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.
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