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 I suffered through the early tortures of Physical Education with activities such as softball (it was here I caught my first fly ball… with my nose) and the annually humiliating 400 yard dash - or in my case, quarter-mile-of-side-cramps-and-red-faced-misery. Nauseous and breathless and always one of the last to stumble over the finish line.

“Walk it off!” Mr. Dieden would call 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 bald head; with an ever-present whistle around his neck and clipboard in his hand.

Mr. Dieden, who made me write: “I will never say ‘Shut Up’ again in Mr. Dieden’s 6th period gym class.” 1,975 times. 

One sentence for each year.

When all I really said was “Shu-“ before Mr. Dieden (three volleyball courts away, but  apparently still within hearing range) said, “Miss Celano. I’ll see you after class.” 

Like he’d been waiting for it.

Never said a word about Jeff’s “gold bricks and rich brats” remark.

Hoping for it.

Destined, in Mr. Dieden’s eyes, to be stuck at the bottom of life’s climbing rope forever, Artesian Park held little joy for me - except during the Fourth of July when the field turned to festival and carnival and fun; and when winter came and the village flooded the sunken baseball diamond across from the Junior High for an ice-skating rink.

As soon as the temperatures dipped and the rink froze solid, villagers would swarm to the park, packing the small patch of ice with skaters of all ages, sizes and skills; with races of speed and Crack-the-Whip, with hockey sticks and half-attempted “Hamill Camels”.

With huge smiles crowding pink cheeks. 

The park’s field house was also opened, where a crackling fire, hot cider and hot chocolate, long rubber mats and long, wooden benches welcomed skaters looking for secure footing and temporary reprieve from the nippy wonders of winter.

Such happiness in hot cocoa and heated shelters.

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

Layered, bundled, skated and packed in the station wagon, anxious to get to the rink - and our friends - we watched Dad re-shovel the shoveled walkway as we waited for Mom, whose pace was her own and not to be hurried.

For anyone.

When she finally stepped through the back door, all heads swiveled toward the flashes of Candy Apple red which had newly invaded the icy, grey scenery.

There Mom stood, in an outfit the likes of which Lake Bluff villagers had never-nor would likely ever see again: a red and white checkered snow suit: a fitted jacket with 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 was something to be seen (and near impossible to miss).

She was something to be seen.

But that was usually Mom.

Statuesque, blonde, beautiful.

Incomparable.

Ever the model.

Not afraid to be individual.

Always, always fashionable. 

Even when that fashion might have been questionable.

At least from the viewpoint of her five, young impressionables.

But Mom was glowing. 

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

BUT, Mom was glowing!

Like a giant, checkered barber pole.

And everyone from Dad - whose raised eyebrows on first catching sight of his fashion forward wife were a dead giveaway; to Mark, who strained his bundled body to stare at the walking tablecloth - were stunned silent by the new outfit that spoke volumes.

Exchanging glances and whispers around the rear seats as the wagon wound past the golf course, then south to town and the park, it was agreed that the best course of action was evasive. Once parked, a rapid, rear door exit would surely guarantee reaching the rink quickly and losing ourselves in the nameless, motherless crowd in moments.

As luck would have it (but whose luck was the question), a parking space - one actually big enough to accommodate our huge, creamy yellow station wagon - opened up right in front and above the bustling, sunken rink. There was no more delaying the inevitable fashion statement that was about to be thrust upon the unsuspecting citizens of Lake Bluff. As soon as Dad docked the Grand Safari and shifted into park, Jim and Chris leapt from the center seat and never looked back.

In the very rear of the wagon, however,  Mia and I were at the mercy of Dad who needed to open our escape hatch from the outside (a major miscalculation) and who was leisurely lacing his own skates, while Mom struggled to wriggle a wiggly four-year-old into a pair of hand-me-down, oversized skates.

Eventually, Dad released us and leaving Mia to fend for herself, I made fast, teetering tracks to the ice, losing myself in a swarm of bladed, unbounded activity. From the crowd below, I watched, mortified, as Mom’s checkered ensemble appeared around the rear of our ship-sized Grand Safari, moving very, very slowly toward the rink, over ice and snow.

Giving everyone within a three mile radius ample time to take it all in.

Radiating red against the endless, ashen clouds.

Unabashed.

Unaffected.

Unbelievable.

Forcing me deeper into the throng of villagers.

Into the sea of somber, winter gear - commonsensical clothes in practical colors - blending together like the dark waters of a deep, churning lake.

Disorienting me.

Unsteadying me.

Suddenly drowning me in denim and down.

In unfamiliar faces.

Until a beacon - a sudden flash of bright - shone through the drab-colored chaos and restless crowd.

The most wonderful beacon I’d ever seen.

Giving me 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 - Candied Abandon

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

The streets were busier.

And bigger.

Well beyond what our secluded, little subdivision had to offer.

Even groovier still was the fact that Gina, Mary and I were headed, unattended, to Nonnie and Papa’s apartment a few miles away.

The furthest I’d ever ridden my bike was two blocks over.

I always welcomed time spent with Nonnie - not only because I was an obvious and wisely-chosen favorite - but because visits invariably meant two things:  an ever-delicious something simmering on the stovetop in an old, enamel-coated, cast iron pan that looked as if it had cooked a million meals and I hoped would cook a million more…  

and candy.

Coffee candy, toffee bits, circus peanuts, caramel nips.

Just behind the child-height cabinet doors was a world of plastic and glass containers filled with a stunning variety of sugary delights which would have made Willie Wonka very, very proud.

And the confections extended far beyond the kitchen cupboard, for this was a house of hidden treats easily discovered in bedside tables and T.V. cabinets, in pockets and purses and small tin boxes filled with tiny, hard, raspberry-shaped sweets. 

Creamy. sugary, tart perfection.

In large tin boxes, crammed with powdery, crescent-shaped, jammed filled, freshly made cookies that melted in your mouth and left powdered-sugar fingerprints everywhere.

I’d regularly make my covert rounds through the apartment, beginning in the living room, where I’d climb up on the long, deep, velvety sofa and quietly lift the lid off a porcelain box on the gilded, mirror-topped table.

Following my greedy reflection in the mottled, gold looking glass. 

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

Circumnavigating the well-vacuumed wall-to-wall that day, I scanned the living room horizon for a glimmer of red, green, gold, or silver wrappers through thick, crystal candy dishes.

And was not disappointed.

Halloween and the other less candy-related holidays were coming and Nonnie’s larder was especially bountiful.

Sugarful.

Hopped up on sweets and the even sweeter taste of pedal-powered independence, it’s little wonder why, when Nonnie told me she had something to give me for my birthday and showed me a beautiful, porcelain doll, I wanted to take possession of it.

Immediately.

Nonnie refused, at first, insisting that she bring it to Aunt Ar and Uncle John’s when she and Papa came later. But as an obvious and well-chosen favorite, my sugar-induced swagger won her over and she wrapped the doll in an old towel, put it in a thick, white plastic bag and handed it to me.

Hesitating.

Frowning.

She followed us out the apartment door.

Her tiny, slippered feet shuffling at my heels all the way to the elevator.

As the automatic door glided shut, I hugged the plastic bag and lowered my eyes to the now descending floor, avoiding Nonnie’s last pleading look.

Knowing she’d likely be watching from her living room window three stories up, I very carefully placed the reluctantly released gift into the metal basket of the borrowed bike, grabbed a handlebar and, with what I determined to be an air of rogue nonchalance, attempted to kick my leg OVER the center bar that boys have on their bikes for no apparent reason.

I fell short.

Knocking the bike on its side.

Spilling the fragile contents of the basket.

Mary and Gina, both straddling their bar-less bikes, each with a foot on a pedal and a look of fleeing in their eyes, were stunned silent and slack-jawed. Like a terrible accident at the side of the road, neither could look away from the body in the bag.

Even though the sight of it was truly dreadful - a total nightmare - it was nothing compared to what my eyes were about to search out.

Nonnie, three floors up, bearing witness to it all.

Witness to my fall.

My failure.

She shook her head and crossed her arms. Her eyes never once leaving me, refusing to budge from the window of her velvety world of gild and glass, of lacy figurines and candy-filled cabinets, of obvious favorites and grave disappointments.

Of which I was now the latter.

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

Completely out of character, Nonnie never uttered a word about it to me that evening (helped by the fact that I avoided her like a tiny, Italian Plague), or, for that matter, in the years to follow.

I can still hear her silence today.

Within Close Range - The Devil at Lake Forest Cemetery

It was a popular story that year.

About the grave which lay in the corner of the Potter’s Field at Lake Forest Cemetery.

Rumors told of devils and demons.

Of curses and misfortune.

Of strange things happening to graveside visitors.

Surely, I thought, spurred on by scenes from a recent horror film which were shot on location in Lake Forest.

But I was curious.

And bored.

And found two cohorts: one, my best friend, Betsy; the other, my brother's best pal, Phil, whose main interest in tagging along was Betsy.

It was a perfect Midwest autumn day - cloudless, cool and colorful - as we headed out in my small, blue convertible. 

Cold air whipped through our hair and the heater blasted from the vents below, warming our legs, as we wound along Sheridan Road beneath the red, yellow, orange and brown leaves silently floating to the ground on the fragrant lake breezes; shrouding the lawns, the sidewalks, the forests and the prior season, in moist, earthy layers.

Hidden amid the quiet, tree-filled lots and stately lakeside homes, we entered Lake Forest Cemetery beneath its great, grey, arched gateway, not having a clue as to which way along the narrow, winding pavement would lead us from the grand mausoleums, obelisks and stone angels marking the graves of the powerful and famous, to where the powerless and nameless were buried.

It didn’t take long before we noticed a short, dead-end lane at the corner of the graveyard leading to a small, sad patch of grass, unkempt and inconspicuous.

No statues.

No flags.

No flowers.

No benches for mourners.

Just a sorry stretch of lawn, cornered by a chainlink fence, choked with neglected vines and scraggly branches of struggling pines.

We parked the car at the end of the road and as we headed in the direction of the empty-looking lot, I watched as Phil and Betsy stepped into the small ravine that separated the potters’ field from the rest of the cemetery. Filled with recently fallen leaves, their feet and ankles disappeared into the sea of yellow and brown  - as if they were sinking into strange worlds below -  before appearing intact on the other end.

An ominous entrance to this uncelebrated field.

We wandered up and down the quiet corner, but found nothing. Not even a name on the nameless headstones which lay scattered on the ground - unadorned and unnoticed.

Their stories untold.

We were about to quit our grave-hunting quest when Phil happened upon a half-buried, cross-shaped headstone at the very corner of the lot where the wealthy suburb's poor were buried. It had a single name, Damien - barely legible - handwritten in the crudely made crucifix, now lowly sinking into the earth, smothered by the overgrown grass and wandering roots of the towering, lakeside trees.

Mossy.

Decaying.

Mysterious.

Who cared enough to mark a life among the many strangers?

And why?

Perhaps a lifelong love.

A life cut short.

A best friend.

A profound loss.

The three of us stood over the homemade marker for a moment, content we had found what we were looking for, but unsure what to do next.

We joked about curses and demons, and the dead, and were laughing after several attempts to startle each other, when the daylight disappeared behind the dark clouds, which had just rolled in off the lake like a great, grey whale - silent and mountainous.

Suddenly, wicked gusts of wind turned the sky surrounding us to twisting, twirling, whirling leaves, as we turned our backs and cowered from its unexpected violence and looked to each other, wide-eyed and weirded out, before running toward the car.

Shivering in our meager, season-stretching layers, we laughed and swore as we raced to unfold the convertible top and roll up the windows. Just as the last latch clicked into place, the sky over the cemetery turned pitch and the winds turned wild, shaking the convertible roof and plastic back window, rattling my brain now serving up visions of Dorothy being lifted in the old farm house.

Clutching the wheel as an anchor, I smiled at my friends.

Then came the rain in a tantrum.

Ill-tempered and acrimonious.

Pelting the canvas roof like angry applause.

Causing us to question whether we were witness to a strange, seasonal storm…

or something far more evil.

We thought it best to discuss the matter on the road, away from the cemetery.

Away from the lonely grave and the handmade marker with only one name.

I turned the key.

And heard nothing.

After a moment of stunned silence and nervous laughter, we turned our attention to the key in the ignition.

I turned it again, as the rain pounding overhead muffled my impassioned pleas.

Nothing.

On the third, desperately hopeful try, the tiny, Italian engine finally fired up and I shifted into gear, hands shaking, stomach knotted, Phil and Betsy urging me forward a little too loudly.

As if our speedy departure was enough to appease whatever - or whomever - we offended, as soon as the cemetery gates were in the rear view mirror, the violent storm broke and the sun reappeared as quickly as it had abandoned the scene just minutes prior.

All of us noticed - each of us speechless - as we hurried away from the cemetery on that strange, but strangely perfect Midwest autumn day.

My Friend

My beautiful friend, with the beautiful smile.

Weighted by fear.

Flattened with worry.

Wanting happiness, but not minding your own.

Keep it simple.

Keep it clear.

Take a long, deep breath.

And another.

Take hold of the thing that gives you power.

That powers your passion.

That fills you with fire.

Be fearless.

You'll soon find the you that smiles more than once in a while.

And makes you my beautiful friend, with the beautiful smile.

Within Close Range - The Pressure of Writing

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

We'd been here before.

I just wasn't getting this pencil-holding thing.

I thought I was doing it right. The letters on my paper looked pretty much like everyone else's.

Pretty much.

But every time she stopped at my desk, she'd gently, but very firmly cup her hand over mine and squeeze, until she forced my tiny, anxious fingers to curl around the long, yellow pencil with the well-worn pink eraser.

"A firm grasp," she'd say, trying to sound patient about my substandard pencil holding ability, "is the key to proper penmanship, my dear."

Not wanting to disappoint her - again - I'd clench that pencil as if my very breathing depended on it, until my fingers cramped from it, and the lead of the pencil pressed so hard against the paper that the letters bulged through the opposite side.

When she asked us to turn our papers over and sit quietly until everyone finished, I'd close my eyes and feel each raised letter with my fingertips.

Never wondering whether any one else had to press that hard.

Work that hard.

To form the letters and words which would help me write the sentences already anxious to burst forth.

I'll be 53 in a few days.

And I still clutch my pencil 'til it hurts.

Squeezing out the letters, words, sentences still anxious to burst forth.

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 floor.

Not knowing whether to be relieved that the person who most recently 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 was this really necessary?

Dragging me in for a lousy can of beer?

I don't even like beer.

It was just handed to me.

I'm not sure I even took a sip of it before all hell broke loose.

How is it that everyone saw the cop car enter the St. Mary's parking lot but me -

and the guy who got busted with his bong?

But even he's been released.

Where the hell are my parents?

... It's on constant rewind in my brain.

Bright headlights.

Beers flying.

Friends scattering.

Indistinct voices, shouting for me to run.

And what do I do?

I stand - frozen and confused - and hide the full, icy cold 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 and listened to The Barlowe Pierce Band. It's the only reason I went to that stupid dance in the first place.

Let's be honest here, CHUCK was the only reason I went.

And for what? I'm just a shadow in a crowd of two that hangs out in Mark's basement when the band practices; tagging along with Betsy, Mark's backyard neighbor, who (like the best friend she is) makes me believe I have a chance, even though I know it's bullshit.

Maybe if I wasn't so quiet.

So easily ruffled.

So unbelievably uncomfortable with boys.

So... not... me.

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

Crap crackers! Who in god's name can he call?

Stop staring, for god's sake, I'm thinking.... The Villates!

"The Villates."

"You are aware they have to be adults?"

"Dr. and Mrs."

Asshole.

He thought I was talking about Rick or Bob.

I'm not surprised the Lake Forest Police Department and Officer Guildemeister knows them.

I know what he thinks about my sister's boyfriend and his brother -  with their long, dark hair, ripped jeans, big, cocky smiles and bigger, cockier laughs; with their fast cars and motorcycles - Rick's cherry red Moto Guzzi, which I can hear coming down Shoreacres Road to pick Chris up from a mile away

I can see it in his soulless, pitiless, squinty, little eyes.

Dirty, hippy punks.

But if he wants to get rid of me,  the Villates are his only choice.

Please, Mrs. Villate, please be home.

___________


That's got to be her pulling into the parking lot.

Unmistakable - that tiny, fast-moving frame, topped in a tousle of blonde.

Can't think of any smile as great as Mrs. Villate's right now.

So big.

So generous.

So forgiving.

It won't be there long, though, here comes Officer Iceberg-up-my-ass.

"Well, are you going to tell her why you're here, young lady?"

"She doesn't have to tell me anything she doesn't want to."

Don't smile, Anne. Just look at the ground and suppress urge to hug Mrs. Villate 'til later. Holy crap, I love this little, German woman. This tiny, lovely mother of my sister's really cool boyfriend.

"I'll be contacting your parents tomorrow, young lady."

I'm sure you will, Officer Dickhead.

Let's go, oh smallest, greatest - and by far the very sweetest of all our family friends.

You're about to get a tearful-fuckin-earful.


_____________


"He's never gonna call. He was just trying to scare you."

I know Chris has more experience in this matter than I do, but really? Officer Evil isn't going to follow through on his biggest bust of the evening?

"He's not going to call - and even if he does - which he won't - Mom and Dad will be gone all morning, so I'll just pretend to be Mom... But he's not going to call. I promise."

"Really? He seemed pretty serious."

"He was just trying to scare you."

"Okay, if you say so."

I really want to believe you, Chris. Especially because you appear remarkably calm about all of this. You must know what you're talking about, After all, who hitchhiked all the way to Florida with her boyfriend when she was 14? You did, my paved-a-wide-path, eldest sibling.

_____________

Half the day gone.

The phone hasn't rung once.

Still no sign of Mom and Dad.

Gina and Mary are here and we're hanging in the guest house on this gloriously cop-free Saturday morning. Feeling pretty goo-who would be calling this phon-FUCK!

"Hello?"

"Anne Elizabeth."

FUCK!!

"Officer Guildemeister just called."

FUCK!!!

"Please come into the house and tell your cousins they should head home."

FUCKETY-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK!!!!!

"Officer Guildemeister just called. My dad wants to talk to me."

Say something, ladies, I'm about to head to my execution.

"Bummer."

Thanks, Gina, that's helpful - and wipe that smirk off your face. And Mary, you look more frightened than I do. Also... not helpful.

" I think I'm going to puke."

_____________

Probably should have brought my dirty dishes downstairs. That's not going to help matters and I could do without Dad pointing at me with that butter knife.

"...irresponsible AND your name on a police record..."

He's really pissed.

"...lack of trust..."

This really sucks.

"Your mother and I are very disappointed in you."

Sigh.

"...haven't decided your punishment..."

I don't even like beer.

"And clean this filthy room!"

Damn my crappy night vision.

Damn my crush.