The Bluff

The Bluff

By David Willard

It was a glorious summer Saturday, one of those rare days that seemed to stretch on forever, infused with an extra layer of freedom because there was no school waiting on Monday. Regular Saturdays were fine, but summer ones had a magical quality, a sense of endless possibility that made the world feel bigger and brighter. This Saturday stood out even among those; it was the day we had chosen to embark on our grand project: building a clubhouse. But this wasn't going to be any ordinary clubhouse hammered together from scrap wood in someone's backyard. No, ours was going to be something far more adventurous and secretive—an underground hideout dug deep into the earth in the mysterious woods we simply called “over the bluff.”

Our neighborhood was a typical neighborhood. Along one edge of it lay a park, a wide, flat expanse of green grass. The real allure was the bluff that gave the park its colloquial name: “The Bluff.”

The bluff had been worn down over centuries by wind and rain, transforming what might once have been a sharp cliff into a steep, sloping hillside. It descended gradually toward an industrial area about half a mile below. The hillside was a thickly wooded area, choked with underbrush and tangled vines. We referred to it as “over the bluff.” To us kids, those woods were our neighborhood's answer to Disneyland. When we played army, the dense foliage and uneven terrain turned into a rugged battlefield. For spy games, it became a complex urban maze. It served as the backdrop for reenacting scenes from our favorite TV shows and movies. And, perhaps most liberating of all, you could pee in the woods.

The woods weren’t just a blank slate; legendary spots added to their mystique. Among them was Glass Mountain, a treacherous gully with walls supposedly so steep and slick that if you fell in, escape was impossible. It was the site of countless pissing contests, where one kid would challenge another to jump down and try to climb out. No one ever took the bait—we weren't suicidal. The thought of dying from hunger or thirst at the bottom was terrifying enough, but even worse was the idea of our parents discovering us there. If they found us, grounding would be the least of our worries; we'd probably face a spanking or worse. There were countless other such places scattered throughout the woods, each with its own magic, turning the area into a living playground for our adventures.

As soon as the morning cartoons wrapped up, I yelled “Goodbye!” to my mom and got out before she could get to the “slam” part of “Don’t slam the door!” Acting casual, I circled around to the garage once she was out of sight and snatched up a shovel. I didn't want any questions from her about what I was up to.

I made my way to the bluff, where my friends were already gathering. Larry, with his mischievous grin; Stacey, the quick-witted one; Steve, always practical; and Mikey, the earnest but somewhat dim bulb of the group. Steve’s mom had once declared, “You five are always in trouble.” That wasn’t entirely accurate. Getting into trouble was easy. We used much more energy getting out of it.

We envisioned the clubhouse as a spacious cavern, wide enough for all of us to hang out comfortably, deep enough to feel truly hidden, with shelves etched into the dirt walls for storing treasures and carved-out benches for sitting. It would be our secret fortress, a place to stash the dirty magazines we stole from under our parents’ mattresses—that sparked endless uninformed explanations and giggles.

More than that, it would be a refuge from the annoyances of daily life: pesky younger siblings who tagged along uninvited, overbearing parents with their constant questions, and the swarm of little kids who roamed the streets like pint-sized pests. This clubhouse would be our shared secret, a bond that tied the five of us together in conspiracy and camaraderie.

You might wonder about the practicality of digging an underground lair in a sloped area prone to heavy rains, where water carved deep gullies like Glass Mountain. Such logical concerns never entered our young minds. We were far more Walter Mitty than Mr. Spock.

Stacey, Larry, and I brandished our full-sized shovels, ready for heavy lifting. Steve had managed a garden trowel, small but sharp. And then there was Mikey, holding up... a soup ladle? “Hey, my dad was tinkering in the garage,” he explained sheepishly. “This was the best I could sneak out without him noticing!” At about one cup of dirt per scoop, Mikey wasn’t going to be the MVP of the digging crew, but we appreciated his effort. Mikey wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, so we always gave him a bit of extra leeway.

We dove into the work. “What if we find a dead Indian?” Stacey pondered aloud, his shovel biting into the soil. Indian Mound was a small hillock at the far end of the park. The official sign claimed it was an ancient lookout point for spotting buffalo herds, but we knew better. It was the site of epic battles, with fallen warriors buried throughout the woods. The pioneers’ spring was spared, we figured, because it was a neutral zone or something.

“You’ll be cursed for life if you disturb one,” Steve warned.

“And the curse is doubled if you dig ‘em up with a ladle,” Larry chimed in, sending us all into fits of laughter.

Mikey’s eyes widened in genuine fear. “Wh-where do we find a medicine man to remove the curse?” he stammered.

“They’re all dead,” I replied matter-of-factly, which only amplified the hilarity. But beneath the jokes, a subtle undercurrent of unease lingered. What if we really did unearth something ancient and ominous?

Stacey was digging away enthusiastically when he suddenly yelped, “I hit a bone!” We all froze, the color draining from our faces.

We crowded around to inspect, hearts pounding, only to discover it was nothing more than a half-buried tree root. Relief washed over us, followed by relentless teasing directed at Stacey, though truth be told, each of us had come perilously close to wetting our pants for

The hole grew steadily, dirt flying in all directions. Occasionally, one of us would break for a quick run home to gulp down a glass of water. Each time we went home, we were more caked in dirt from head to toe, but our parents didn’t bat an eye. In fact, it would have been more suspicious if we’d come back clean—they might have called the priest to perform an exorcism. Finally, Stacey remembered his army canteen from our war games and filled it up, eliminating the need to leave the site and risk interruption.

Soon, the melodious calls of mothers summoning their kids for dinner finally pulled us away. I scarfed down my—I couldn’t tell in my haste—and was back out the door in record time. There were still three hours of daylight left, and we weren’t about to waste them.

Back at the dig, the hole had expanded to an appreciable size: roughly ten feet in diameter and four feet deep. It was starting to look like something real, a testament to our determination.

Soon fatigue set in but we weren’t ready to call it quits. Steve suggested gathering fallen tree branches to conceal the hole and serve as a makeshift roof. We collected sturdy limbs and laying them across the opening, camouflaging it with leaves and brush. Stepping back, we beamed with pride at our accomplishment.

As the sky became orange, we knew the streetlights would soon come on. Failing to be home when the streetlights came on was the ultimate crime, one you couldn’t lie or weasel your way out of. Parents might overlook other mischief as “boys being boys,” but this rule was ironclad. Punishment was swift and sure. If you were lucky, you got off with a spanking—painful, but over quickly, allowing you to move on. Grounding was far worse, it promised hours of painful boredom.

But the absolute worst punishment was being banned from TV. In those days, TV was not the same as what the pampered kids of today have. You had to physically walk to the set to turn it on. Shows aired once, and if you missed one, you waited months for summer reruns. With only three channels, families often watched the same programs, creating a shared cultural experience.

TV discussions dominated the next day’s play, often inspiring our games. Missing a show made you an outcast, staring blankly as everyone in school discussed it. If it became the plot of as game, you were always “The Guy That Got Killed.” This was the origin of FOMO—fear of missing out—and it ensured we religiously observed The Streetlight Law.

That evening, as we sat watching TV, the phone rang. “It never fails,” she sighed in exasperation. Phone calls during primetime were rare and often considered rude, so this had to be important. I eavesdropped as she answered. “Oh, hi Marie,” she said. Marie was Mikey’s mom, and my hackles rose—surely this was about that ridiculous ladle. “No, I haven’t seen him... David’s been home since before the streetlights... Just a second, I’ll ask him.”

I feigned absorption in the TV as she approached. “Have you seen Mikey?” she asked. This wasn’t about the ladle; Mikey was missing!

Staying cool, I replied, “Yeah, we played all day.”

“Where was he when you came home?”

“Still on the bluff,” I said, a white lie to protect our secret. If he was in the hole, I could claim ignorance of his exact spot. We friends stuck together.

“No, Marie, he hasn’t seen him since the bluff... Yes, I will. Goodbye.” A tense pause followed, then the phone erupted with calls. The Mom News Network was activated, every mother in the neighborhood rallying like a well-oiled machine. “Hello? Yes, she just called... David has no idea... How many times have we warned them about those woods?” The quiet evening dissolved into chaos as calls bounced back and forth.

Dad was demonstrating his uncanny ability to watch TV with his eyes closed when Mom burst in. “George, Marie is asking for help searching for Mikey. He never came home.”

“Wha— ahem, let me find my flashlight.” He grabbed it and headed out, with me trailing behind uninvited. My friend was in trouble; I’d risk any punishment to help.

At the Bluff, about twenty people had assembled—parents, siblings, curious neighbors, and busybodies. Some had driven cars onto the grass, headlights piercing the gathering dusk. The men argued over search leadership until Mr. Terranella, a former Eagle Scout, was elected. He decreed that only men would venture over the bluff; women would worry topside, and kids would stay put, complaining about hunger, cold, or boredom.

The men disappeared into the woods, flashlights bobbing. I spotted Stacey, Steve, and Larry huddled together and joined them. “What the hell, you guys?” I whispered, risking a swear word in the stress.

“Our butts are grass,” Stacey replied grimly.

Steve was confused: “All we did was dig a hole. What’s that got to do with Mikey missing?”

But Stacey explained: if Mikey was in the clubhouse and we hadn’t mentioned it, we’d be in deep trouble for withholding information.

Larry suggested denying knowledge, claiming Mikey dug it alone. “With a soup ladle?” we chorused, dismissing the idea.

A lump formed in my throat. We all thought it but feared saying it: the bums had got him.

Parents the world over used scare tactics like the Boogey Man to keep kids in line. Our version was the bums—vagrants who hopped freight trains to the railroad yard below and lurked in the woods, waiting to “get” wayward children who went too far down. What “get” meant was never specified—kidnap, kill, eat? —but it terrified us. They ventured higher up the bluff at night, making the woods especially dangerous after dark. Every adult reinforced the tale: parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, older siblings. They were real because the grown-ups said so.

Listening to the moms speculate—Mikey injured, lost, hiding—I interjected, “What if the bums got him?” They went silent. Now I know they were scrambling to reassure me without debunking the myth that had taken generations to preserve.

My question hung unanswered as flashing lights approached: two cop cars and a firetruck. “Oh, shit,” I muttered, regretting it instantly.

“David!” Mom scolded, then seized the moment: “See, the policemen are here to handle the bums. No worries.” I didn’t question the firetruck.

Cops hadn’t visited the neighborhood since Jess McCarthy came home drunk, missed his driveway and hit the neighbor’s tree. Cops could be as scary as bums—one wrong word, and you’d end up in jail. Stacey, our chief liar, coached us: “Mikey was in the woods when we left. No mention of the clubhouse.” It was too late; mentioning it now would mean trouble for not saying something earlier.

“What if someone falls in?” Larry asked.

“Say Mikey dug it,” Steve suggested.

“With a soup ladle?” we all said at once.

“What were we doing all day?” Larry wondered.

Stacey: “Building a dirt track for Hot Wheels—no, a battlefield for our army men.” His lying skills were legendary.

The cops consulted the moms, then one headed into the woods. The other, who looked like the poster boy for Dunking Donuts, came our way. My blood chilled as he approached, eyeing us like the line up for a mass murderer. “Which of you was with Mike today?” We raised hands silently. “What were you doing? Your moms said you were filthy. One said she could grow potatoes on you.” That was Larry’s witty country girl mom.

Stacey spoke: “Building a place for army men.” The cop just stared. “Roads, mountains, battlefields.”

“Who saw him last?”

“We left about the same time.,” I said. Scornful look.

“Who left last?”

“Me.”

“What did he say?”

“Seeya, maybe, I don’t remember.”

Another glare: “Stay here.” He returned to the moms, who now looked at us like we were guilty.

The cop listened to his radio, then grabbed the firemen, who took a stretcher, and they went rushing over the bluff. “They found him,” Steve said..

“Stretcher means hurt,” Stacey added.

“Or dead,” Larry the buzz killer.

The men emerged with Mikey on the stretcher, sitting up, terrified. The crowd, now around 100 people, surged. Mikey’s mom ran crying, “My baby! Are you okay? What happened?”

Mikey looked at the crowd, the news van, the flashing red lights and, with tears welling up in his eyes said,” This is all my fault.” A stern look from a cop confirmed that.

The cop: “We found him sleeping in a large hole he says he dug... with this.”

Mikey’s mom shrieked: “My good soup ladle!”

Dad: “A giant hole with a ladle?”

Mikey's mom dragged him home, whacking him with the ladle, ranting about embarrassment. The story: Mikey, because of being teased, had dug furiously all day. He wanted to do “a little more” before the streetlights came on, became exhausted, sat down and fell asleep.

Our dreams shattered by a ladle. The four of us were grounded for the rest of the weekend on general principle. Mikey was exiled to his aunt’s farm for the duration of the summer.

Years later, I was overcome with nostalgia and went back to the neighborhood. While I was there, I went over the bluff to the place where we had dug the hole.

It was still there. However, the rain had smoothed is walls, caused one end to collapse and left the bottom filled with water. It looked like just another wash.

After a few minutes of silent reflection, I walked back up the hill. As I came out of the woods, I noticed the differences in the neighborhood. The houses had been painted or had received new siding. The cars looked like alien spacecraft compared to what used to be parked there. Some of the trees in the yards were much bigger and some were gone.

The physical differences were not that startling. But I was on the Bluff, it was another sunny summer Saturday, and there was no one else around. No kids playing ball, riding their bikes or running around in the woods. It should have been as lively and noisy as a playground during recess, but it was as if the zombie apocalypse had come.

That was the difference that struck me.

Kids did not go outside anymore. They planted themselves in front of various screens and played with pixels instead of sticks and dirt. Adults no longer sat on front porches. They hung out on back decks overlooking yards surrounded by privacy fences., It was as if each house was Fort Apache and the neighbors were Indians ready to attack at any moment. People’s closest friends lived hundreds of miles away in little squares on a screen while they did not even know their next-door neighbor’s name.

They say the world is getting smaller. It’s not. It’s getting bigger- too damned big.

The Soup Ladle Incident showed how close-knit we neighbors were. Everyone was worried. Everyone helped look for Mikey or comforted his mother. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when he was found and shared a communal anger when they found out what the story was. If some modern-day Mikey disappeared over the bluff, only his family would know or care. Of course, that would never happen because it required going outside.

I am not one to sit around yearning for “the good old days.” Neither do I grouse about everything going to hell.

I am just eternally grateful to have lived in a time when great adventure was only a block away.