Within Close Range: Pool Days

As soon as wildflowers peeked through the damp, leafy forest floor, windows were flung wide open to welcome in the lake breezes and the moist smells of spring, including the thawing corral, heavy with muck flung everywhere by muddy, high-spirited ponies. 

I couldn’t wait to walk barefoot across the new lawn emerging from the still cold ground, coating my toes in mud and grass.

Spreading spring through the house.

Annually driving Mom to distraction.

Shedding winter layers, the half-mile walk from the bus stop to the back door became leisurely, but energized by the land’s reawakening, the leaves of the trees unfurling and neighborhood dogs re-emerging, reminding me that the lazy days of summer were just out of reach.

When dad got out the backyard hose and played the evil ogre, who squirted little children when they tried to cross his lawn. 

But try we did, again and again.

Until the evil ogre tired and headed to the cool of the pool.

And we happily followed.

Finding pure joy in the playful moments with Dad.

He’d dive into the pool, slightly askew, and find his first target, who giggling and excited braced themselves for the certain lift that would come from below and hoist them high; each waiting their turn to be Dad’s focus, knowing full well that the opportunity was fleeting before he was off, usually to golf, while we stayed behind for hours on end, water-logged and pruny, but supremely happy playing Jump or Dive and seeing who could make the biggest cannonball splash.

Jim always triumphant.

The closest Jim and I would ever be physically matched was in the pool. Buoyant and fearless, I’d challenge him at Kung Fu fighting, complete with sound effects and slow-motion kicks until, bored by the balance, Jim would grab me and dunk me until I surrendered.

Mia and I had our own competitions which would begin innocently enough - one of us boasting how many laps we’d done. We’d look into each other’s bloodshot eyes for signs of a challenge and off we’d go, stroke after stroke, lap after lap.

Ten, twenty, thirty laps, keeping an even pace, with no sign of the other slowing.

Forty, fifty, sixty laps. Slower, but still determined.

Who would be the first to surrender?

Seventy, eighty, ninety laps.

We’d hear Mom call us in for dinner, but even our grumbling stomachs could not dissuade either of us to stop.

One hundred laps.

Mom would call out again.

“Okay,” Mia would say, “we’ll BOTH stop at 110.”

But then I’d turn and head out for one more.

Of course, Mia would follow.

One-ten, one-twenty, one-thirty.

Mark would soon be standing poolside with his hands at his, tiny hips, having been sent from the house.

Dinner is getting cold and Dad is getting mad.

Ever fearful of being scolded, I’d turn to Mia and make her promise this would be our last lap.

She’d agree, so I’d climb from the pool and grab my towel, expecting her to follow, until I saw that glint in her eye as she sunk back into the shallow end and pushed off the wall for one, final victory lap.

Heather, our Labrador Retriever, always joined us poolside, relentless in her quest for someone to throw a ball in for her to retrieve. Even after she tired out all possible playmates, she figured out a way to carry on. Dropping the ball into the water, Heather would patiently wait for it to float to the center of the pool, then leap in after it. 

She took the term “water dog” to a whole new level. Especially when we first witnessed her retrieve a punctured tennis ball that had sunk to the bottom of the deep-end. Nose first, she executed a perfect corkscrew dive eight feet to the bottom.

And did so innumerable times over many summers before the years stole her strength.

The pool was a place of gathering and discovery, where barely clad teens found excuses to get close.

Flesh to flesh in playful moments.

Unleashing new sensations.

New awareness.

Especially for Dad, who once sent me to my room to change when the bathing suit Chris brought me from the islands drew too much attention from Jim’s friends and I became acutely aware (and even more self-conscious) that I could have such an effect.

During my teens, I’d often arrive home late summer nights, with the house quiet and parents sleeping, strip down to nothing and dive into the dark of the deep-end, where naked, unabashed, unheard and unseen, I’d scream.

Hard.

For as long as my breath would hold.

I’d scream out my discontent and crippling self-doubt.

I’d scream out the sadness.

I’d scream until it hurt.

Then I’d float and look to the sky and the barely discernible stars with my highly dysfunctional eyes.

I’d breathe, long and slow, listening to the sound of my breath and the occasional call of a neighboring owl hidden somewhere within the dark silhouettes of the tall trees surrounding me.

And eventually, I'd find enough peace to count my own lucky stars and head to bed with the smell of chlorine wafting me into watery dreams.

Within Close Range: At the Edge of the Bluff

It was an early spring day in the heartland.

Anemic, damp and miserable.

Clumps of stubborn snow and ice, grey and grimy, still dotted the lawns and sidewalks.

Faces looked pale and anxious for change.

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

Past unfamiliar towns and unfamiliar faces. 

Boredom was just beginning to poke at anticipation when a sight to our right stopped the impending bedlam. Just past a dense stretch of forest, stood several grand, white farm buildings down a long, linear road; enchanting and inviting, tidy and bright - even on this gloomy day.

My heart beat faster as we neared.

And sunk when we passed.

Before I had 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, came into sight in my rear window view.

Little could I have known that this storybook setting, known as Crab Tree Farm, would become our Polaris for home (though, sadly, the mural would not) for the next two decades, because just past the farm, up on the right, in the dark of the woods, at the edge of the bluff, was where we were headed that day and for much our childhoods.

"Shoreacres Country Club," the sign read, "Members Only. Est. 1916."

Mom and Dad kept silent, ignoring the uninviting sign, as we headed down a long, winding road, flanked by a small, trickling creek, past long stretches of green. Everything was covered in a fine, frigid mist, including another set of elegant, white buildings belonging to the famously snobbish club (who would eventually and wholeheartedly reject Dad), silent and still on this gloomy Sunday afternoon.

As we passed a faded, old water tower, headless in the fog, Dad finally began to divulge our destination - a new home. The inside of the car went instantly silent. I turned to Mia, who looked as bewildered as I felt, then sunk further into the rear bucket seat.

From here, I could see nothing but the thick, dark clouds above. There was no sound but gravel crunching noisily beneath the wheels of the station wagon, now weighted with disappointment, as it twisted down a long driveway and stopped.

I raised my eyes to the first inch of window to see the house.

Grey and sullen.

Like the day.

And our moods. 

Mom and Dad turned to the back of the car with smiles from ear to ear, only to confront the grim faces of four of their children (Mark being a too young to care) who couldn't fathom what there was to be smiling about.

"We'll just take a look," Dad said. "If you don't like it, we won't move."

Knowing full well that was double-talk for: "You WILL like it. “ and “We ARE moving.”, we were soon filing from the car - like prisoners into an exercise yard - onto the stone patio of a house that wasn't egg yolk yellow like ours and had no visible signs of neighbors, a school, OR the Good Humor Man... anywhere. 

Without keys to enter, Dad and Mom looked into the windows and started talking about all the possibilities they saw. 

I saw nothing but despair.

That is, until Dad coaxed us to the long stretch of windows that looked through the front hallway, into the living room, through its windows and beyond. What lay beyond the stark, white, empty rooms was an expanse of lawn the likes of which we had never seen. 

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

Five figures, all ranging in size, fled to the rear of the house and the edge of the bluff, where the vast lake rolled onto the beach - what would be our beach - eighty feet below. At the edge, was an old tire swing on which each of us took turns watching the water below and trees above disappear and return, disappear and return. 

This swing and I would later be immortalized on Super 8 film when one autumn afternoon, in mid-swing, my hands faltered and I fell backwards leaving my trendy, purple, elastic waistband pants swinging solo. It was an event which would be rewound, slo-mo'ed, rewound, fast forwarded and rewound again and again for decades.

We serpentined down the overgrown path to the beach and skipped 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 harbor dotted with boats just a mile to the north. 

We wandered around the wooded acres, getting a little more excited each time we peeked through another window, especially those of the outbuildings which lay steps from the bluff’s edge and out of earshot from the main house which stood to the south, down a narrow path, through a small patch of woods.

Built in 1959, the house which we were about to call our home was located on seven acres of woods at the edge of Lake Michigan, seven miles north of the village of Lake Bluff and a few miles south of Great Lakes Naval Training Base and Harbor. The land included the main house (a New England-style country home), a small, two-bedroom cottage and an office/lab and greenhouse, where the original owner of the house, Dr. John Nash 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?"

In the years ahead, my siblings and I would do our own groundbreaking research in Dr. Ott’s buildings. Not only were they breeding grounds for mischief and unsupervised merriment, first cigarettes and first beers, but secret rendezvous and safe havens for young loves and fainthearted runaways. More than once I packed my technicolored suitcase and ran to the greenhouse office seeking solitude and distance from those who failed to understand me; only to find that a short time later, bored and lonely, I longed for home just a few hundred yards away.

The office and greenhouse (emptied of lab instruments) were verdant vessels of the imagination, with floor to ceiling cabinets where surprise attacks continually surprised; where a wall length desk (lined with electrical outlets), beneath wall length windows overlooking the great lake, became our cockpit, our control center, our helm. 

In the sunken greenhouse attached to the south end of the office, deranged, young doctors and their faithful minions were often seen running from staircase to staircase, table to table, laughing maniacally at the dark side of mortality; and where, with great gusto, mad scientists threw the elaborate array of switches that lit the plexiglass building like a giant firefly, and opened and closed metal shutters (designed by the banker-turned-inventor to control sunlight); turning day to night and eyes to starry skies, where imaginations rocketed.

There was a curious entrance on the southern end of the greenhouse where visitors passed through a large metal door into an antechamber. Here, in this big metal box, with big, metal doors and a large vent (at least half the height of a child and four times as wide), Dr. Ott once meticulously controlled all light, as well as temperatures entering or exiting the greenhouse by blowing hot or cold air into the small chamber.

Countless times over the years, we’d enter the aluminum vestibule, close both doors… and wait. 

At the call of "Ready!?" and the flick of a switch on the other side of the greenhouse, a great blast of air belched from that enormous vent in the dark, tiny, metal space and suddenly, we were in our very own wind tunnel/torture chamber/time machine.

The years when Mom had the greenhouse up and running during the winter led to an even more remarkable world of discovery. Where green became something you could see, smell and touch.

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

Moist.

Pungent.

Earthy.

With winter visible through the windows, I’d sit on the cement stairs, arms hanging over the round, metal railing, galoshes dangling (along with most of my socks), watching Mom dig her hands into a soily concoction.

Strange, sweet smells.

Bone meal and blood meal.

Manure and lime. 

It was exotic and inviting and oozing with life nurtured with the same care Mom watched over her flock; passionate and determined all should flourish. Cultivating her wards with a very unique mix of love and cynicism, melancholy, curiosity and eccentricity.

The cottage, which stood just north of the greenhouse, would serve many different purposes over the years: first, as a rental, where a young couple, just married, tested the marital waters and then as temporary lodgings for Dad, where he could keep a watchful eye over his unruly offspring until his own turbulent waters calmed once more.

It was always my dream to occupy that space, as Chris and Jim had when they got older, to play house in this tiny cottage at the very edge of the bluff where the tiny tub was too small even for tiny me (at the time) and the kitchen was like a doll’s with its miniature appliances. But by the time Chris and Jim were off on their own, there were already signs of financial troubles when Dad divided our land and sold the cottage - and my tiny dream - to a stranger.

But many changes would be made over the years. One of the first would be the addition of a swimming pool which gave Mom nightmares. Never having learned how to swim as a child, she’d wake at night frightened to tears by the thought of any one of her young children drowning as she stood helpless and hopeless. I never knew until many years had passed that Mom would wade into the pool everyday that first summer and teach herself how to dog paddle, for which we mercilessly teased her. Her head never dipping below the surface, but her heart determined to stay afloat. 

A barn would also be built in front of the greenhouse to house some playthings of both the equine and turbine kind. It was here that I first understood the meaning of responsibility for another life and here, where I cursed our ponies, Chief and Billy Gold, on those cold, winter mornings when I was forced to muck their stalls before school and where mice and I regularly frightened the daylights out of each other at the bottom of the grain barrel.

The ponies and contraptions eventually gave way to automobiles and teenage independence and the barn came down to make room for an addition which would turn the old garage into a new family room and the two-stall barn into a four car garage. 

The tire swing at the edge of the bluff was lost to erosion, as was the greenhouse in the final years, as new houses encroached upon our woods and old friends scattered toward new lives. 

The one thing, however, which would never change, was and remains the love I have for our home at the edge of the bluff.

Within Close Range: This Mile of Road

I found great comfort in the final miles to our door; in the everyday sights of tree-lined neighborhoods, sleepy main streets and stretches of flat farm fields with crisp, white barns silhouetted against waning sunlit skies. After a successful fight for window rights, I'd roll mine down all the way and ignoring the moans of siblings wishing to remain buried in the catacomb of the stuffy car, I'd stick my head as far out the window as I could, searching the darkening skies for the first star of the night. I inhaled summer - long and hard - and politely accepted the occasional collision with a bug on its own nocturnal journey.

Sheridan Road stretched straight north from Chicago, the final stretch from Lake Bluff to home being the straightest and least inhabited, except for the occasional sighting of the reflective, red eyes of wildlife at its edge, hoping to survive fields and forests, cars and trains, on their way to wherever. Alongside Sheridan Road, for much of the way, ran the Northwestern Railroad. It's green and yellow cars, faded and familiar, would often appear beside us, long after the enduring, piercing blast of its horn signaled its arrival. I ever raced the train, stepping on an imaginary gas pedal on the candy-riddled floor below my feet, pressing harder and harder as if my will would will Dad to drive faster and finally beat the northbound beast. But the train soon rolled past my window and all I could do with the loss was gaze into the windows of the train cars passing, into the yellow-tinged lights where the white-capped sailors of the Great Lakes Naval Base, returning from leave, leaned heavily against the worn green leather seats and dingy glass. Each neatly clad sailor seemed so far from home, with me so close to my own. Their lonely figures were often the last things I'd see before Dad signaled right and I closed my eyes for the final mile to our front door.

There was comfort in this blind ritual, solace in the knowledge that I knew this route, this mile of road, so extraordinarily well that the sight of it was secondary to the feel of its curves, the sounds of its inhabitants, the smells of fresh cut fairways and a mighty lake. The first curve lay less than quarter of a mile along and drifted sharply to the left where it began to follow a tiny, twisting creek. Moonlit nights made the water dance. Daylight hours invited Mallards to its banks. In early autumn, just before the road curved, an old Black Walnut tree dropped clusters of its brown-green nuts. They crunched beneath the wheels of our station wagon and seasonally foretold, in my mind's eye, of our turn to the north. Wildlife must have delighted in the sound as much as me when our tires crushed those meaty, thick-shelled nuts - all of which would have disappeared by the time we passed the following day.

Unlike the miles which lay behind, we travelled more leisurely along Shoreacres Road, intuitively compelled to breathe easier and rejoice in nature and the fact that home was near; in the great, silent custodians, the Maples, Oaks and Elms, which lined the entire length of the Shoreacres Road, shading us from the summer sun like a vast, green awning and warming us with their blazing, dazzling, daring reds, yellows and oranges, each autumn. Come winter, comfort turned to forest mischief when laden branches dropped dense clumps of snow on our heads and on our hoods - surprising us, often dousing us, as we passed.

Further ahead, the road abandoned the tiny creek (which snaked north over fairways, down shallow ravines, to the forest) and veered ninety degrees to the right, toward much greater waters. The Straight-Away, as we called it, was the longest lineal stretch in the road where speed bumps did little to dissuade teenage boys from pressing down on gas pedals and trying to fly. Early schooldays mornings, we’d wait at the end of this tempting strip of asphalt, in front of the club house, and we’d watch for the big, yellow school bus to make the turn at the top of the Straight-Away - ever hopeful it wouldn’t appear and Mom would have to drive us, which meant fresh made donuts at the truck stop on Route 176. 

With my eyes still shut, I’d stick my head even further out the car window as we headed down this long strip of cracked and well-worn pavement which marked the half-way point. I’d picture the expanse of well-manicured green to my left and woods to my right. and smile knowing just ahead, at the end of the Straight-Away, Lake Michigan demonstrated its greatness by influencing the weather around its shores. On Summer evenings, this meant a sudden shift from balmy to cool. A hundred times, sleepy siblings raised themselves long enough to stick a head or hand out the window as we passed through this invisible, atmospheric boundary the mighty Michigan brought to being. Even as a teen, I automatically rolled down the window and reached for it, there, at the end of the Straight-Away. Yet the lake was even more wondrous to us than what science could offer. It was our backyard. Feeling its presence was like feeling home.

In the Fall, Michigan would often wrap the final quarter mile in fog. I ‘d sometimes peek to watch as we broke through the wall of mist - headlights fusing with the haze - and shut my eyes only after Dad turned the car left and we passed the old, white clubhouse at the edge of the lake, dimly lit by the street lamps lining its entrance.The gentle turn just past the clubhouse brought us to the foot of a faded, old, foamy green water tower that stood at the entrance of our neighborhood. We’d pass below its large, steel legs each time we sought adventure on the club's golf course and grounds until, rusted and outdated, we watched it tumble and be torn apart. Sad our sentry was no more.

The first house in the neighborhood was an expansive, white, Georgian home before which stood three, old pines, all in a row. Each a story and a half higher than the house, they were shadowy green and fragrant after a spring shower, giant villains in the fog, and soaring, Yuletide beacons each winter, when nothing in the world would stop me from peaking. Just across the road from where the pines stood tall, was a big, brutish fence, behind which stood a tragic folly created by a strange woman named Felicia ("Fishy" is what we kids called her.). I liked to close my eyes to its unhappy walls. There were nights, however, when its colossal, indoor tennis court would set the sky and woods on fire with jarring, unnatural lights that stirred the forest uneasily. On these occasions, I’d open my eyes to see if - in between the pickets, like a stop motion scene on the edges of a paperback - I could catch a glimpse of this sad, slightly mad, lonely woman living her sad, slightly mad, lonely life. Its demise was inevitable. Its unhappy walls burned to the ground by its next unhappy inhabitants.

The final stretch of tree-lined street meant moments from home, minutes from bed. Right at the fork. East toward the bluff. Our driveway, just ahead with a small sign that read, "Dear Park Farm”. Before it was paved, the gravel driveway crackled like popcorn as we gently wound our way through the trees - ever nearer to succor and sleep. It smelled of wild onion, sweet and pungent, when it's edges were trimmed each summer and disappeared beneath the fallen leaves each autumn. Once every several years giant, edible, puffball mushrooms dotted the woods on either side; while every year, without fail, Queen Anne's lace grew gauzy against the leafy, green backdrop, gently sweetening the air for the walk home from the bus... or the drive home from Nonnie and Papa’s.

Only when I heard the garage door begin its sluggish retreat and the dogs begin to bark could I open my eyes and end the game, once more contented for having found my way through the dark. Sometimes, I would close my eyes again, feigning sleep, so my father would carry me the final, familiar steps home.

Within Close Range: The Streets of Saltine

It went down every few months or so. There was never any warning... except that it could happen at any time. 

All it took was a gathering - a restless mob brought together by the arrival of bags from the grocers, the disappearance of anything mildly amusing on television, or as the most logical response to the endlessly gray, listless, Midwestern days. All it required were 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 came 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 crowded around the kitchen island, anxious for some mastication action. The challengers sat 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 them, brows would knit with steely determination, as eyes focused on the cracker skyscraper growing higher and higher before them.

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

“Wimp!” I would prod my already over-stimulated sibling, whose main goal in life was enacting some form of teen boy villainy on the unsuspecting and the innocent.

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

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I’d 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!” from a designated sibling, the briny bout would begin. Hands greedily grabbing cracker after cracker, shoving them into already crammed mouths. Crumb fragments flying across countertops and cupboards, striking innocent bystanders who instantly retreat to all corners of the red brick floor. Teeth gnashing, siblings laughing, opponents trying not to choke or chuckle. 

The cardinal rule of the cracker eating contest: he who laughs least has the last laugh. Sadly, this was my Achille’s heel. For some unfathomable reason, watching my brother spew saltines brought me to trouble-breathing-can’t-swallow-verge-of-choking-hysterics, rendering me hopeless in the game, but happy as all get out. 

Expelling a final barrage of crumbs, Jim would spit forth the first whistle, followed closely by a victory lap around the kitchen. Passing the defeated and the disgusted, arms raised victoriously, voice raised in fake crowd noises. Jim was his very own, ever-devoted, cheering section. A pain in the ass in victory, a danger in defeat.

I’m sure there was a time or two over the years when I spewed forth the earliest whistle, but the best moment was never in gaining the coveted prize of immunity from all post-competition clean-up (although that certainly was sweet), but in the unfettered indulgence of doing something utterly pointless and completely absurd.

Within Close Range: Racing the Dark

Family members would regularly find Mia anywhere but her own bed, out-of-sorts and a bit undone when woken from her somnambulist treks. 

One morning, I woke to find her 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, she rolled over (our noses nearly touching), blinked, and groaned, "Anne, what are you doing here?"

"Look around you, Oh Sleepwalking One."

She did just that. 

Then, taking the remainder of the covers with her, she rolled over and gave a swift backward kick that left me on the floor, bewildered but a little in awe.

I never knew when or what to expect from Mia’s nocturnal wanderings. 

Returning home late one night, I noticed that the light was still on in the den. "Crap," I mumbled into the open fridge, as I began to formulate one-word responses to Dad’s inevitable interrogation. With munchies in hand and alibis at the tip of my tongue, I opened 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 shrugged and turned for the stairs. 

"Where's my friend?” I heard from behind me and turning around, I asked, ”What friend?"

"My FRIEND!" she replied indignantly.

"What friend, Mia? I don't who you're talking about."

"My FRIEND!" she repeated for the third time.

"Look, maybe if I knew what friend you're talking ab-"

"Shut up, Anne."

"All-righty, then," I said as I headed to bed.

Passing the boy's room upstairs, I noticed that the television was blaring and Mark was still lying on the sofa, face down, with a cat on his shirtless back and a dog at his feet. I turned the T.V. off and gently tapped him on the shoulder. 

"Kid, you should head to bed," I said softly and then started for my own. 

Mark raised his head suddenly and called out, "Anne-Anne-Anne... Would-you, would-you, would-you…open-the-open-the-open-the-open-the-“, then nothing. He simply collapsed back onto his belly and into his dreams.

“Open the WHAT?" I pleaded internally, fearing that if I turned around I’d 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 thought as I headed to the comfort of my room. 

Before I got there, however, I noticed the lights on in Mia's bedroom and decided to investigate. (Damn you, Rod Serling.) I found Mia sitting on her bed, doused in light, with a drawing pad in her lap and a peculiar look on her face. 

What I found even more disconcerting was how quickly and stealthily she’d 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 or, at least, hearing her pass. The feeling made me glance out of the corner of my eyes to the mirror above Mia's desk, where I found instant comfort in seeing both our reflections and enough courage to ask Mia about her missing friend. 

She looked up in response, but said nothing. 

“Your friend," I pressed. "The one you were looking for earlier?"

She scrunched her face and tilted her head, slightly. "Where's my pink purse?" were the next words out of her mouth. 

I didn’t know how to respond. 

We just glared at one another.

“What?”

"My pink purse!" she repeated unhappily.

"Okay...so... 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.” was all Mia had to say and all I could take for one night.

The following morning, both she and Mark denied any knowledge of the previous night’s events. But I knew the truth. Especially about Mia.

I shared the same room with her for years. I observed her patterns and habits, her strengths and weaknesses, the complex relationship Mia had with the Night. She was a creature of it - active and creative. 

She stayed awake well into it (later than most in the house), yet also seemed determined to shun it with the use of every light available. And when Night finally acquiesced to Sleep, it did so half-heartedly with Mia, often leaving her restless and wandering between this world and slumber’s. 

Rare was the night she’d get into bed before me. 

Rarer, though, was my not being a reluctant participant in her nightly ritual. 

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

"CLICK." 

On went the stair lights at the other end of the house and then, footsteps - Mia's - coming up the carpet-less, wooden staircase. Her movement, quick and cautious. Around the corner she’d skitter, to the main hall and- 

"CLICK." 

Her target, two doors down on the left, is illuminated. Muffled by a thick, carpet runner, I knew Mia reached our door only when light returned to our brightly patterned wallpaper setting its floor to ceiling, yellow, orange, pink and lilac flowers aglow. Mia would then make as much noise as possible (slamming drawers and sliding closet doors, flushing the toilet in the adjacent bathroom, testing her alarm clock, etc.) before climbing beneath her covers. 

Leaving every light on her path from family room to bedroom, burning bright. 

Just as dependable as this, was the dialogue which followed.

“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, all I could do was imagine the incredibly smug look on her face. 

"Too bad," would come her muffled reply. "I can sleep just fine with them on.” 

I'd claim to be able to do the same, but in less than a minute, with the bedroom lights searing wholes through my eyelids, I'd climb from bed and shuffle just outside our door.

“CLICK. CLICK." 

Off the hall and staircase lights would go. 

"CLICK." 

Off our bedroom lights would go. 

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

It went on like this for years.

Then Chris was off to college and Mia was given her own room. I couldn't wait. Not only because I was anxious to have my independence, but even more, I was anxious to see how Mia would handle hers. But she kept delaying the move, bringing her things into her new bedroom one article at a time, over days, then weeks. 

I offered to help. 

She'd get offended and disappear. 

Mom finally had to intervene. Begrudgingly, Mia threw the last of her belongings into the heap in the center of her new bedroom and faced sleeping on her own for the first time in her life. 

I lay in my darkened room that night and waited for the familiar sounds of Mia making her way to bed, speculating over and over again how she would handle the lights with no one in the next bed to do it for her. 

Would she leave them on all night? 

Doubtful. Dad had a sixth sense about these things and would 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? 

Had Mia given this anywhere near as much thought as me?

Then, "CLICK." 

On went the back staircase lights. 

“Creak”, went the steps. 

"CLICK." 

On went the hallway lights. 

"CLICK." 

On went Mia's bedroom lights. 

I listened carefully, tracking her footsteps, picturing her every move, anticipating her thoughts. 

“CLICK. CLICK." 

Off went the stair and hall lights from below, as Mom called “Sweet dreams." and Dad warned “Don't let the bedbugs bite.” 

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

“Come on, Mia,” I whispered into my pillow. 

Then it happened. 

"CLICK." 

Off went the light. 

"Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter-grumpf-creakity-creak-creak-cree.” 

And that’s the way it would be from that day forward. 

Night after night. 

It was a sound that no matter how familiar it became, never failed to bring a smile to my face. 

I can still hear it now. 

“CLICK.”

“Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter-grumpf-creakity-creak-creak-cree."

Mia running to bed, racing the dark, chasing the night. 

Within Close Range: Murphy's Mountain Law

Murphy’s Mountain Law 

In 1978, Dad decided to take the whole family to Park City, Utah for a Christmas ski trip. So, with our new ski equipment and shiny new snow suits, the seven of us boarded the plane, excited, restless and eagerly anticipating a week of swishing through the powder of the Rocky Mountains. 

The trip out west went relatively smoothly – except for the fact that I was prone to airplane sickness; Mark, was prone to falling out of seats; Jim, was prone to twitching relentlessly on the nearest sibling (especially when confined to small spaces); Mia, was prone to, shall we say, “moods”; and Chris, was prone (on this particular occasion) to bleeding profusely, having had gum surgery days prior to departure. Nevertheless, we made it through the three hour flight without my parents being politely, but sternly asked never to fly the airline again. 

A family first. 

After piling all the ski gear, luggage and children into the rental car, Dad pointed the large sedan toward Park City, where we would be staying at my aunt and uncle’s condominium, just a stone’s throw away from the small town’s many ski slopes. As we climbed the mountain from Salt Lake City and neared our final destination, five anxious, young passengers pressed noses against windows, expecting to see piles upon piles of that wonderful white fluff, but instead were met with noticeable patches of green and brown everywhere we passed. Hearing dispirited mumbling coming from the backseat, Dad assured us that there would be plenty of snow on the mountain and that tomorrow we would be weaving down the slopes from sun up to sun down. 

We had little reason to doubt him. 

By the time we unloaded everything into the condo, it was dusk and we were tired and hungry. So, off went the parents to the supermarket, leaving us on our own to determine who was going to sleep where. By the time they returned, the matter had been resolved by Jim and Mark locking themselves in one of the bedrooms (the other reserved for life-giving, bill paying parents), while Mia and I pounded on the door reeling off a series of low grade arguments and insults. All the while, Chris sat quietly on the sofa in the living room, looking miserable as she swabbed her bruised, stitched and swollen gums. Within 30 seconds of entering the scene, Mom settled the matter by "suggesting" we switch nights. Mom’s suggestion - particularly if Dad was within earshot - was never to be misconstrued with our having a choice, so Mia and I went about our business, quiet grumbling about injustices and big, fat, stupid, jerks. 

Once dinner was over, with pitch black mountains and unfamiliar skies outside and three rooms and one television inside, the entire family gathered in the living room (even though Chris would have preferred we leave her sleeping quarters so she could be left alone with her oral horror) and watched one forgettable program after the next; each family member seemingly mesmerized by the lighted screen. Hardly speaking. Barely recognizing other life forms in the room. We sat this way for hours, until Dad "suggested" we call it an evening. With first night bedroom rights, Jim and Mark deliberately dawdled past Mia and I on their way to bed, still swaggering and boastful. Chris, hardly having uttered a word all day, quietly prepared the sofa and fell into it in tears. Normally, a sibling taking over a prime sleeping spot would’ve caused another argument, but having a modicum of sympathy for her aching gums, Mia and I agreed to let it go and settled ourselves on the living room floor with sofa pillows and sleeping bags. 

Waking the next day, after a fitful night's sleep, I turned toward the coveted couch and groggily raised myself to where Chris was sleeping, preparing to lob an early morning insult her way. 

“Mom!," I screamed instead.

Wow, could that woman move when she heard a child's distress call. 

Seeing the look of absolute terror on my face, she turned to the sofa where she discovered Chris, who was now sitting up next to a blood-soaked pillow, looking rather pale. 

“She’s hemorrhaging. She's hemorrhaging!” Mom screamed as she jumped up and down in place, which she had a habit of doing in emergency situations, prior to leaping into action. 

“I’m fine, Mom,” Chris said delicately, as Mia warily approached her and handed her a box of tissues. “This happens at night.” 

“Really,” she reiterated, as Dad came into the room, aghast by the bloody scene. “I’m fine. In fact, it feels much better today,” she said rather unconvincingly as she raised a weak smile behind trembling, chapped and blood- encrusted lips. 

Dad tried to calm the horrified spectators now gathered at the side of the sofa by reminding everyone that the doctor said there would be some bleeding. The news, however, did little to quell the twisting of faces and insensitive commentary, until Mom pushed us toward the kitchen and a breakfast that would hopefully keep big mouths occupied for a while. 

From where the condo lay, it was only a three minute walk to the slopes. So after breakfast, we all bundled up and headed out, skis and poles slung over shoulders great and small, as the clock-clock-clock-clock of our rigid ski boots echoed off the condominiums alongside the road at the side of the mountain. Even though the surrounding snow looked old and icy, the skies were cloudy and promising and our spirits were high - even Chris (who barely had enough blood to raise color in her cheeks) managed to perk up. She and I boarded the first ski lift together, all the while admiring the birds' eye views of our alpine surroundings, but paying little mind to the runs below our dangling skis. As we reached the top, however, I couldn't help but notice ski attendants shoveling snow onto the area where skiers slide off. 

Apparently a little groggy from blood loss, Chris decided to ready herself as we approached the point of disembarkation by putting her hand firmly on my left leg, completely thwarting my ability to move off the chair with the swiftness vital to successful chairlift dismounts. As the end of the ride neared, Chris pushed off my thigh and shakily slid forward at the designated mark, leaving me planted in the seat and quickly heading toward the 180 degree turn that would take me back down the mountain. With lightning reaction, one of the ski attendants yanked my arm and whisked me off the chair and onto the ramp they had been repacking with snow. 

"Scraaaaaaaaaap-p-pe," went my brand-new skis over the exposed gravel and down I went - face first - into a pile of ice hard snow. 

After being lifted from the ground by the fellow who launched me there, humiliated and bruised, I grimaced and sidestepped over to Chris, who smiled weakly, revealing her black and blue gums and blood-stained teeth, “Sorry, Anne.” I wanted to kill her, but her oral surgeon seemed to be doing the job for me, albeit very… very slowly. 

It didn't take long for the entire family to concede that the ski runs left a great deal to be desired as each chairlift led us to snow-barren run after run, all of which required a level of athleticism foreign to the vast majority of us. On this particular day, those skills included the ability to strap on a pair of very long, very narrow waxed planks and to hurl oneself at high speed down a 45 degree angle, littered with rocky patches and large, icy moguls. Mia, Mark, Mom and I had barely mastered the snowplow. We were the first to surrender. We felt Chris's bloody breath on the back of our necks. Dad and Jim were close behind. We traded the slopes for an afternoon of lunch and looking at holiday window displays and returned to the condo early that evening with a Christmas tree and rekindled holiday spirits, until Dad and Jim's unsuccessful attempts to cut a level tree bottom without the aid of a saw, and to stand a 10 ft. pine without the aid of a stand. 

Not finding a single store open where we might have gotten the proper tree-standing gizmo, Dad and Jim were determined to find something, somewhere in the condo which would make a sturdy substitute. But after trying bowls and buckets, waste baskets and garbage bins to no avail, tempers were fraying and good tidings were being crushed. As Dad and Jim tried to steady the tree in various, ill-sized buckets, Mark (bored with the whole ugly scene) went over and turned on the television. 

“Click - "OUR PRICES ARE INSANE!!" - Click - "Oh John!", "Oh, Ka-" - Click - "Coke adds life to all the thin-" - click-click-click- "-and the lord said unto Mos-" 

"DAMN IT! Just leave it there!”, Dad roared at the lowest branch of his family tree. 

Had there been any snow on the mountain that night, we would likely have been buried beneath it. Jim was so startled, he let go of the Christmas tree which came crashing to the ground just inches from Dad. I never saw eyes twitch like that before. He was so agitated that rather than unceremoniously tossing a towering Scotch Pine over a second floor balcony (which each of us felt sure was coming next), he excused himself and took a long walk in the cool, dark night. While he calmed his nerves, our attentions turned to the television, which was rerunning Charlton Heston in "The Ten Commandments”. Even though we’d all seen it a dozen times before, doing anything else would have taken far more effort than any of us were willing to outlay. So, we sat... and we watched... thoroughly unimpressed by Moses's parting of the Red Sea for the umpteenth time. Just as Charlton Heston was about to lead his people to freedom – "Zzzzzzzzzt, pop, zap!" went the TV and the screen went black.  All jaws in the room dropped. Mia, Mark and I stared wildly at the dormant machine, while Jim and Dad (who had just returned from his cool down, only to find another reason to get heated up) fiddled futilely with its wires. All attempts at resuscitation were soon abandoned. 

Mom tried to lighten the mood by turning on the radio, with the hopes of finding Christmas carols to put everyone back into the holiday frame of mind. Ten minutes later, the only thing she could tune into was static. No snow. No tree. No television. Not even a Christmas ditty. No reason to go on, really. Utterly disenchanted, the family quietly dispersed to different corners of the condo. 

"Eeeek!!," came a scream from the downstairs bathroom a few minutes later. 

Everyone ran to the scene as Mia opened the door, wrapped in a towel and dripping with soap. 

“Who's using the hot water?” she cried out as shampoo stung her eyes, but all who could be blamed stood before her. “Mom, are you running the dishwasher?" 

"I would be IF it was working," Mom snapped, finally showing signs of strain. 

As it turned out, no one was using the hot water, nor would anyone for the next few days. The hot water heater had broken and not a soul would be available until after Christmas. At this news, the family let out a collective sigh – as if the condo had sprung a leak. Which, at this point, seemed entirely possible. 

"Enough," Mom said with steely determination. "We are not going to let this get us down." 

And she meant it. Using rope she found in the kitchen cabinet, she convinced Jim and Dad they could stand the tree upright by tying it to the condo's rafters and beams, which they did. She also mustered the injured and the enlisted, to make decorations out of stringed popcorn and paper ornaments. And even though we were still outwardly miserable (taking it out on each other at every inopportune moment), the activity kept us occupied for the remainder of the evening. And in the end, the tree looked lovely, if not a little lopsided. Even though Mom seemed once again unaffected by... well, by it ALL and Dad was making himself scarce, as usual, we kids believed the only thing to save this debilitated vacation was snow. All those Sundays in church and catechism class surely had to carry some weight. "Please God," each of us prayed that night, "just a few inches of snow is all we ask for." 

The following morning, one by one, before saying anything to anyone (even though each silent face spoke volumes), each of us looked out the window. Not a single, stinkin' snowflake had fallen. After an unusually quiet breakfast, Dad decided we would all take a drive to see what condition other neighboring ski resorts were in. 

Why didn’t he just call, one might as? Because Dad discovered the phone, like the weather, the hot water heater, the TV, and the dishwasher, was completely kaput. Really, I’m not making any of this up. With no great surprises, our journey to nearby resorts proved unsuccessful and after three hours in the car, the mood had dipped so low it felt as if the car's undercarriage was scraping along the highway. Just as we were pulling up to the condo, the rental car begin to sputter and choke and then... it died. Those in the backseat sat very silent, exchanging frightened side glances, waiting to hear the explosion. Dad and Mom sat staring through the frosty front windshield - not moving, not speaking - for what seemed like an eternity. Then, as if a tropical breeze blew in through the now dormant air vents, Mom and Dad turned to one another and started to laugh, causing a chain reaction throughout the stalled sedan. This highly unexpected reaction from our quick tempered, Italian father would help set the tone for the rest of the trip. 

The next day, Christmas Day, we busied ourselves opening the small gifts we bought or made for each other and spent the remainder of the holiday doing what we've always done best, cooking and feasting. That evening, as the sun went down and the creatures in the condo became restless, pacing about, looking forlornly at the TV, wondering what to do next, I suggested charades. Jim began frantically fiddling with the television. Chris grabbed her book and began reading the same page she hadn't been able to get past since boarding the plane. Mark and Mia decided it was as good a time as any to jump on the twin beds upstairs. Mom, however, thought it was a good idea and "suggested" everyone at least give it a try. Though total indifference sat itself down for the game that night, it wasn’t long before everyone - including Dad (who rarely participated in family game nights) - was wise-cracking and taking their turn. Teammates were syncing like well-oiled, mind-reading machines. Pantomimes were performed with dexterity and artistry. Guesses were made with certainty.

I was up. My clue: "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof." I begin by acting out the hand cranked film camera. 

"Movie!", Mia, my charades' partner called out. One finger tip briefly touched my nose, then was met by three others and two thumbs. 

"Five words!" she fired in succession.I tapped my nose and squealed delightedly. Mentally grabbing hold of the clue's first word, while catching a glimpse of Dad out of the corner of my eye, my brain reeled. Dad's infamous intolerance and abhorrence for the family cats flashed through my mind. I met Mia's eyes, drop kicked an invisible object, and pointed to Dad. 

"Cat on a Hot Tin Roof!" she screamed as she leapt from her seat and joined me in a victory jig around the living room. The family was stunned by our hair-trigger victory. Dad looked confused. Everyone was laughing. I can’t recall a more memorable time when we were together. United by circumstances. Banded by bad luck. Adaptive and, for the most part, amenable. For the remainder of the snowless, television-less, hot waterless, auto-less, dishwasher-less, music-less, communication-less vacation we had in the mountains that Christmas, we spent it together in this strange world where entertainment was ours, alone, to create. After a while, no one seemed anxious for change. Except, of course, Chris, whose bleeding had become so profuse that finding a doctor became imperative. A few stitches later, the hemorrhaging was reduced to just below offensive. 

Two days before we left, it finally snowed and we were back out on the slopes... until Mom fell and ended up with seven stitches above her right eye. The vision of seeing her look up at me as the chairlift (I was reluctantly trapped on) floated directly over her bleeding head, was one which, thirty- six years later, still comes clear to my mind.

It certainly a lot bloodier of a vacation any of us had imagined. Yet it has always been a favorite to recall for rotten luck’s ability to create harmony and very happy memories.