense and unforgiving.

I feel my body – tense and taut – bracing for the worst with each swollen

Pacing through the house.

Anxious for it to stop.

Or me to move.

So my dogs and I head out for our walk, prepared for a fight against tempests and cold and I’m ever surprised to find the winds far more kind than I imagined.

Mellowed by the sun’s abiding strength.

Layers are shed at the start of our walk and the warm, constant breezes now push me, Frank and Nellie to the chapparal below, where I know the sweeping winds will blow much gentler music across the tall grass. And at my back, urge me forward toward to the far fence line where the pronghorn often graze.

But downwind today, well warned of our arrival, they’re likely to have scattered; prompting me to turn against the wind and start a circuitous loop back home.

Toward the scrub oak and junipers.

Shelter and shade.

And the shadowy scent of Mountain Lilac blossoming profusely in the wake of generous winter rains.

The gentle fragrance of this rugged bush, appears and disappears with the shifting winds, lifting my spirits with each sweet return, as I wander up and down the hills with my two, most joyful companions.

The world in their noses turned into the breezes.

Close to home, I see a Great Horned Owl take to the air just a few feet ahead.

I hear one, grand flap of his wings. And then nothing.

A familiar shadow among the neighborhood trees, I track his flight and see him perch again in a pine, up the hill and up ahead, and I follow with glee.

Silently.

Deliberately.

From tree to tree.

Hidden among the dark, green boughs of an old, domed Juniper, heavy with pollen, the owl waits. But just as we near, off he goes, higher up the hill and closer to home, past the scattered remains of a long dead tree which lay like a skeleton, gray and sunbleached, exactly where it fell.

Pursuing him again to yet another tree, it’s as if the owl is hunting me. For, there, in a clearing of branches, the great hunter sits.

Quietly watching us move up the hill.

Allowing me the perfect view of this very perfect predator.

Staring still, my eyes meet his, until he decides we’ve come close enough.

And that is that.

He spreads his wings and disappears, without a sound, among the pinion near the old pit mine.

I try to reconnect at a fourth tree ahead, but instead, meet a noisy grackle balanced at the top of the tree where I hoped the Great Horned Owl would be. But he has already continued on his way, up the hill, over a fenceline, and out of my sight.

Certain we’re not out of his, I scan the trees on the hill in vain.

Unleashing the dogs, Nellie’s off in a dash in her fruitless pursuit of chasing small reptile.

Zigging and zagging, but never succeeding.

I think she’s just teasing.

My call for her cuts through the wind and the white-noised silence.

Unsettling me.

Until the music of the wild winds in the scrub oaks and the pines, in the final footsteps home, help me find my peace and place again.

Wisconsin Days: March

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Photo by ac frohna

The sun shines brightly through the bedroom window and beckons me to rise even before Eva begins her morning ritual of cooing me awake from the nursery next door. Stretching long and hard and hesitating before throwing the warm comforter aside I gaze out the window at the bright blue sky and bent, barren treetops. It has not been a very harsh winter, nevertheless it’s March and in the Midwest that means winter has already been two months too long.

Delaying the departure from my bed, I try to recall what the first days of spring smell like, instead of the stale odor of a house that hasn’t ushered in the outdoors for many months. Inhaling long and hard, I imagine the sweet smell of a newly mown lawn and the swelling winds just before a summer thunderstorm.

Closing my eyes and, rather than the same leafless branches I have seen since November, I picture the first tiny, bright green leaves about to unfurl all along the branches of the oaks, hickories, and maples in the neighborhood.

I even try to imagine a spring shower dampening my face and the cool moist dirt beneath my fingernails, and just as I am about to take a great, big, imaginary bite out of the freshly picked tomato, I hear my daughter gurgle and murmur and wrestle with her bunny. With a dreamy sigh, I toss back my covers expecting to be hit with a blast of winter cold, but much to my delight the late winter sun has filtered in and settled all around me. Climbing from bed, I make my way to the window and open it, hoping the day outside will be just as kind.

It takes no imagination to hear the enthusiastic morning warbles and cheeps, twitter and tweets of the birds already enjoying this happy hiatus from the cold. With a great big smile and an excited pang in my heart, I clap my hands and scurry to Eva’s room singing, “Spring is coming, Noodle, spring will soon be here. Let’s go outside and greet the day, for spring is very near!”

Rushing through our morning routines and happily neglecting my deadlines, I dress Eva and strap her to my chest, call for the dogs, and hurry outside to welcome the pleasant day. Although the cool winds still instantly summon thoughts of winter, there’s no mistaking a change of season is upon us.

I can feel it in my bones and smell it in the air.

As I wandered from one dormant garden to another, my excitement over the impending season is very powerful – so powerful that I feel as if I concentrate hard enough I can almost will the buds to spring from the earth before my eyes – and even find myself a little disappointed when nothing issues forth upon command.

Yet I know very well that life will soon stir without my urging.

As we slowly make our way over to the vegetable garden, I begin to make a lengthy mental list of all the things I’ll try to grow this summer and all that has to be done to prepare the beds for the coming harvests. I imagine Eva, now bundled up and bound to me, soon crawling across the sweet smelling earth and playing beneath the hot sun, taking her first steps across the dewy grass and chasing the summer-slim barn cats.

My smile grows even wider when I look ahead to the days when my daughter will have her own little garden patch where I will teach her the simple pleasures of digging in the dirt and making something grow.

With Timber and North at our heels, and Eva at my chest, I head across the prairie behind our home. Each time a blast of wind strikes our faces, I hear my daughter suck in the cold air and squeal with delight at being out of doors and out of our snowy asylum.

So on we continue, ignoring the remaining winter’s icy reminders.

Whispering in my daughter’s ear, I speak of spring; of swaying fields and stormy skies, of prairie grass and wild asparagus, of hillsides blanketed with wildflowers and woodlands scattered with secret patches of subtle flora, restrained and fleeting, of puddles of rain and fat, buzzing bees.

We walk and talk and throw sticks for the dogs all morning and in these hours, I, like the earth, stir toward reawakening.