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

The phone at the end of the hall, right next to my room, occasionally came 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 leading from one end of the upstairs to the next.

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

Fumbling for the receiver - and words - I'd already know that the only kind of news that comes in the middle of the night is usually bad.

Or at least not good.

And if I was answering the phone, that meant that Mom and Dad didn't, and I was about to be made the reluctant messenger.

Sleepless in the hours that followed.

Anxious to hear the garage door rumble and footsteps - two sets.

Hoping the anger and the lecture had happened on the ride home and details would come over a bowl of cereal in the morning.

Happy everyone was back home and in bed.

And all was quiet again.

Within Close Range - The Universe Upstairs

Mom and Dad’s bedroom suite was on the first floor of the house in Shoreacres (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 left the entire second floor almost entirely adult-free, except for the occasional laundry delivery from Mom and the less occasional drop in (more like official visit) from Dad; usually the unfortunate result of winter restlessness or weekend thunderstorms keeping him from the golf course.

We’d only know of his plans when we heard, “INSPECTION in ten minutes!”  sound from below, at which point all present would scatter from the kid’s TV room to our respective bedrooms, where each of us would begin a frenzied attempt to hide all clothing, toys, towels, glasses, plates, books and general shit we’d left strewn everywhere.

Depending on his level of bother, Dad might only scan the surface of the bedrooms and bathrooms. It was something each of us quietly prayed for as he passed dressers, drawers, desks and closets, cluttered and crammed with quickly concealed crap. If Dad’s heart really wasn’t in it, he might demand some dusting and vacuuming, to be inspected later (which would likely not occur), and then disappear below and we’d half-heartedly obey before returning to reruns, twitching on each other, and/or littering.

If our luck went a.w.o.l. (to a place that didn’t smell of dirty laundry and dog breath) and Dad was disgusted and determined to delve further by sliding open a closet door… an entire Saturday afternoon would be spent re-folding, re-organizing, re-inspecting, and re-revising.

And finally,  promising the impossible - to keep our rooms clean.

Other than these brief and infrequent invasions, the upstairs was our universe, our private world of fun and games and funny voices, where Jim’s rolled up socks turned into stink bombs of such infamy that as soon as you saw him take off his shoes… 

… you ran.

You ran as fast as your stockinged feet along a polished wood floor could take you.

It was also where fuzzy, red carpeting assisted you in shocking a sibling repeatedly one moment, then turned to molten lava, the next; where the chairs and tables became bridges, and the convertible sofa, an island, where captives and carpet monsters fought to the death in battle after battle.

In the universe upstairs, sloped-ceiling closets and dark crawlspaces - too-small-for-adults places - became secluded hideaways where we could bring pillows and posters, flashlights and favorite stuffed animals, and write secrets and swear words on the 2 x 4s and plaster board; and listen to Mom in the kitchen, until the heater or ac switched on and the great metal shafts filled with air and filled our ears with rumbling.

At the very top of the back steps, behind a tiny door (not more than three feet square), was a favorite, secret, upstairs place. 

Just inside, above the small door, Jim built a spaceship’s control panel from old electrical outlets and switches found in the basement and the barn. With Mark as his co-pilot and a vivid imagination as his rocket fuel, he would rally us to climb into his crawlspace capsule. 

I’d sit back in the darkness, surrounded by boxes of memories -  Mom’s heirloom wedding dress at my elbow and Christmas decorations as my seat - anxious for the countdown.

Excited for blast off.

For leaving the earth far behind.

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

Hugging my big, Pooh Bear, I’d 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 would begin to rise.

“Seven… Six… Five… Four…”

I could feel the crawlspace shake and rattle.

“Three… Two… One… BLAST OFF!”

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

And I’d float in the infinite black.

In the sea of stars.

Until Jim shouted, “Meteors!” and all hell would break loose in our top-of-the-stairs cockpit.

Rescue usually came in the form of the hallway light cutting through the cracks and the dark - and the meteors - and Mom calling, “Dinner!”

Or much, much worse…

Dad calling, “INSPECTION in ten minutes!”

Eva Can't Sleep with a Lion in Her Room

illustrated by Ananda Di Benedetto

Within Close Range: The Me I've Come to Be

About a month ago, along with my good friends, Jodi and Mike, I entered the world of Toastmasters. I did so not only to confront an old demon, public speaking, but to have the rare opportunity to see an audience's reaction to my short stories.  Although nerve-racking, I'm confident my writing and my voice will grow from the interaction and exchange.

If so, I might just try my hand at podcasts.

The following is my first Toastmaster's speech, voted best of the day.


Nonna and Papa were first generation Italian Americans who grew up in the same immigrant neighborhood on Chicago’s west side, Both came from very large families, totaling 22 children, but when they married, they had only two: James and Arlene, 

James is my father. 

My name is Anne Celano Frohna. I am the third and favorite of five children born to James Vincent Celano, Jr. and Mabel - but don’t tell her I told you - Charline Lemmon. 

By the time I was born, Papa’s custom tailor shop, Celano’s, was considered the finest of its kind in Chicago, having dressed the city’s most well-to-do men - from Moguls to Mob bosses - for decades. It was located along the city’s famed Michigan Avenue, once known as the Miracle Mile for its high-living splendor. 

Born on a farm in Missouri, Mom’s family was early pioneer stock from Germany, Scotland, England - and most heartbreaking for Nonna - NOT Italy. 

You see, Arlene’s four, children are full-blooded Italian. My two brothers, two sisters and I are what Nonna used to call her “Bridge Mix” - a chocolate-covered combo of nuts, fruits and creams favored in her ever bountiful cupboard of candies. 

But tainted as our gene pool was in her eyes, we’ve always considered ourselves Italian - at least in our emotions, devotions and appetites.

We hardly knew Mom’s family, just Lottie, her only sister, and her husband Joe and their four children, But barely, They lived in Springfield, Illinois and for Mom, that was at the opposite end of the universe from the one she and Dad had created along the prosperous north shores of Chicago. 

We did make a trip down to Missouri in the seventies to pick up a Palomino pony from her sweet Uncle Howard. There, we met a few of Mom’s family. Some were very kind, others, as tough as their lives had been. 

Mom and Lottie had it tough too. Especially during those early years of uncertainty, of being on the streets, far from their roots, begging for food, frightened for their Mom.

At 17, after graduating from an academy which she paid for by working a soda counter at night, Mom headed to Chicago where her blonde hair, slate blue eyes and classic features led her to become a very successful model; which she followed with an equally successful career as a businesswoman during an era when sexism was sexy.

And then she met Dad and gave it all up.

Such an unlikely pair. 

Dad was Nonna and Papa’s Golden Boy: a charismatic, social, spoiled, risk-taker, who preferred the golf course to the lecture hall and “the deal” to a full day’s work. Dad had a big heart, a big ego, a quick wit and a penchant for trusting the wrong people. He also had a good deal of trouble with fidelity, yet his adoration of Mom was confusingly constant. He wanted his family to have it all and gave most generously… even when he knew how heavy the cost would be.

Mom had worked her entire life - not only to survive but to succeed, not only to grow, but to become someone entirely different than the Mabel of her midwestern youth. 

Trusting few, befriending fewer. 

She found her way - her own way - with a unique blend of curiosity and cynicism about everything. 

This unusual pair had a tumultuous energy which brought both great joy and sorrow into our lives.

But I am who I am because of it. Because of them. 

And even though this particular gene pool has its dark and powerful undertows, I think that the me I’ve come to be is a good thing. 

So here I am, with my husband, Kurt, and our two daughters, Eva and Sophia, We came here from Wisconsin six years ago and bought a house on five acres up Williamson Valley. 

It was time for a change.

To shake off the grey.

Our happy, little home on our windy, little hill is something akin to the Island of Misfit Toys, but add to it a regular stream of wayward animals -  and people - and thrift store finds faded, sagging and stained, but solid, well-loved and wonderful to be around.

And quirky, musty, dusty, one-of-a-kind things, by painters and woodcarvers and artists with needles, by masters of words and masters of song, dabblers and travelers and dawdlers alike telling their stories with every stroke, every weave, every weld, every word,

I’m a storyteller too.

I’ve been one my entire life.

I even managed to make a living at it, writing and editing for newspapers, magazines, museums and publishing companies around the Midwest, retelling histories, exploring nature, writing about people and ideas, traditions and innovations.

I started writing professionally after I earned my B.A. in Sociology - a degree so utterly useless in the real world that I figured a Master of Arts in English would surely rocket my career into deeper poverty and obscurity.

I received my diploma in the mail, at the beginning of a two year stint I spent teaching English in Japan, in the little farming town of Shintomi, on the eastern coast of Kyushu. I recently wrote a book about the experience called “Just West of the Midwest.” 

It’s a comedy… mostly. 

You can see read it on my blog: dogearedstories.com, where I ply my penniless craft and fill the pages in order to feel like me I want to be, the third and favorite child of Jim and Cherie Celano, born into this world a couple months early on the fourth of October in 1963.