Within Close Range: Bullies and Best Friends

Living on the very northeastern edge of Lake Bluff’s boundaries, two miles from the village’s sprawling downtown of one and a half blocks: Scranton and Center Avenues, our house in Shoreacres might as well have been two hundred miles from town. Everyone we knew were growing up across the street, around the corner, or the next block over from each other; daily building a collective experience which connected friends, parents of friends, neighbors and neighborhoods.

Where we lived, nothing was a couple of blocks over, or right around the corner.

Directly to our east, rolling onto the beach at the bottom of the bluff eighty feet below, was the vast, often unfriendly, Lake Michigan, which was certainly fun come July and August when the waters warmed to just above freezing your asses off, but hardly the environ for block parties and the Good Humor Man.

Built at the turn of the century beside this enormous body of water infamous for its ability to challenge the greatest of sailors, Naval Station Great Lakes (the largest of its kind in the country) sat on nearly two thousand acres directly to the north and west of us.  Just north of this was the city of North Chicago, whose ambitious name reflected more ambitious days, well before the lifeblood of the city fed on the flesh of young men far from home.

Sailors, sex, booze and Abbott Labs.

That was North Chicago, our neighbor to the north.

To the south of Shoreacres, in between us and everyone we knew, stood Arden Shore, a longstanding institute helping troubled kids amid troubled homes. On occasion, we'd meet a stray student wandering away from the classrooms and confines of Arden Shore, down the long strips of desolate beach and across sweeps of soft, golf course grass.  Passing at the edge of the waves, or beneath the trees, through the dark, green silence, we’d smile, my siblings and I, and he'd smile back - kind of - then disappear behind sunken shoulders.

Back into the woods.

And his troubled thoughts.

A friendship or two was formed from these chance meetings. We sympathetic troublemakers always welcomed new faces and new schemes to fill the long, summer days and empty afternoons in our not-a-real-neighborhood.

Beyond Arden Shore stood large estates of forest and field: the Lester Armour House, a grand, lakeside mansion of bygone days, of meatpacking magnates and country manors; and Crab Tree Farm, a 250-acre estate owned by another old-monied family,  the McCormick-Blairs, whose faraway, fairytale, clock tower and farm buildings, white as clouds and just as inviting, stood just off Sheridan Road, acting as my favorite southbound markers to signify that the first of Lake Bluff's neighborhoods was near.

But north of here was where we lived, where there was only one way in and out - a lovely but lonely, narrow road that wound just over a mile, past 18 manicured golf holes and several quiet, white buildings, where quiet, white club members and their very quiet staff, raised their heads at our regular din. The road was edged with acres of oak and maple, birchwood and beechwood, that stretched to the bluff and all the way down to where Michigan rolled dark, deep and cold. Scattered along the last third of road were the dozen or so houses of our neighborhood, where forests made good fences and (private school) children were occasionally seen, but rarely heard.

Until we arrived.

My four siblings and I brought a constant influx of activity to the hush and reserve of Shoreacres, beginning with the pre-dawn rumble of the school bus as it lumbered and rattled over half a dozen speed bumps designed to make all drivers on this private road behave. Being some of the furthest students from town, we were annually placed at the very top of the morning pick-up list, which either meant rising earlier than most (including the sun) or ignoring alarms so Mom would have to take us to school instead. But with at least three siblings usually headed in different directions, Mom regularly pushed us out the door and down the road, schlepping forward, half-asleep and completely down-trodden.

I hated taking the bus in the morning.

However... I absolutely dreaded the bus ride home, especially the high school years B.L. (Before License).

From the moment I got on board and found a seat nearest the door (and even nearer to friendlier, sympathetic faces), the kids in last few rows of the long, yellow bus, full of hormones and hatred, “Us vs. Them”, made their annoyance over my arrival well known to everyone with loud moans and groans, followed by a series of insults such as: “Fucking Loser”, “Rich Bitch” as well as a variety of unpleasant references about the relationship between Dad and myself. Apparently, the bus driver was equally offended by my presence, never once attempting to stop the bullying as he steered the bus where he was told, in the opposite direction of where every single kid on the bus - except me - lived.

United by the same cause and the same neighborhoods, my school bus nemeses would continue to snarl and nip at the back of my neck with their sharp, weighty words for the “them” (that is, me) they thought they knew and despised on this forced route to a snobby, private club (which would never have Dad as a member), north of everywhere.

Only after I stepped from the bus, feeling bent and bruised, and began the half-mile walk home through our rumored neighborhood, did I let loose the tears, the anger, the embarrassment.

On the days when their venomous back-of-the-bus words had more bite, I’d veer off the road and onto the golf course, setting my backpack, heavy with information (made even heavier by my general lack of academic motivation), by the faded green leg of the old, metal water tower. I'd search for comfort and a way to shake their hurtful words in the thick, dim patches of unpeopled forest. In late fall, it was the perfect place, especially on weekdays when most of the golfers were gone. I loved to disappear among the yellow and ember-colored leaves which capped the many trees of Shoreacres, before the first heavy frost stole all the color from the land.

Sometimes, I'd lay in the taller grass at the edge of a fairway, until the sound of my breathing, the movement of the clouds above, and the wildlife going about their business of living, gave me the will to move toward home and another day.

Every so often, my best friend joined me on the bus ride home, so we could hang out in my neck of the woods.

Away from the bullies.

Pushing the boundaries.

We smoked our first joint on one of these visits, which we tried to light squatting beneath an old, planked bridge (like naughty, little trolls), in the middle of the golf course; 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 giggling and waiting for something in particular. Not caring about anything in particular. Until the tiny roach stuck to my lower lip and I winced, pulling the burning paper from my mouth.

Betsy laughed.

Which made me laugh.

Even though it hurt like hell and my lip was already blistering, causing me to worry about how I was going to explain the burn to Mom and Dad, who noticed every pimple - on all five of their children's faces.

And then I stopped caring.

Content to be beside my best friend, standing against the bitter, Lake Michigan winds and the mean words of mean teens.

Feeling happy just to be.

Feeling happy just to laugh... and let go.

Mouths like cotton, eyes toward home, we walked beside the tiny creek and talked without concern about the things that mattered most,  until sudden cravings hurried our final footsteps down the deserted road of my secluded neighborhood,  stepping over acorns and twigs falling from late October trees.

Side by side.

Stoned.

Smiling in the comfortable silence of a very, best friend.

Within Close Range - Chief

Chief was an ornery Appaloosa, short and fat, with black spots on the rump of his perpetually dirty white coat and the devil in his eyes. The product of little training and no past consequences for his truly bad behavior, he came to me as a 9th birthday present from Dad (whose only pets during his childhood were Nonnie's porcelain cats and poodles), and mostly Mom, whose Missouri farm girl roots and tough Scottish grandfather's sensibilities thought the challenge would make me a confident rider.

I was confident the challenge would kill me.

"You need to get right back up there," she'd say from safely behind the fence of the large pasture in Lake Bluff where we first boarded him, as I struggled to my feet after another tumble from the saddle. "Make him know who's boss."

"I know exactly who's boss," I'd moan as I limped toward Chief, who'd be standing at the opposite end of this large field of succulent grass and delectable wildflowers he loathed to be distracted from. In between mouthfuls of tall, rich grass, he'd raise his head and with his wild, blue eyes, quietly watch my approach, achy and discouraged.

Until I was just within reach.

Then, with a flick of his tail, he'd take off in a mad dash across the long pasture, adding insult to injury with each toss of his head and kick of his rear legs. When Chief allowed me the rare opportunity to mount, it was only so he could buck me off within seconds. If I happened to ride the rodeo out, annoyed, he'd pin those spotted, fuzzy, white ears all the way back and lunge into an uncontrolled and uncontrollable canter. 

Clutching the saddle for my life, I'd hear Mom yell something absolutely useless to my current predicament, then feel my grasp weaken and my feet slip from the stirrups. I'd have little choice but to abandon the saddle for the quickly passing terra below; thrilled if I could manage a slide off his side, knowing the alternative would once again be proof positive of my butt's inability to bounce.

If by some miracle I managed to hang on, Chief (now thoroughly annoyed by my persistence, or in most cases, luck) would either come to a complete stop, refusing to budge any further, or much, much worse... he'd suddenly swerve off his trajectory of terror and head straight for a cluster of pines at the edge of the fenced in field.

Two pines in particular.

Which stood a pony's width apart.

It was like jamming yarn through an embroidery needle.

At full gallop.

Depending on how fat Chief was (which was mostly), threading that needle usually meant my legs being scraped from the stirrups and shoved so far behind me that I looked like a trick rider - hands clutching the saddle horn, while my battered legs bounced and dangled off of his round, plump rear end.

Once the barn was built and Chief came home, Mom thought a mate might keep him calmer, so onto the scene came Mia's pony, Billy Gold, a blue ribbon, well-trained, well-behaved, Palomino from Mom's Uncle Howard in Missouri.

Chief took offense to the new arrival immediately.

During one of Billy Gold's first days at his new barn, during which much our of attention had been focused on our new four-legged ward, I was standing in the lumpy, half-frozen corral of early spring while Mark and Mia sat on top of the pine log fence, still unsure of whether we'd brought home Chief's evil cohort. I'd just finished currying Billy Gold's beautiful white blonde mane and ginger coat, still winter thick, and was feeding him a carrot (his warm breath and fuzzy lips tickling the palm of my cold, red hand) when I heard both Mia and Mark scream something that I couldn't make out due to the thickly lined hood sheltering my head from the bone-chilling, lake breezes.

I recognized them as warning tones, but it was already too late. Suddenly from behind, I felt Chief's powerful teeth clamp down on my hindquarters -  the right cheek to be precise. I howled in pain, hopping up and down. Billy Gold bolted to the other end of the corral. I spun around to find Chief standing there, not having moved an inch from the scene of the crime, waiting for a reaction. 

Or was it reward, I asked myself as I looked into those side-set, ice blue eyes that showed no hint of remorse.

Mia and Mark sat shocked and silent - at first - then each collapsed from the fence top with laughter, followed by a closely contested  race to the house to see who'd be the first to tell everyone what had just happened.  By the time I hobbled to the kitchen with a purple-red welt the size of a small apple and red indentations clearly defining each of Chief's big, front teeth, Mom already had an ice pack in hand and a sympathetic look on her face.

For the next two weeks, I was forced to sit lopsided and had to regularly refuse siblings' entreaties to bare my right bun.

Yet I couldn't help but love that pony, who seemed determined to prove how cantankerous he could be. His rowdy barnyard behavior was a thing to behold. I'd climb the corral fence and watch with wonder when Chief bucked and bolted, kicking up dust (or muck) as he bent his tail and flung his mane - the bangs of which I liked to cut, causing him to look exactly like Moe of the Three Stooges.

No wonder he was ornery.

I used to find his raucous behavior very intimidating until the day, during one of his high-spirited performances, mid-way through a rather plucky buck, Chief farted, loud and long. Mia and I burst out laughing (after all, Chief FARTED and we were 9 and 10) and the pony, whose attempt to grandstand for his audience of two, suddenly found his swagger had been reduced to slapstick with one, grand toot.

At the sound of our laughter, the pony planted all four hooves on the ground and turned his head our way. Then, like Eeyore lumbering toward his Gloomy Place, Chief lowered his head and with his tail between the offending flanks, slowly walked into his stall (a place he reserved solely for mealtime and bad weather), refusing to exit until we left the corral and took our relentless mocking with us.

I felt kind of bad about the whole thing when I saw him standing in the dark corner of his stall, but then I rubbed my right butt cheek and remembered.

This was Chief.

If he wasn't trying to shed me, buck me - or eat me, he was likely doing something he shouldn't, such as escaping, which was a thing he excelled at, often astounding us with his ability to open gates and stall doors thought to be horse-proof. The general belief was that he eventually taught Billy Gold his Houdini routine, as well.

Smarts was not something Chief lacked. 

He was devilishly clever.

It would happen about a half dozen times a year. The phone would ring, Mom would apologize - again - and sound the alarm.

Occasionally, his escapades meant Mom steering the station wagon toward town and places like St. Mary's Cemetery in Lake Forest, where one foggy morning, early in fall, the cemetery keeper had the daylights scared out of him when he witnessed, running through the mist and over the graves, a small, white horse, followed by a beautiful, blonde in a flowing, full length, lime-green chiffon nightgown. His hands were still trembling when Mom thanked him for his help in wrangling the runaway.

Most of the time, however, Chief's antics remained within the confines of Shoreacres and off I would dash with a halter, a lead rope and a bucket of grain, in not-so-close pursuit; tracking the wild-eyed Appaloosa's sod-ripping journey through the blue blood, buttoned up neighborhood, along the long, flat, meticulous fairways and in and out of the formerly pristine sand traps of the golf course.

One not-so-fine spring day of infinite gray, after chasing Chief across the neighbors' well-kept, weedless lawns (while they shook their heads and observed the chase scene through the windows), I stood at a distance, watching my spotted pony, buck and rear as if in his very own Wild West Show, hoping he would eventually tire himself out.

Instead, during one of his quieter moments, Chief let me tauntingly close, tempting me with his surrender. But as soon as I came within arm's reach, he turned and fled. 

He did this a couple of times. Frustrating me to tears, and then, from across the sweep of grass, I saw the signs and instantly knew what was coming next. Pinning his ears against his head, stamping his front hooves, Chief shot forward, like a Triple Crown winner, straight for me.

Normally, I'd dodge behind the nearest tree, but on this day, not a tree stood within close range and all I could do was prepare for the worst, which usually meant me fleeing and Chief following (getting close enough to feel and smell his excited breath), then swerving, skidding along the grass, and returning to his pathological circuit of intimidation.

But on this day, as Chief was coming around for his second charge, a stranger inside me screamed NOT AGAIN.

Instead of running away in fear, I stood my ground.

And I waited.

As the pony drew close, I dropped the bucket and halter, stepped forward and with all the strength I could muster, I SLAPPED his long, white nose.

And I screamed, "NO!"

Stopping him dead in his tracks.

Shocking us both.

Taken back by this sudden show of courage, Chief suddenly lost all his steam. He simply snorted half-heartedly, bowed his head (immediately sniffing out the grain bucket at my feet), and peacefully succumb to his halter.

Noses aligned, we lingered toward home with a far better understanding of each other and I finally understood what Mom was talking about.

Know who's boss.

Face your fear head on.

And give it a good slap on the nose.

Within Close Range: Sixteen Steps

At the end of the front foyer, just left of the door to Mom and Dad's bedroom, was another door. Behind this, were steps - sixteen in all, which wound one hundred and eighty degrees and landed at the end of the upstairs hallway. The gateway to the children's domain. No one understood why a door met the very last step of the front staircase until well settled in, when it was discovered that this simple, wooden portal was an incredibly effective insulator against second story commotions, created by five very different personalities and hormone levels sharing the same space. 

From a kid's perspective, this door was also a very effective tool for adding the proper amount of drama to a scene. Being old and solid and hinged with solid brass, it not only THUNDERED when slammed, but had the added bonus of rattling both the glass cabinet in the living room filled with fragile bric-a-brac and Mom's already shattered nerves in the master bedroom. Slamming doors was not advised when Dad was home. 

Beyond a tool for delivering angst and buffering upper story chaos, this door also inspired a secret indoor sport. I don't think it ever had a name, but it always kicked off by two things: the arrival of a large box and Mom and Dad going out for the evening. As soon as we saw the headlights of the car wind down the drive and disappear, someone would shout, "PILLOWS!" and children, ranging in sizes and relationships, would disperse and collect. Grabbing every pillow, cushion, bolster and upholstered pad we could lay our hands on, we'd meet at the top of the winding front stairs and with wild smiles and near frenzy in our eyes, toss each one over the railing and into a giant, cushy heap, penned in by the very same door. 

When every bed, sofa and chair in the house had been denuded and a tottering stack of softness lay at the bottom of the steps, the real fun would begin. One by one, we'd take turns climbing into the magic-markered, carton race car at the top of the stairs and at the call of "Ready!" someone would push from behind and send it sliding down the steps, atop the carpet runner racetrack. The trickiest maneuver was the hairpin turn half-way down. Cardboard box jockeys continually tried to lean into it and continually failed; ending their run at the dreaded curve - Dead Man's Curve - at the foot of the not-soft-at-all, two-story wall, just inches from where the ocean of cushions began. And when the race car got totaled and tossed aside, there was still that tempting pile of pillows at the bottom of the stairs and that very convenient, railed balcony directly above. 

We usually made Mark or Mia jump first. To make sure it was safe. They were also the first to be pushed to the front when entering dark rooms or dim hallways; the first to be volunteered to check the temperature of the lake - or pool - in early summer, the first to be sent into the woods to lure the "Ghost in the Graveyard", and the first to be nudged to the top of the stairs to face Dad when he bellowed from below. So it only stands to reason that they would be the first to test our padded pond. 

If Mia and Mark somehow evaded these forced initiatives, the nearest child who failed to recognize Jim's half-crazed gaze, would soon find themselves dangling precariously over the railing - like an animal in a snare - as a T.V. dinner or chicken pot pie threatened to reappear through fits of laughter and mild hysteria. The only things that held us from the headfirst fall were Jim's hands around our ankles. He teased us by occasionally loosening his grip, but we knew he would never let go. At least not intentionally. Not specifically intentionally. Jim's strength was both a great comfort and a great dread during our childhoods - like having a big, playful, ginger teddy bear who sometimes forgot he could squeeze the stuffing out of you. 

Only once (when Mom and Dad returned home unexpectedly) were we discovered in our favorite pillow-based pastime. Precisely at the moment of a free-for-all, the door to the stairwell opened and - like a flood gate releasing - arms and legs and cushions came pouring out at Mom and Dad's feet. 

“What the hell is going on here?" Dad boomed. 

Mom looked at the swell of kids and pillows... then quietly walked into their bedroom, grabbed the forgotten item and, without a word, left the scene - and Dad - to lay down the law. Needless to say, we became the finest pillow fluffers and cushion replacers west of the Poconos. 

There was something about those sixteen steps. It was a mecca for mischief and play, for sneak attacks, grand soliloquies and even grander exits. It was the ideal location for makeshift mountains, paper airplane launch pads and especially, making spooky noises. Its tall walls lifted and amplified sounds, especially when the much-abused carpet runner was removed and never replaced. Mom's loudly whispered "Sweet dreams." gently rose and floated into our ears and into our dreams; while Dad's call of "Anne Elizabeth!", "Lights off!", or "Inspection in five minutes!" burst up the stairwell and roared down the hall, like an air raid siren, sending bodies scattering in all directions. 

Directly below this winding staircase, was a tiny room, entered by a secret door in the paneled living room wall. To enter, you pushed on the paneling and popped open a small, angular door. Well-suited to housing stereos and storing things, the space with the staircase ceiling held barely enough room for an adult, yet it was an enormously effective tool for scaring the daylights out of stair-descending siblings. Thunderous noises and wake-the-dead voices suddenly emanating from the creaky crevices below caused innumerable mis-steps and massively feigned heart attacks over the years. 

The bedroom I shared with Mia was right next to these stairs. As if an ear were perpetually pressed against the wall, I could hear the comings and goings of all stairwell travelers and soon knew the sound of each family member's footsteps better than my own. I heard when Chris was breaking curfew and Jim was looking for trouble; when Mia was sleepwalking, or Mark was shuffling to Mom and Dad's for comfort from a storm. 

After returning from a night out, I'd listen for Mom and Dad's footsteps in the hall below and for Dad to toss his keys into the pewter bowl on top of the chest of drawers. At the sound of the staircase door opening and the sight of the light switched on from below, I'd close my eyes and listen as Mom made her way up to both Mia's and my bedside for a good night kiss, then down the sibling line and back again. I'd then listen to her gentle footsteps, still in heels, slowly descend those curving, squeaky steps, followed by the click of a switch and the door below, close - the sound if which made me feel as if Mom and Dad’s bedroom was not a flight of stairs, but a million miles from me. 

But it was just sixteen, wooden steps. 

Where, one night, as I sat between our twin beds changing Malibu Barbie's outfit for her big date with Ken, I heard Jim making his way along the upstairs hallway. It happened fast. (Lack of premeditation would be my strongest line of defense.) Jim passed my door and was starting down the staircase when something spurred me. Retribution for past indignities? Little voices in my head? Who can say? All I do know is that I soon found myself quietly opening my bedroom door, reaching around the corner to the light switch, and- 

"Click." "Thump-bump-bump-HUMPF-thump-bam-thud." Down he went like an angry sack of potatoes.

“God Damn It!!!! Who the hell turned off the lights?!” 

Tittering nervously, I crept away in the dark, feeling something between exultation (for not being on the receiving end of a prank) and remorse (for the revenge that was sure to be inflicted upon me). The result of my impromptu evildoing was a broken toe. And a thirst for my blood. My nervous tittering gave me away almost immediately. 

I wish I could say that I learned my lesson, atoned for my sin, and made things right with Jim. I really do wish I could say that.However, a short time later, history had the unmitigated gall to repeat itself. There I sat, in my room, with no thoughts of wrongdoing on my mind. Honestly. My strategy for surviving childhood was based solely on tears and cowardly retreats. However, when I heard those very familiar footsteps - now favoring one foot - heading down those cursed steps again. Something wicked this way come. I tip-toed to the door - again - quietly reached for the switch - once more - and... “Click."
"Thump...thump-thump-thump-bump-BAM-thud!... ANNE!... I’m going to kill you!” 

With no parents at home for safe refuge, I ran for my life, ducking and covering where I could and trying to avoid contact with any siblings who might give my whereabouts away - which meant ALL of them. Eventually, I hid in the dark of the sauna in Mom and Dad's bedroom, listening to Jim hobble and rage from one end of the house to the other, screaming my name and vowing revenge. I imagined myself in solitary confinement for the heinous crimes I had committed. "I'll plead temporary insanity," I reasoned to the fragrant cedar walls surrounding me, as I hugged my knees and listened desperately for the familiar footsteps of a returning parent. After an hour or so of seclusion and contemplation - and no longer hearing angry rants - I concluded the worst was over. Jim's stomach probably overpowered his thirst for revenge and it was time to come out of hiding. “After all,” I surmised as I opened the door to freedom, “even if he is still mad, there’s no way he can catch me with a broken toe.” 

“Two broken toes!” groaned a voice from behind the door, as I felt a pair of hairy arms grab me. 

Just sixteen, wooden steps. In a one hundred and eighty degree turn. And five kids living far from town. 

Within Close Range - Pick-up Trucks, Broken Bones and Teen Boys

Spring re-arrived at Shoreacres each April like a great, green moss. Sleepy. Creeping. Plentiful. My siblings and I, however, burst onto the season like the first, rowdy chorus of Spring Peepers which impulsively arose from the woodlands and wetlands, from the new growth and leafy debris; noisily ascending, anxious and energized after many dormant days. We found instant succor in the newness, in the re-gathering community, bolstered by the constant arrival of free-wheeling teens bent on making the most of the fairer, fleeting seasons.

One early spring day, Phil arrived at the house with a brand new, 1978 Chevy pick-up truck (soon to be christened Lola) filled with Jim's buddies bent on seeing "What this baby can do." Jim quickly talked his best friend into letting him behind the wheel. Chris and I blindly followed (Well, I did. Chris was there for Tim.), piling into the truck bed and heading to the one place where the pick-up's off road ability could be properly tested.

The golf course. Of course.

Entering on the service road at the west end of the Straight Away, Jim's exaggerated  twists and turns along the winding, gravel road quickly bored him, so veering from the narrow lane, we were soon bouncing along the edge of the fairways, heading toward the woods and the short, very steep hills of the ravines.

Failing to recognize what might happen when rear tires met level ground from a near forty-five degree incline was Jim's greatest error that day.

As soon as he started down the incline, we helpless, hapless, truck bed accomplices - with nothing to hold onto except a feeling of dread - sensed things were not going to end well.

They didn't.

As the rear tires hit the ground from a practically perpendicular incline, the truck bounced - hard - sending all bodies in back aloft; arms and legs flailing, looks of surprise morphing into looks of fear.

Then came the descent. Slow motion in my memory. Split second in reality. My right hand contacting metal first, followed by a painful ass plant. Pandemonium ensued. Everyone was yelling at Jim and rubbing their bruises.

Except me.

I was looking down at my arm... and my hand,

Which was no longer at the end of my wrist where I normally found it.

While the others righted themselves and continued to call Jim rather unpleasant names, I cradled my arm and spoke calmly.

"You guys. I think my wrist is broken."

No response.

So, I said it a little louder and with a lot more conviction.

"You guys, my wrist is broken."

Still unnoticed amid the verbal thrashing Jim was continuing to receive, I finally screamed as loud as I could.

"YOU GUYS, MY WRIST IS BROKEN!"

All went quiet.

"Anne broke her wrist," Chris screamed, breaking the momentary silence, "and she's bleeding all over the place!"

I wasn't.

Jim and Phil leapt from the front cab to find those in the back surrounding me, shuddering and exhaling, "Whoa!" at the sight of it.

Not a good sign.

It appears that on impact, the bones attaching my arm to my hand had snapped cleanly in two and my hand, now detached beneath unbroken skin, had 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 was enough to inspire hysteria, no one was able to convince me to relocate to the cushioned front seat of the pick-up, but a couple of the boys closely flanked me as I sat cross-legged, still cradling my misshapen arm. As Jim very slowly and very gently steered a course for home, I tried to concentrate on the leaves still unfolding overhead and the gentle, spring sun. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and then another, and sunk, ever briefly, in the smell of new grass.

And teen boys.

We pulled up to the garage just as Mom was walking past, when Chris jumped from the truck and with the subtlety of a crow in a cornfield said, "Anne broke her wrist!" (So much for Jim easing her into the bad news, as agreed upon moments prior.)

"Oo-oo-oo!" Mom said, jumping in place and then into action, as only a mother of five could.

After I was somehow lifted from the back of the pick-up and placed into Mom's car, I turned to see the faces of Jim's friends - Vargas, Palmer and Holvenstot - who were looking at me, looking a little guilty, then looking at Jim.

Who looked miserable.

Not a word was spoken on the way to Lake Forest Hospital.

No questions asked.

Or fingers pointed.

At the emergency entrance, Mom tried to get me out of the car and to my feet, but I wouldn't - I couldn't - for fear the slightest movement would make the pain unbearable - or even worse - that I would lose hold of my arm and have to witness my detached hand dangle. Then a handsome stranger, with a sweet voice and a smile to match, approached the car and asked if he could help and before I had a chance to refuse, he lifted me from the car with an effortless swoop and carried me inside, where he gently set me in a wheelchair, smiled and disappeared.

"That was Walter Payton of the Chicago Bears," the nurse smiled.

I knew exactly who it was.

After being welcomed back yet again to the emergency room (puberty had not been kind), I was 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 became too much for Mom who, lightheaded and nauseated, had to be led from the room.

By the time I returned home with that double dose of painkiller, I was feeling pretty good about the whole experience. "A broken wrist isn't that bad," I said, prior to the drugs wearing off. "In fact, I feel pretty darn good!" I smiled as I casually waved the crooked cast that reached my armpit, while Mom and Jim hid their telltale faces which told of the pain and discomfort that was sure to follow.

And how could I not be touched when I saw that Jim had straightened my room, folded down my bed and picked flowers for my bedside?

But teen boy guilt is fleeting.

My injury would soon become fodder for everyone's jokes, most of which were scribbled in permanent marker on the first cast. By the time the second cast came off three and a half months later, (after a long, tedious summer of interminable itching, sponge baths, and sitting on the sidelines) the event was already in the back of everyone's mind, except mine.

I can still feel a big storm approaching by the undeniable aching in my wrist and can't help but grin at the thought of pick-up trucks, broken bones, Walter Payton and teen boys.

Within Close Range - Heroes and Heartaches

Growing up within the forested confines of what boasted the bluest of blood in the privatest of clubs, half mile from its pride and joy, its world-renown, perfectly kept, ravine-ridden, golf course,  had its pros and cons.

None of the cons, mind you, fell on our side. This list would belong to the keepers and members of Shoreacres Country Club, who knew little of the havoc five siblings and their friends and family could wreak.

Not that there were no children in the neighborhood.

There were.

One here.

One there.

Two down that way.

Oddly quiet children. Living rather quiet lives.

We came in like an Italian-Catholic tornado.

Loud.

Unpredictable.

Calamitous.

Spontaneous.

A force of nature which all the nurturing in the world couldn't tame.

Ever seeking refuge from the great indoors of winter, we'd often head out onto the famed course. No destination,  just going forward, down the well-plowed road, gritty from salt, bundled well past our noses to keep the icy lake winds from turning our ambitions.

On one particular day, we climbed the piles of crusty, grey snow, pushed in great chunks to the sides of the road, to reach the unmarred snow that blanketed the course; breaking the muffled, wintry silence with our crackling and crunching march down the first fairway.

The drifts almost swallowed Mia and I, who were trying our darnedest to keep up with Jim and Kim, our cousin from Springfield, Illinois. Several years our senior, Kim was a tall, burly fellow, with a lilting voice, a cherubic face and the gentlest of souls. The few times we were able to visit with my mother's kin, the moments with Kim are particularly strong for me.

Further and further our unlikely quartet trudged from home, until we came upon the frozen creek that crossed the course and followed it to two small ponds. Climbing down its banks, Jim slipped and skidded along the edges of the ice, while Mia and I headed over to a large culvert under a small, old, planked bridge

Kim followed, reluctantly, ever vigilant over his temporary wards.

While Jim slid further along the ice, Mia scrambled over the bridge to other side of the culvert, calling for me through the cold and dark and so, I soon found myself answering back, across the frozen water, from the opposite end of the giant, metal tube.

Clear is Kim's silhouette hovering behind Mia like a new mother bear, the stretch of ice between us, and our small voices sounding strong against the corrugated steel. Mia took off one of her mittens and slid it through the tunnel, along the leafy ice, right into my hands.

I tossed it back.

And back it came again.
As Mia's enthusiasm began to fade, I'd stretch to reach a little further into the cold, dark tunnel. Her final, fainthearted toss landed the tiny, snow-caked mitten smack dab in the center of the culvert.

"Whoops," was all she had to say, having already sacrificed the mitten to the creek.

Hoping to avoid a lecture from Mom about another lost mitten, I began 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 reached out to grab the mitten, all sounds ceased.

Except one.

The ice below me popped and cracked and gave way and suddenly I sank, face first, into the water, swallowing it as I gasped for air and opened my shocked eyes to the muddy scene at the mucky bottom of the culvert a foot below. Seconds ticked forever until I felt someone take hold of the hood of my bright pink jacket and yank me from the icy water.

Lying on his stomach at the edge of the ice, Jim had grabbed me while Kim held tight to his feet from solid ground. Before I even had a chance to process what had happened, Kim grabbed me from Jim's arms and started to run toward home.  Shock soon gave way to tears, as shivering wracked my tiny, drenched body. He held me tight to his chest, his soft mumblings incomprehensible and inconsolable, but I clung even harder as he plowed through the snow-filled fairways, a mile from home.

Hand in hand with Mia, Jim followed quickly. Silently.

I pressed my head tighter against Kim's heaving chest.

And closed my eyes.

Hearing only his heartbeat and hurried footsteps fumble along the deep snow.

He never seemed to slow until I was safe within the warmth of my home and my mother’s arms and almost broke into tears as he apologized profusely for something only I was to blame.

Even though it was Jim who pulled me from the ice that day (A fact that only recently came to my attention - and by the way, thank you, James.), it was Kim whom I would make my forever hero.

Who broke my heart when he passed away at the age of 42.

How marvelous that forty-five years later, I now have two forever heroes who rescued me that day.

Within Close Range - Downhill Racers

The toboggan’s scarred and battered prow, with its narrow strips of varnished wood, scraped, scratched, warped and dinged, attested to its long history of snowy campaigns where trees and rocks were our eternal foe. Its red, vinyl pad, cracked and beaten from all the use, with plastic rope ties ever-untying, often turned this dubious cushion of comfort into a slippery, red projectile that littered the hill with sledders.

It took little prodding to initiate sledding on the golf course near our home. After a few phone calls, friends from town would be gathered 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'd head down Shoreacres Road and into the heart of winter with spirits high. During the mile or so journey to the ravines, the boys would rarely wait for the final destination before throwing themselves at any slope of snow.

Even the dingy, frozen piles left by the plows.

You could see it coming.

Cheeks crimson.

Noses dripping.

Devilish smiles rising, they’d step back a few paces, and then, with big boots trudging heavily along the snow-packed road, they’d jettison themselves, skidding atop the icy, roadside heap.

Like silk on broken glass.

Slightly dented but still undeterred, the flatter, frozen road ahead would spawn another attempt and in short order, unsuspecting members of the entourage would find themselves directly (and not indirectly) in the path of another misguided trajectory, victims strewn in the wake, shouting obscenities in between fits of laughter.

Crossing thigh-high snowdrifts, pushing against the penetrating Lake Michigan winds, we knew there was 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 reached the first hills, bodies were already hurtling down the small, steep hills.

Feet first and head first.

Untouched, uncharted snow was quickly trampled smooth and slick so sleds would go fast and faster.

So sledders could soar toward the woods below.

Laughing like hyenas.

Until the next sound was cracking plastic or straining planks, 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 knew I'd never gain the speed I craved when sledding solo. So I’d climb aboard, wrap my arms around their thick, damp, denim layers and look below to our target.

A hand-packed jump.

Designed to make you fly.

I'd plead for caution, knowing full well that caution was about to be damned.

On occasion, we’d actually manage to find air between the sled and snow, but the moment was 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.

Exhausted and satiated, I'd eventually find a spot at the top of the ravine and watch the boys. with their boundless bravado, attempt daredevil moves of surfing and spinning and bumper sleds, determined to create one more spectacular crash, either into each other or into the trees, before the snowy adventure could be considered a success.

When the winter sun began its early descent and the dampness sunk deep into our winter layers, leaving us in a constant state of chill, we'd stumble home, iced-over and exhausted, the older boys usually pulling along the little ones who had no more to give that day; each return step energized by the thought of the warmth that would embrace us when we opened the back door.

Fueled by the knowledge that crackling fires and hot chocolate waited at the other end.