Snow Day! [Part 1]

"No school today-- stay in bed!" My mother's voice was a welcomed disturbance from my deep sleep. My eyes barely crack open as I rolled over to look out at the world from my top bunk. Light was streaming though the window, blindingly so, as the newly-risen sun was amplified against the fresh white blanket of snow that has tucked the world in.

My sleepiness was immediately rectified as I realized what this meant: SNOW DAY! I sat up in my bed suddenly, knocking my head against the ceiling. My four sisters stirred along with me, excitement beginning to buzz in our small room.

"No school! No school!" Joe burst into the room, his wiry body springing through the door and rocketing around the room. He jumped up to Sarah's bunk across from mine, "Get up, get up, get up!"

With energy that not even a strong cup of coffee could do for me now, I swept my blankets back in a hurried frenzy and swung myself off the bunk, falling with a fantastic THUD onto the bedroom floor. I neglected even bothering with the bunk's ladder-- it was straight off and onto the floor.

There is no way we were staying in bed. A snow day was not something to be wasted!

After shoveling down our breakfast of hot oatmeal, we scurried throughout the house in search of all of our winter gear-- starting with the closet by the back door. This was a treasure trove of jackets, snow suits, boots, gloves, hats, and more. It is a deep, narrow closet that, to this day, no one knows the true contents of it. It had a faint musty smell was never properly lit. Searching for personal items in there was like rooting through the 1000 pieces of a jig saw puzzle for that one piece. . . a little difficult.

What we could not find in the closet, we could find in the laundry room. When I was about 10, my parents built an addition onto our old farmhouse, creating a kitchen, dining area, family room, and a new basement. My father revamped the laundry room with 16 cubbies against the far left wall. Each kid has a cubby of their own in which all their clean clothes are placed once my mother finished washing. And although the poor woman tried so hard, there was never any order to this room. Clothing spilled off the cubbies and onto the floor, carpeting the ground. Neglected shirts and sweaters and pants pile the wicker chair next to the dryer, pleading to be folded by the rambunctious children. 10-year-old me overlooked this. I still knew where to find my gloves and I knew my favorite pair of snow pants were underneath the basket in the corner.

Everyone had snow pants. The origin of the pants are completely unknown to me, but they got the best use. My favorite pair were a faded pink, the pant legs just too short to cover my ankles. I had to pull on my older brother's socks over the pant bottom to keep out the cold and snow and wetness. The suspender straps were equipped with plastic buckles-- one sorry winter, the left buckle broke, forcing me to knot the strap to the snow pants' bib in order for it to stay up. Once my socks were bunched on, I would stuff them into a pair of boots a size too big and tie up the mis-matching laces. I swept my tangled, unbrushed hair into a ferocious pony tail and pulled on a knitted hat over my head, hiding the fugitive strands of hair. My arms shot through the arms of my poofy black winter coat and I hurried to zip and button. Finally, my fingers grabbed at the striped gloves awaiting me and I pushed my way out the door and into the white world awaiting me.

Fishing trip, prt 1

It was three in the morning and Dad was shaking me awake.

"Hey Joe, it's time to go! Get Sam up too. We need to load the van."

In the split second between opening my eyes and realizing what was going on, I had the strong feeling that anything asking me to get out of bed was simply too absurd to be taken seriously. Then I remembered. Oh, yeah, fishing trip.


From the mattress laid out on the floor I reached up to shake Sam, or what I assumed to be Sam wrapped like a mummy in the heavy cotton blanket. "Sam," I told the mummy, "wake up. We have to get ready for the fishing trip." The mummy stirred -- away from my hand -- and went still. "Wake up," I said, "and get your clothes on." The mummy mumbled something. "That's no excuse. We have to load the van with the coolers and stuff. Come on. Off you go!"

I lifted my younger brother's body and pulled him down onto the mattress on the floor. Beneath his wrappings the mummy thrashed to free himself; Sam's head popped out of an opening, his sleep-scarred face wincing in the light from the hallway. He scowled. He said,

"Aaargagoorgeerargeegorrarr," and twisted like a contortionist in a violent stretch.

"Good morning to you," I told the mummy, and went downstairs to help load the van.

My older brothers Mike and Bill were awake, standing in the kitchen in flannel shirts and baseball caps, coffee mugs in hand. Dad was packing the last of the sandwhiches into the red cooler along with the mustard, maonaise, apples, Sunkist juice pouches, and cheese; he too had a flannel shirt and a baseball cap. He talked excitedly.

"If we can get up to New Hampshire by five-thirty we'll have plenty of time to meet Uncle Ray and have breakfast with him before the boat leaves at six-thirty. Wait'll you see the little seaside diner -- I was there a few years back with Uncle Barney. They serve you an enormous breakfast, eggs, ham, and a mountain of hashbrowns. The waitress is a big German lady named Trudy, and when she put the plates in front of us she said, "Now you better eat ALL of that or you're not coming back in here again.' She meant it, too."

"So did you eat all of it?" Mike asked over the rim of his mug.

Dad chuckled. "Well -- yeah." We laughed as well, imagining Dad and Uncle Barney, both with good appetites, hurridly eating a mountain of hashbrowns under the glare of the German waitress.

Sam shuffled in, wearing a flannel shirt and a baseball cap. He went for the coffeepot.

"Good morning, Sam," Bill said with a teasing edge in his voice. "What, coffee? You can't have coffee, I'm afraid, sir, you're too young. But we have some delicious -- soymilk, if you want. We just have to, you know, milk the soycows first."

"Mmmm." Sam said. He poured coffee into a travel mug and slipped on the lid. "Are we stopping at Dunkin Donuts on the way?" he asked.

"Once we get in New Hampshire," said Dad, heaving up the cooler. "All right, boys, let's get going!"

"Can't wait to sleep once we're in the van," Mike murmured, as we filed out the back door into the darkness of morning.

Screenplays

I understand the purpose of my blog is to capture what growing up is like in a large family from my own point of view. I will definitely be adding onto the adventures, but here's a little break from the tales of Powell Days and a sneak peak into the fictional spiral of my own mind.

The following is a short screenplay I had written for Bentley University for Professor Speca. He was a literary and social genius. I have great respect and admiration for him.

Enjoy.

Candy Hearts

ext. Carl’s Candy Shoppe- day

A bright and enjoyable day, cloudless and sunny. A quaint town, the corner of Pleasant Street and Morning Glory road.  A small, colorful candy shop sticks out among the buildings there. The front windows are decorated with vibrant and cheery candy-shaped print, “Carl’s Candy Shoppe.” Directly by the door are striped and polka-dotted balloons tied to an old fashioned bench. They are assorted in color, dancing playfully.

Two young girls in pastel dresses, about 10 years old, push the door open from inside the shop, a bell jingling, and scamper out onto the sidewalk. Each is grinning, a sizeable lollipop in hand. They grab each other’s free hand and skip away giggling, blonde curls bouncing. A petite woman comes into view from around the corner. She is dressed in a lavender dress and a matching bonnet, a strand of blonde hair escaping, a basket of long-stemmed flowers on her arm. She smiles gently at the two girls skipping away and turns to the shop’s window. She stokes the glass, looking down at the array of candies displayed inside. She then turns away.

int. carl’s candy shoppe- same moment in time

Same woman is seen from inside the shop, turning and walking from the front windows. The shop is filled with candied splendors: glass jars with gum drops and jaw breakers, lollipops and twizzlers, twists of gum and chocolate chunks. A small boy stands by a bin of chocolate, filling a paper bag with goodies. Laughter can be heard throughout the small, lit store.

A man, CARL, stands behind the counter, a dapper gentleman, balding slightly. He is wearing a red and white striped apron over a starch white collared-shirt, white creased pants, and smudge-free white tennis shoes. He watches as the woman walks from his window, a longing in his eyes. He places a hand on his heart and softly sighs as she walks away from his viewpoint.

The child with the brown paper bag bounces over to CARL and sets his bag on the counter, tippy toed. CARL immediately focuses on his customer. The boy takes out a nickel and slides it as far as his little arm will reach. CARL takes bag, weighs it on the scale, and then picks up the nickel. He winks at the child, ringing up the purchase. The cash register dings delightedly as it opens, and CARL takes out two pennies and slides them to the young boy. Excited, the boy grabs the pennies and the candy bag and dashes out of the store, the door’s bell tinkling as he leaves. CARL looks around at his shop and forces a smile on his face. His eyes automatically shift to the window. He sighs again, quietly and mouse-like, bends down beneath the counter and flicks on a radio. The sound of Frank Sinatra surfaces and he hums along to the tune, soft and fluffy.

int. Carl’s Candy Shoppe- Later that evening

Sun is setting outside the candied window and CARL is sweeping his shop. A “CLOSED” sign hangs on the door. He finishes, places the broom behind the counter and proceeds to take his apron off. He hangs it on a small hook off to the side and opens a door next to the hook, revealing stairs going upward. He looks to the front window once again, brings his hand to his lips, and blows a gentle kiss toward the window. He stands for a moment, lost in reverie, and begins to hum the same Frank Sinatra tune from earlier that day. He turns back to the stairs and exits, shutting the door softly behind him.

int. Carl’s Candy Shoppe- next day

CARL stands behind his counter once again. The store is once again filled with life and children. He holds a box of chocolate on his hands. He nervously fidgets, eyes focused on the store window.

The same woman from the previous day walks into view, stopping at the store window to look at the treats. She then looks up and catches CARL looking at her. She gently smiles and curtsies. Without taking his eyes off the woman, CARL walks to the door, opening it and stepping out to the woman.

ext. Carl’s Candy Shoppe- continuous

The woman smiles gently at CARL. He holds out the candy box nervously. She takes the box and brings it to her face, taking in the chocolaty aroma. Plucking a flower out from her basket, she hands it to CARL, who accepts it timidly. She curtsies once more, and walks away, CARL standing alone and watching as she leaves. He places his hand with the flower on his heart and sighs.   

Animal House

Our old farmhouse would not have been complete if it weren’t for the animals that lived alongside all of us kids. The peeling paint on our white wooden home and the streaked brown boards of the barn housed an array of pets, some tamed and others wild with only the attachment of food that our little fingers would throw out to them.

Starting small, my favorite pet of the past was Harry, a magnificent yellow parakeet. I loved Harry. I would take Harry out of its cage and play with him—pet his vibrantly highlighted feathers and accept his little love pecks as he nibbled my fingers with his pointed beak. It was well-known amongst the house that I was very close to Harry. One day, as easily as it ever does in such a large home with so many people, disaster struck. One of the twins, four years younger than I, had taken Harry out of his cage. Being a slightly temperamental bird, Harry was not keen on being touched that day. He rebelled. Making his way out of my younger sister’s grasp, he slipped off her shoulder and into her shirt. Of course, the twin was startled and began to pat her shirt down exuberantly, desperately trying to catch Harry and get him OUT of her shirt! Just as quickly as Harry had fallen into her shirt, he was caught and pulled out. He emerged with a twisted neck and a still heart. I was upset for an entire day and I can imagine how my young sister felt having accidently ended Harry’s little life.

We had multiple parakeets, and although Harry was my favorite, he was not my favorite death. That came with “Gordo.” That wasn’t really his name, but rather what he should have been dubbed. This little parakeet absolutely loved food. He couldn’t stop eating. Every time we looked into the cage, there he’d be: perched by his seeds pecking through his fifth or sixth meal of the morning. It was only appropriate that we found him a month into his Powell-home residency face first in the same seeds, his plump stomach collapsed over in his vice. If only he had stopped and considered dieting and exercise!

I realize this all sounds morbid—quite a way to begin a quaint story on animals and dear pets of the Powell home.  I’ll move forward.

Like farm stories and films of old, there were always farm cats that roamed about the barn and beyond, catching mice with stealthy ease and mewing for food at the porch door. All across the Powell acres, gray and golden-striped tabbies and sleek ebony beauties tiptoed and bounded, leapt and sprawled.  Every year brought new ones and lost some of the old. Ginny was the main female cat. She was thin and magnificent, short-haired and easy-tempered. She liked to keep to herself and she loved even more to get a bit frisky with the Tom cats of South Street. It became a game to us kids every summer— Ginny would get pregnant and then hide to have her kittens in a secretive, new place. We’ve found litters in closets, behind couches, in an old cradle in Dad’s workshop and a box in the barn.  We’d watch them grow from tiny creatures to fluffy balls of energy and spunk to strapping teenagers. We gave most of these kittens away before they grew too much, since it’d be impossible to house them all across the property. Dad would not have any of that, although we would have been thrilled.

Rosie and Skipper were our two enormous Newfoundand dogs. I was very young when we had them, but I have very fond memories of them. We would run out in the field with both of them, hanging onto their furry ears, riding them about like horses and screaming with laughter into their muzzles as we buried our faces close to theirs. Unfortunately, Skipper was struck by a car and Rosie passed from a hip problem, if I remember correctly. 

Sally came into our lives when I was starting junior high. She was an excitable golden retriever puppy with boundless energy and wet, sloppy kisses for everyone. My entire high school and college experience had Sally there, greeting me at the door with alerting barks and then a happy, wagging tail.  Old age caught up to her quickly, though, causing her to tire very easily. My junior year of college marked her passing from our world and into doggy heaven.

With all the birds and the cats and dogs, we were never satisfied. We would trek our way to the back stream and catch everything possible: tadpoles and frogs, bugs and fish. There were deer sightings and bunny viewings, squirrels scurrying up into our tree house and birds getting caught in our chimney. Raccoons snuck their way into the trash cans and mice scurried in the barn. Bats swooshed over our heads in the night sky as we played in the warm summer air and crawfish were scooped up by our shiny red buckets.

Not to mention, there were twelve little animals running amok in the house every day. 

Error at the Air Show

With such a large family comes room for a little error. I'm sure you aren't surprised by that. Let me define what I mean by "error."

A Powell error is a slip in judgement or a continuation of one's activity and day without realization-- a lapse in clear thinking, if you will. Powell error usually occurs when there is chaos or pandemonium within or outside the household.

There is always room for a little Powell error.

It was a fantastically bright summer day. Everything was lit by the highlighter sun, rays sweeping over the brightened land. Our little street in Granby was an unusually busy place that day. The Air Show had beckoned eager jet plane viewers from all over the state. Cars hugged each other on the tree-lined road as the queue crept its way toward the Air Force Base.




There was an excited bustle in the Powell home.

Sarah came racing down the stairs, her hair in a twisted mess and her over-sized tee shirt draping over her ten-year old body.

"HE'S HERE! HE'S HERE! HE'S HERE!"

Uncle Barney had entered the scene. Uncle Barney was Dad's college roommate and best friend. He was of no relation to the family, but we all referred to him and his wife Theresa fondly as "Aunt and Uncle." Uncle Barney's eyes were usually lit with laughter, his nose and cheeks reddening the louder and longer he chuckled with Dad, a slim pair of glasses resting sleepily on his face. He was often at the Powell house, lighting up a cigar with Dad (to which I detested as a child, being very sensitive to smoke) or partaking in prayer with both Mom and Dad.

Today, Uncle Barney was taking us down the street to the Air Show. The Air Show only came around once every couple of years. And when it did come, it was obvious. Our entire house would be shaken awake that Saturday morning to the sounds of fighter jets and airplanes roaring over our roof, some dangerously close.

And so, Mom and Dad left us under Uncle Barney's wing. I'm sure they were in desperate need of quiet and alone time.

"Race you to the gate!" Evelyn pushed past us at the door and took off across the lawn and down the street. I was in tow, followed by Joe, Sarah, and Bernard, our "cousin."

As we entered the gates and followed the path toward the base, my heart fluttered happily. The Air Show was one of my favorite days of the year and I couldn't believe it was here!

"If you get lost, tell someone in a uniform," instructed Uncle Barney, pointing at an officer nearby. I followed where he was pointing. The uniform-clad man was probably the most unapproachable-looking person I had ever laid eyes on. His face was gruff and worn, and his apparel made him look starched, stiff. I gulped and kept walking forward. Uncle Barney's instructions flew through my ponytail, missing my ears, and fell on the dusty path next to us.

As we stepped into the main lot, we paused to take in the scenery. An enormous plane sat in the center of the lot, a massive structure. It's silver coating glistened, inviting all to enter it's belly.  Every type of person was part of the crowd, clad in shorts, tees, tanks and flops. The buzz in the air was magnificently electric, charging each of our small bodies with the purity of childhood delight.

I looked up into the sky, a blue expanse with the stretched white clouds scraping it's face. There, amongst the sunshiny ceiling, fighter jets were looping and spinning, performing tricks that were unimaginable! I was sucked into the show, watching every move and following the crowd deeper as they were magnetically pulled toward the gates.






A moment passed and I tore my eyes away from the jets, turning around to exclaim: "That's so cool!"

But no one heard. Strangers loomed over me. Uncle Barney and my siblings were no where to be found.

My heart began to race uncontrollably.  I was lost! I pushed past the people and ran toward the gaping opening of the plane I had walked past earlier. There stood a man in uniform, his eyes surveying the lot, his hands cupped behind his back. He stood as tall as a building and as straight as an arrow. A sharp, scary arrow.

There's no way I'm talking to him, I thought.

Terrified, I turned in circles, looking desperately for my family. I thought I was going to be lost forever. My tiny heart pounded horrifically against my chest, reminding me of the frightening reality.

Tears started forming in my eyes as I stood in place, trying to muster the courage to approach the officer.

Then, the most beautiful voice broke through the terror and found my ears.

"Barbara! Where were you?" I turned around ferociously-- Uncle Barney was standing there with Joe and Evelyn and company. I exhaled in relief and couldn't stop the tears from flowing. I ran toward my Uncle and hugged him.

Having felt so horribly, my Uncle went out of his way to buy me a root beer float, the first I had ever had.
And, regrettably, I didn't bother to share.

I still get reprimanded about hoarding my treat. But, c'mon-- I had almost been lost for good!

Ghost in the Graveyard

It was five o clock on a summer evening. My sisters, Evelyn, Barbara, Sarah, Nell, Christina,and Gina, and my brother Sam and myself were hurrying through our hotdogs and carrot sticks as the sun began to sink. We wanted to take advantage of every second of summer daylight. At the stove Mom supervised our progress, making sure nobody missed anything nutritious, and then finally told us to bring our plates to the sink and do our “jobs.” Evelyn filled the basin with hot water and soap and began scrubbing; Barbara and Sarah cleared the table and wiped away stray ketchup and carrots; Nell swept the floor while Nina, Sam and I tidied up the other rooms. Fifteen minutes and we had all finished except Evelyn, since dishes took the longest of all the chores. Thankfully our good Mom took over the sink and let us go play. We raced outside.
Not far from the back door stood the giant maple tree with the tree house and the giant net that served as a ladder and the sand pile beneath. We gathered there.
Evelyn, being the oldest, said, “I’ll count off. We’ll play Ghost in the Graveyard.”
“I want to count off this time,” said Barbara. She always relished an argument.
“No, let Evelyn do it,” protested Sarah. “Let’s just play.”
Sam and Gina, the youngest, clambered on the swings and soon were sailing away. Nell and I pushed them while Nina, with a twig, poked at a beetle on the tree.
The older girls made a treaty – Barbara would count off but she couldn’t be the first “Ghost.” So we huddled together except the two on the swings who were happily occupied anyway. Barbara started, tapping each shoe and chanting. “Bubble gum bubble gum in a dish, how many pieces do you wish?” The tapped shoe answered, “Five.” “One two three for five,” Barbara counted, and whatever shoe she tapped was out of the circle. This went on and on until only one shoe was left: Nell, as it happened. With a delighted “Yay!” she raced off to hide.
Now the rest of us had to wait. Since the sandpile sat almost in the center of the biggest side yard we all stood around the tree, heads bowed, in case Nelly wanted to hide in the immediate area. Barbara and I rolled out the count: “Onemississippitwomississippithreemississippifourmississippifivemississippisixmississippi" and onwards to “Onehundredmississippi!” It was a generous amount of time, but one ritual remained. Six kids put their hands to their mouths and yelled in chorus: “Apples Oranges Cherry Pie, if not ready holler Aye!” But no “Aye!” answered the call, and we went off in pursuit of the Ghost.
Sam and I ran to our right onto the driveway, crouching quickly to see if the Ghost was lurking under the big blue van or Dad’s green pick-up. Nina and Gina followed and peeked into the woodshed near the back deck. No Ghost. Barbara, Sarah, and Evelyn were scouring the sand pile yard and would be at the front lawn in a moment. I tugged Sammy’s shirt.
“Come on, the Blessed Mother Yard!” I hissed.
The yard on the other side of the gravel driveway displayed a two-foot high statue of Our Lady on a stone slab, surrounded by flat-bladed hostas. On every corner of the yard was a giant bush, perfect hiding spots. Sam sprinted to the farthest bush while I inspected the lilacs clinging to the side of the Red Shed. Still no Ghost, and no one else had screamed out the call yet. Where was Nelly hiding?
Sam reached the far bush, found nothing, and was barreling for the next when he looked up and jerked almost to a halt. He screamed: “Ghost in the Graveyard!” and as he screamed Nelly hurtled from behind the bushes’ fronds and gave chase. Sam switched his momentum towards the driveway and the sand pile with all the speed he could muster. But too late. Even as the others had heard Sam’s yell and were making all haste to the sandpile themselves, I saw that Nell was only a few feet behind her quarry. Soon it was all over. Sam was the next Ghost.

Addition

After more than a decade living in the Granby house, Dad decided to add on to it.

The original two-storied farmhouse was becoming too small for the growing family and we had enough property and means for such an addition to be feasible. So Dad hired his friend Doug for the job.

Doug was a tall and soft-spoken contractor who owned a small farm on the other side of Granby. Often we would go visit his few acres of field to gaze at his supply of geese, ducks, goats, and sheep. He also had a bull, unfortunately for me. One day when Dad and a few of us were admiring the enormous animal I grabbed hold of the metal fence and was swiftly electrocuted. Only a jolt, but enough to hate Doug’s bull forever and ever

Whenever Dad needed help with something, which was every so often, he called upon Doug and Doug always came. He would stride alongside the house in his black farmer boots, listening to Dad’s plans while gazing thoughtfully and silently at the outside structure. Then he would speak softly and quickly and Dad took in his every word. It is strange for a child to find someone who knows something that Dad doesn’t, and we watched in awe this Yankee magician explain the secrets of foundations and footings and metal flashing, and then stride silently to his white pick-up and drive away. His air of quiet authority lingered after him.

The addition grew little by little over the next couple years. It doubled the living space with a single, huge, L -shaped room in which the small arm became the new kitchen, the lower half of the big arm became the new dining area, and the upper half the new family room, all without dividing walls of any sort. Beneath lay the new basement, of the same dimensions. The roof of the upper portion was sloped and spacious, reaching so high in the kitchen where it connected with the original wall that Dad managed to house a nine-foot-tall Christmas tree quite comfortably in one corner. That was, of course, before the addition was fully completed. It took some time before the tiles and tables and cabinets and stove and sink fell into place; and until then the enormous expanse of the Addition offered plenty of room for various couches, bookshelves, and wide open stretches for horsing around. And how.

Table and Chairs

When I wrote the last post, I had forgotten about the gigantic wooden table that stood in the center of the old dining room and around which we gathered for years even after the Addition was completed. A blatent oversight, because that table surely stood as one of the chief articles of funiture that defined our house -- and our mealtimes.

The table took up most of the dining room. Its fat, pillar-like legs were firmly planted on the linoleum tile, each pair joined near the floor by a graceful wooden arch topped with a decorative knob. All very elegant, except that the knob at the lower end of the table continously fell off the arch onto the floor if sufficiently provoked. Mom likened it to the banister knob in It's a Wonderful Life which George Baily unthinkingly grabs and which always comes off in his hand. But our knob was unpredictable. Many times during dinner the conversation was interrupted by heavy clattering as the knob threw itself to the floor. At least we claimed it did. After all, it couldn't be our fault every time.

The seating arrangements were simple -- everyone wanted to sit next to Mom. For the nintey percent of us who failed to do that, there where other options, the most interesting being the plastic bench at the end of the table opposite Dad, where the tempermental knob resided. That, and the lack of a barrier between the occupants of the bench, provided prime conditions for mischief. I think that the Nell and Christina sat in the bench for the longest time since they usually were inseparable anyway.

Everyone else sat in blue plastic chairs or cushioned wooden ones. The plastic chairs gradually dimished due to a flaw in their design: the back legs tended to snap if you leaned the chair back a certain distance. Despite this weakness, we loved the blue chairs because we could stack them to (for us) a dizzying height and climb up and sit in a throne worthy of Tibetian Kings (or whoever sits on a blue throne) and lord it over the puny underlings who tried to dethrone the present king and who very often succeeded.

Friday Evenings

Every Friday evening, with few exceptions, Mom and Dad would go out and enjoy some quiet time together -- a visit to a local Catholic church, and then dinner and conversation. They had done this for so long that it became a habit for us kids as well and we knew that, no matter what happened, Mom and Dad were going out Friday night. For those few hours we had the run of the house . . . or at least as much as the older kids would allow.

The hour before their departure usually felt a little hectic. Mom, blond and slender and already dressed for the evening, would be preparing dinner for the hungry tribe wandering around the house: grilled cheese or hamburgers and the inevitable potatoes and greens. Then she would go to the basement laundrey room to bring up Dad's dress pants and shirt. Mom, it seemed, dressed everbody.

"Nobody take a shower until Dad gets back!" she would call, her voice echoing up the basement stairs into the old dining room. Woe to us if the hot water ran out. "Mary, remember to take the potatoes out of the stove when they're ready, please!"

"Yes, Mom!" Mary, the oldest girl, shouted back from somewhere on the first floor.

Then with a rumble of gravel under truck wheels Dad would come in the driveway. He hurried in the back door and almost tripped over Barbara and Sarah playing hobbos among the coats and shoes piled around the back door entrance. "Hey guys, don't fool around, Mommy and I are going out soon. HONEY! I'M HOME!"

"I've got your clothes laid out on the bed!" Mom called, this time from their upstairs bedroom.

Dad, loosening his work tie, walked through the old kitchen and old dining room and down the basement stairs to take his shower. Our house had been doubled in size by the addition of the new kitchen, dining room, and family room on the southern side, but unfortunately there was still only one shower. Of course, as always, we managed. Usually.

Coming back to the first floor Mom paused from her breakneck pace to watch Rob play a computer game at one corner of the old dining room, under the suspended china cabinet. Her face lit up with her sunny smile. "Ohhh, wow, a new game, huh?" she said in that sudden teasing manner peculiar to her. "What's this one?"

"Castles: Seige and Conquest," Rob murmured, engrossed in designing one of the medieval fortresses which would protect his virtual property from invaders. It was probably a comforting excercise since his actual property never was very secure with his younger siblings around. Mom watched for a few moments, then glanced at the dining room clock.

'Ahhhh!" she cried, drammatically, still smiling and rushing into the nearby bathroom (which had a bathtub that leaked and therefore one more reason why the only shower was confined to the basement bathroom). Meanwhile Dad had finished his wash and thumped up the stairs to the old dining room, which really stood in the center of all the activity and served as a kind of center stage. Rob still clicked away at the computer.

"Where's Michael?' Dad asked, alluding to the oldest. Michael's room lay behind a plywood wall between the basement stairs and computer on which Rob was playing; the room had been a small sitting area now enclosed for the privacy of the high school junior.

Rob shrugged. "Bill knows," he replied. Bill was Rob's foil in just about everything, since they were one after the other in age and had markedly different personalities -- Rob extravagantly hilarious and Bill wryly ironical. Whenever they would begin a comedy routine everyone would end up hurting their sides with laughter. At the moment however Dad looked worried.

"DEBBIE!" he yelled.

"HERE!" Mom called from behind the door immediately to Dad's right. Dad jumped.

"Oh, there you are. I'm almost ready. Ten minutes?"

"Okay honey! I'm just cleaning up the sink -- somebody squirted toothpaste down the drain and it's clogged." Joseph, who had just entered stage right, turned and made an abrupt exit. "I think Joseph must have done it. Rob, make sure you keep an eye on everybody!"

Dad thumped upstairs to get dressed. Mom came out of the bathroom wiping toothpaste from her fingers with some toilet paper and looking as if her energy was starting to wear out. She caught Barbara and Sarah by the arm as they prowled past in the proper hobbo style. "Where's Evelyn? Tell her that it's her turn to read to the twins. Mary is taking care of Sam. What are you two wearing?" She lifted the hood of Barbara's rain jacket.

"We're hobos, Mom. Sarah is the daddy hobo and I'm the mommy hobo and we're looking for the cat to be the baby hobo. Joey doesn't want to be the baby hobo." Strange because Joe usually joined in the games with gusto. Mom shrugged her thin shoulders.

"If the cat scratches you, don't say I didn't warn you. And put those jackets back on the hook when you're done." The hobos nodded and prowled off in search of their progeny.

And after a few more minutes of commotion, warnings, and running up and down the stairs, Mom and Dad would leave for the evening. Their night of peace and quiet had begun. Our night, on the other hand, probably would be anything but. There was no way of knowing.

Series of Unfortunate Events Addendum

The following is a brief recount by Evelyn concerning her injury and my bee attack:

 Evelyn: Haha, that infamous barn day. I totally remember just sitting there by the shoes staring at the white fat oozing in that gaping scrape. I had run up from the side hill from the barn past everyone who was playing basketball and then just plunked down inside by the shoes, facing the door

 me:   I know it was the weirdest image, I remember looking at you vividly.

 Evelyn:  Yeah, and it was a while before dad brought me to the ER. I remember waiting on the leather couch that Joe bit a hole in with like an ice pack on it, crying, waiting for dad to take me

 me:  aw

 Evelyn:  I remember the bee day, too.And being so mad when you and Joe were taking your icy bath with those popsicles...although I thought they were chip and dale ice cream bars with the candy for eyes and nose. 

The Powell Series of Unfortunate Events

Part One: The Barn

Although the barn had a significant impact on our childhood play it also was a place that fostered a few of the grander Powell children accidents. Accident could be too light a word for these however. Let me rephrase them as “catastrophes.”

The first was not my own. It belonged to Evelyn, the second oldest girl. Evelyn was another scabby-kneed child with an unfailing sense of adventure and a ferocious passion for the outdoors. So it was to be expected when my mother said one thing, the young Evelyn did the very opposite.

“No playing in the barn!” My mother was a nervous hen, always calling out to the boys when they climbed too high in the great oak tree in the side  yard or shushed us when we screamed “bloody murder” for any reason but.  

“My nerves are shot,” my brave mother would report at the end of a long summer day. Bless her heart. At the time, we never realized how much strain we all caused from rough housing.

Evelyn had decided that day that she was indeed going to play in the barn.  I wish I could recap exactly what happened that afternoon underneath the barn, but I know very little.

From what I remember, Evelyn had been playing underneath the main floor of the barn where all kinds of fun items were. There were hay stacks with pitchforks, stone walls, and leaf piles with hidden pieces of wood underneath. And there were also doors—doors with glass windows—that also hid beneath fantastic climbing obstacles.

I was in the house when I heard a ruckus in the kitchen. I ran to find Evelyn sitting on the kitchen floor, her knee a gaping wound, with bright white specks scattered in the crevasse of blood. I was horrified. But, I also remember being extraordinarily intrigued.  A funny thing was, I don’t think she was even crying.

Evelyn got to go to the hospital and get her knee stitched up—something entirely too cool for any of us kids to even feel bad for her. When she came home and showed us, we were even more jealous. Her stitching was in the shape of a question mark.

The second catastrophe did belong to me and my Irish twin, Joe. It was a gloriously bright day. I couldn’t have been much older than five years old. We, too, neglected to listen to the finger wagging of my mother.

Immediately behind the barn was a large woodpile. The barn had begun to fall apart over the years and that was where all the wood and debris had accrued.  We had been so well versed playing on that wood pile that we knew exactly where to avoid: the rusty nails, the tight holes, and the rotted away wood. But, we didn’t know everything.

Joe was most likely leading me through a thick jungle dripping with the rainfall of summer. We were on the prowl for the ferocious lion, scared and excited all at once. We knew he was back there somewhere.

Suddenly, my foot stepped down hard on a loose piece of wood.

CRUNCH!

Before I knew what was happening, a swarm of bees had surrounded me, attacking every vulnerable part of my body—which was everywhere.  The angry cloud had found Joe, too, and were taking him down as well. Screaming violently, we tried to push them off of us and run away from the irate insects.

“WHAT’S GOING ON?” My father. He came bounding from the driveway and past the garden toward our screams. He had just pulled into the driveway from work and heard our cries. He picked us up, swiping the bees off our faces and necks, and sprinted toward the white farmhouse.

I lost touch with reality after being stung so severely. There is no memory between being saved from my Father and the ice cold bath I soon found myself in. We, too, went to the hospital. And we were even luckier than Evelyn. We got pink panther popsicles!

Part Two: Sam

 Sam is the youngest boy and second youngest kid in the clan. He was always getting his hands dirty and finding some sort of mischief. And he was always getting hurt one way or the other.

First there was Christmas about ten years ago. Sam was a little tyke at the time, about 5 years old. That year, my dad had bought a deliciously wide and tall tree. It filled the very back of the new addition, which would be later turned into the Family Room.  The tree was so big and bulky that my dad did a fantastically smart thing at the time—he wired the entire tree down to the floor. (The floor was still wood and hadn’t been carpeted yet.) So imagine a six-plus foot evergreen that was almost 5 feet across the middle wired down firmly to an unfinished floor. There were a lot of hidden candy canes that year.

Sam was playing beneath the tree, zooming a toy around the base. He was like a cat, enamored with the tree’s smell and being. Plus,. Being so small, it was as if he was inside his own little fort.

But, the safety of the “fort” did not last.  Somehow, someway, Sam achieved the impossible.  He caught himself on the wire, a piece shooting right through the top skin of his hand. He was stuck and there was no easy way of getting the poor kid off.

My mother, in her worrying haste, called my father. He was at his work’s Christmas party about 4 miles away. (My father works, and always has, for the local Sheriff’s Correctional Center.) He immediately came to the rescue like he always does and always will.  He cut the wire on each side of Sam’s hand and, once again, brought his child to the hospital.

Then there was Thanksgiving a couple years later. Holiday dinners are always an extremely bustling occasion in our home. Plates are shoved this way and that, kids are demanding food and being shushed, and laughter is erupting from every corner of the room.  Festivity crawls, walks, runs, flies, and zooms throughout every room. This is no different for the kitchen.

I just piled my plate high with turkey and mashed potatoes, heaped onto it a gleaming glop of golden butternut squash (my favorite!) and topped it all off with an amazing amount of gravy.  I was chattering excitedly about how many nuts I had cracked open and eaten before dinner (a Powell holiday tradition) when, without warning…

Sam came racing around the corner and flew right into my plate of food. The plate went flying and Sam went down. His forehead had connected right on the edge of the plate, leaving behind a truly impressive looking cut.  

I don’t think he’s going to ever let me live that one down. But it’s really just on par with his fate to find cuts and bruises.

Then there was the time that he was playing with our dog, Sally, in the back yard. Sally was a playful golden retriever that had been in our family for almost a decade. (We just recently had to put her down).  She was tied up to a zip line and racing back and forth with Sam.

And, as luck would have it, her line connected right with his neck, taking him down. Sally 1, Sam 0.

I suppose we can’t forget the time he was playing behind the barn (which, as you’ve learned by now, was not a lucky place). Falling from a tree, he fell and hit his head on a rck, drawing blood. The cool thing about Sam, though, is that he doesn’t seem to cry often. He came into the house, holding his blood in, and calmly told my mom what happened. No one believed him until he showed off the rock with blood on it beneath the tree.

Part Three:  Falling Sibling

Of course, there was an unspoken right-of-way into boyhood for the Powell boys. I’m pretty sure each and every one of them broke their arms at one point (or two). The greatest of broken arm stories belongs to Joe.

Right now, Joe is a placid and spiritual young man who is studying to be a preist in Rome. You would never know that would be his calling if you watched after him as a child. From all my playtime memories and what I know from what my mother has told, Joe was a wild child.

And there was one thing that Joe was always after: the big kids’ Game Boy.

For those of you that don’t know, the Game Boy was one of the first handheld gaming devices from   Nintendo. It was large and bulky and gray and the images were anything less than impressive. But it was the most fun toy to have crossed paths with the Powell boys.

My oldest brother, Mike, carefully hid his Game Boy from our younger, stickier hands. But Joe—oh dear old Joe— he could always find it. A fantastic young Powell trait is the power of sleuth since we were always after what the big kids had.  And Joe’s nose could sniff out those Game Boys.

Mike finally thought he had Joe tricked this one particular day. He had hidden his Game Boy at the very top of a large bookcase. To the youngster, that bookcase was like the Tower of Babel. There didn’t seem to be a top in sight and you knew it couldn’t be a good thing.

That didn’t stop Joe. He began the climb to the top of the bookshelf, grabbing his way toward the prize. As soon as he reached the top and his dirtied fingers clasped the gamer, the bookshelf began to tilt. And, as fate would once again have it for a young Powell, he fell, Game Boy in hand, resulting in a broken arm. And once again, a young Powell got to see the inside of a hospital.

Then, and finally since these stories might make one think there was only chaos within the Powell walls, there was the time I was playing alone in Joe’s room. He had his room set up just right so that you could jump from his bed to the dresser to his desk to the windows to the play chest to his bed again and never have to touch the floor.

I was doing just that, pretending that I was escaping the cracking and snapping jaws of really mean alligators.  

Just above the toy chest, there was a shelf that one could easily grab onto for support. On that shelf was a green-filled terrarium. In it, a large branch lay lazily on the floor and curved upwards. Hidden underneath the coolness of the wood were two very pleased geckos.  They were the most adorable creatures I have ever seen—I think that now, in my adulthood, I want to have some as friends in my home.

But, on that day, they did not want to be my friends in the slightest. As soon as I rounded the room for the fourth or fifth time, I lost my blance on the edge of the toychest. Frigtened about falling, I grabbed the closest thing I could for support—the terrarium. I flew backwards, taking the glass terrarium and  the little lizards inside with me. The glass case crashed and broke into a million pieces and sent the little animals flying. 

Luckily, I landed far from the glass and didn’t have a scratch. But I did feel terribly about breaking Joe’s terrarium.

My Starlit Golf Course

The golf course down the street from my house was a place of late evening adventure. I would spend countless summer nights running thought the darkening expanses of wet grass with my brothers and sisters, yelping childishly as one of them chased me. 

But there was more to the golf course than the patter of small feet and the glory of play. There was a mood that fell over the course that as a child I did not understand, but I grew to love. 

The night sky was brightly lit with the constellations as they danced alongside the golden moon. The various rows of small trees matched the rhythm of the night sky as the wind tickled the leaves and branches. 

Under the black and silver night canvas I would twirl. My hands extended outwards, palms turned upward, my face glowed beneath the glimmer of the country sky and I let my feet lose control. I spun, mindlessly, as I clung onto the stars with my eyes. The child that I was drank in the night air, swallowing the elixir and capturing in her soul the magnificence of the world. I collapsed onto the ground, dizzied and breathless, tangled hair framing my young head as I panted. 

Life can be your starlit golf course hidden away at the tip of a dead end street. You can twirl and look up at your stars and remember that your heart is still young and hopeful.  

The Barn: Part 1

The barn stands tall at the tip of our rocky driveway. It's wooden body is cracked beneath the sweltering heat of the summer sun and the black top roof is ablaze. There is not even a chirp of a passing bird or a whisper of wind. All of the Granby farm sits in a pitiful pool of heat and discomfort.

Just inside the barn, within the cool, dark walls of farming days long passed, I squat in my hiding spot. The evil Lord Joseph was prowling the premises, lurking stealthily. I hold my breath, scared that even an exhale would give away my place of refuge.

My ears perk like a cat as a floor board groans just a few steps away from me. I dare to lean over, my hands pressing the floor, my knees scuffing up against the wood.  My eyes dart across the inside of the barn. I can not see the evil Lord Joseph. I lean even further, craning my neck slightly to try and catch a glimpse of his viciously black cape.

"I"VE FOUND YOU!"

A gurgled scream erupts from my throat. Hands grab my shoulders from behind and whip me backwards. The evil Lord found me!

Inspired by Robin

I know exactly where I got my sense of adventure and my love and passion for the "great outdoors" and for life. There was always one person who consistently fostered my eagerness to see more of what was around me and to take the simple joys of life and make them bigger and fuller. That was my dad.

Some would be surprised about that. I know I've grown apart from the man over the years, but my childhood memories are ambushed with the fun I had with my dad. Like every little kid, I thought Dad knew everything. And believe me, he did.

He knew about the plants and animals when we went hiking or exploring.
He knew how to cast a fishing line and how to catch (and cook!) the biggest fish in the lake.
He knew how to get lost on really long drives and somehow find his way back at the right moment, before everyone got too cranky.
He knew how to grill the world's best Sunday barbecue.
He knew how to take apart and rebuild anything--- including the barn out back.
He knew where to find the best donuts and ice cream cones.

It was a Sunday afternoon. The sun was high in the blue sky and there was nothing blocking the shine. The sun dripped down onto the grass, a shine of butter atop the green blades.

"Who wants to go fishing!" Dad stood tall on the back deck, his bronze skin flashing along with the excitement in his voice.

I immediately jumped up from my station on the lawn, "Me! Me!"

"Let's go!" We walked across the street to the Delp's. They owned a bait shop, a Christmas tree farm, and a couple fantastic looking pigs. The bait shop was cool and dark. Several large tubs lined up inside the cave-like building, some with fish, some just with water. There was a refrigerator by the door, a watchful eye to the shop. Dad opened it confidently and made his choice: meal worms.

Dad's truck waited for us in the driveway. I bumbled my way through his work shop, helping as best I could to collect the poles.  My scrawny legs ran to catch up to Dad, who was already piling the bed of the truck with a cooler, his bait box, the meal worms, and the poles.

The lake was a place of mystery. As a child, I didn't know where it was in relation to anything else in the world. It was as if my dad and I collided with a fantasy world that only he and I could see and experience. We found a ledge  that jutted out into the water, a drooping tree offering her trunk to rest up against. I learned  how to hook a worm, cast a line, and reel it back in. My scabby legs and wiry arms were immune to the dirt and worm guts of the afternoon.

I looked up at Dad and toothily grinned as he cast his line out, his deep, playful voice recounting the various fish he's seen in this lake.

The trip would always end faster than I'd want it to. I could have sipped on Coca Cola and cast out that line for hours and hours on end. But, the sun would begin its descent and we would have to head home for dinner.

And although I never caught anything, I got to spend a whole day with my dad, gone fishin'.

My Best Friend

As I've eluded to, or rather fully acknowledged, my best friend and I grew up together. Sarah was born exactly a year and a month after me, emerging into a family where cliques were already forming due to age gaps and personalities. She was born with a full head of ebony Mohawk Indian hair, a savage baby. Starkly different from my own light puffs of blonde fuzz. I wish I could say one-year-old Barb remembered her birth, but to be honest, my life as I remember it has always had Sarah in it.

Sarah grew from that savage little Mohawk into an awkward preteen. Her wild, long hair was tied back into a low ponytail in order to alleviate her eyes from the constant curtain of brown. Full, round glasses sat on her nose, trying to swallow her face whole. Her bright brown eyes were wide behind them, eager to soak in as much information and knowledge as she could.

Sarah and I are complete opposites. We definitely have different features. She takes after Robin, our Father, with her dark hair and uproarious laugh. Her legs were always longer than mine and her features darker. Her complexion was always better than mine, since her skin was smooth and rarely tarnished. My hair has always been a very light brown, almost blonde, to which I've colored countless times. My nose is a button, whereas hers is a proper nose--- there is no other way to describe it.

We also have very different perspectives on life. Sarah eyes success as studying hard to obtain the end goal. She prides herself in the work she is able to accomplish and always puts her best foot forward. As for me, I tend to set goals outside of studies and put my efforts into those. School was never the number one priority on my mind, but for Sarah, it usually was. And that worked for her.

But, even with our differences, we have the time of our lives together. We've spent entire Saturday  nights laughing so hard we thought our stomachs would burst. We stayed up late into the night, talking about serious matters of importance, like Y2K, and silly matters of nonsense, like where we wanted our honeymoon to be. We fought and cried and yelled, but we loved and smiled and laughed together much more.

As kids, we would all gather in one of our huge yards or bedrooms and play silly games together. We'd use the creative juices that we each accumulated and create a game that would consume entire afternoons.

One fantastic game that we'd play often was "Boy and Girls." Sarah would always have to be the boy since she was the youngest girl. Evelyn (the oldest sibling I played with on a regular basis) and I would be the pretty girls, strutting down the driveway as we'd try to catch the attention of the strapping boy, aka Sarah. We'd make Sarah choose who she liked best. Poor Sarah had to endure this game countless times. But she was a great boy and for that I am appreciative.

But there was one game in particular that Sarah shone in---

Mrs. Thirteen Claws.

But let's set the scene.

The bedroom we lived in as kids wasn't all that large. (It did fit up to 5 girls at one point-- but not until the youngest was a toddler.) Two bunk beds sat prestigiously across from each other, pushed up against the walls. The bunk bed to the right reached all the way up to the ceiling, creating a small space between it and the mattress. That was my bed-- Sarah slept in the top bunk opposite, a shorter, but sturdier, bunk. We loved that room.

When night crept up, that room and those bunks were our play haven.

Sarah would lay in her bed, staring up at the ceiling, when suddenly:

"Sarah. Sarah. Psst!" As she sat up, a twisted sheet, like a rope, flew in her direction, the knot at the end hitting her body. Stifling giggles, she grabbed the sheet excitedly, sat up and secured her heels against the bed's side board. The twins, thought to have been asleep beneath us, would watch us in jealousy, eager to get in our our game.

On the cold nights of winter, after our Father or Mother said our prayers with us and sang us a song or two, Sarah crawled up onto my bunk bed. With her she brought her two large quilts and pillow. In the nip of the winter, we'd huddle together beneath a mound of blankets, talking about everything. One thing we loved to talk about was the future. We planned to live together in a big house when we grew up, having parties and doing anything we wanted. It was my favorite topic with Sarah.

Most of the time, those snuggle sessions would end in a fight. One of us would get upset and I would order her to leave my bed. But, the next morning, we would go back to being the best of friends.

It was high school, though, that truly built a lasting and loving relationship between the two of us.

Our highschool was a barely restored seminary that stretched out against the fielded green of Granby, Massachusetts. The halls were long, narrow corridors, enough space for two single lines of students could stream through in between classes. When our teachers let us out of class, we would tumble into that hallway, squeezed next to and behind and in front of our fellow Catholic schoolmates.

These halls were made for Sarah and me.

First, we'd catch each other's eye from opposite ends of the hall, seeking each other out through bobbing heads and stuffed backpacks. Then, one of us would shriek in excitement, completely oblivious to the hall stuffed with sardined students. As soon as we got close enough to each other, all traffic would come to a screeching halt-- we grabbed each other in a furious and hyper embrace, shouting proclamations of our love for each other.

I loved my Junior and Senior year purely because I got to share the hallways with Sarah.

As we came home from track practice, we immediately headed to the kitchen, grabbed the daily crossword from the newspaper caught underneath my napping dad's hands as they rested on his belly, put a pot of tea on the stove, and promptly plopped down at the kitchen table. Frozen fig newtons and pencils in our hands, we conquered that crossword together every day, laughing uproariously together.

But, as promised, Sarah was the greatest at one thing... Mrs. Thirteen Claws.

Mrs. Thirteen Claws was a vicious and horrid babysitter that we concocted. She was always trying to catch you with her long, awful claws--probably to eat you or destroy your childhood in some sort of clawed way.

Her victims always were the children she was "babysitting." Sarah stood outside of our large, bunk bed-filled bedroom, snarling:

"I'm Mrs. Thirteen Claws!"

Shrieking and bursting with laughter and falsified fear, my playmate of the day and I scurried up my bunk bed,  screaming at Mrs. Thirteen Claws to stop. Sarah climbed noisily after us, swiping at us with her imaginary claws. The chase would continue until Sarah tired of her role, Evelyn or Joe and I bounding across the bed on our hands and knees as Sarah cornered us.

Sarah is, without a shred of doubt, my very best friend.

Summer Swelter

The weather we have now in Massachusetts brings me back to the sweltering days of summer when the only things I had to worry about were where my water shoes were located and how to find that blackberry bush without anyone following me and getting to all the ripe berries.

You have no idea how fantastic a summer berry bush is. Just behind our Barn was the juiciest and most abundant blackberry bush in all of Granby. Heck, it just might have been the best in all of Western Massachusetts. One summer I had discovered the ripened berries alone.

It was amazing.

That day, I had been pretending that a television camera was following me around, documenting my every move and opinion. We didn't have a television growing up, so, to me, watching television was a great honor-- not to mention actually starring on it. I was just finishing showing my "audience" the art of a pogo stick, when I suddenly remembered that berry bush. Yelping with personal delight, I threw the pogo stick to the ground, and, in a hushed, hoarse whisper, I told my imaginary cameraman:

"Follow me!"

Our Barn, as dilapidated as it was, held mystery and fascination for us Powell kids. If you circle round back the sagging building, you'll see the tall, hallowed phenomenon known as The Silo.  (If you don't know what a Silo is, I'm afraid you have little frame of reference to my childhood.) Just before the Silo was a clutter of trees that swallowed the side of the Barn.  But only one tree was special.

Hidden against her own kind, my Tree stood, anchored to the ground, her swaying branches dancing with her Spirit. Her seeds draped down from the budding wood,  her silken, green hair slipping through her branching fingertips. I felt love for my Tree. She was my caretaker, the shoulder I could cry on when no one else could possibly understand. She held me as I wrote nonsense and dreams in my black-and-white-marble composition notebook. She watched me as I gazed out toward the back fields and then hugged me as I thought of all the things I was going to accomplish in my life. When I climbed up her trunk onto her lap and shoulders and in her arms, I was safe. I was understood. And even though it looked like I was alone, I was not.

My cameraman followed me as I passed my Tree and came to the very back of the Barn. Immediately behind the building and in front of the berry bush was a large pile of decaying wood, old boards and scraps that had been thrown together after countless of farm projects over the years. I was tentative to walk there that day. The previous year, I had fallen victim to a swarm of bees that had hidden quite sneakily beneath a board. I had misstepped, angering them. As a small child, I was blanketed by the buzzing monsters, stung repeatedly, over and over. Had I been allergic, I would have died that day. Just like that little boy in  that movie "My Girl." Tragic.

As I avoided the wood and board pile, I finally approached the blackberry bush. There, on every possible branch, clusters of berries awaited me. Without a bucket to place them in, I began to grab at them, stuffing my mouth with the deliciousness of solitary and fruit.

Dinner Time

Mealtime. This was always a production at our home, regardless of the day or time.

Every week started around our long, dining room table as the family sat for Sunday dinner. My father sat at the head, with my mother on his right. The rest of us fought for our favorite seats, eager to sit next to either or best friends or in front of the best food.

Sunday mornings always started out the same.

"Mom! Mom! Can I sit next to you tonight?"

Whoever was the fastest to ask got the royal seat immediately to my mother's right. For some reason, that seat was the prime eating location.

As we took our seats, my father would lead us all in grace. Holding each other's hands, we would bow our heads and pray along.


But we had to entertain ourselves. As my father bowed his head and closed his eyes, blessing the food for us children, my brothers would start up the game. Rob would look up with a playful smirk lifting his mouth, his eyes dancing in foolery. With Bill's hand in his, he'd let out the first squeeze. As soon as the first squeeze was administered, the silliness ensued. Back and forth from brother to sister to sister to brother, the squeezes would be passed along. Giggles were muffled until, finally, the blessing ended and we could let each other go.

                                                                                                                      
One particular Sunday night, we were having an especially messy meal. It could have been anything from spaghetti to any mystery platter my father tended to throw together. The youngest, Gina, was sitting at the head of the table in between my parents. Roughly 2 or 3 years old, she had inevitably spilled dinner all over herself. Amidst conversation and rowdy dinner-time noise, my mother stood Gina up and proceeded to take off her dirtied shirt.

Suddenly, the conversation stopped and laughter erupted. The toddler was standing up on her high chair, sauce covering her face, and wearing one of my sports bras! I had convinced Gina moments before dinner that she should put one on and be a big girl like me. She burst into tears at the sound of everyone laughing at her. My mother, the dear woman, stifled her own laughter as she carried Gina out of the room.

Tactics had to be made in order to get out of certain health-conscious meals that dad liked to prepare. As soon as you entered the house from a long day of playing outside, you knew immediately if dinner was something to look forward to or to dread.

This was a dread-kind of meal. Mystery Stew.

Luckily, this particular evening I had gotten into trouble. When you were naughty, you were sent to the stairs to sit and think about what you've done. This was the worst, since you could hear everything from the stairs but couldn't see much of anything. On the evening of the dreaded stew, I was sitting at the top of the stairs as punishment for being naughty. I listened as the table was set, the food was brought out, the chairs scraped back and my siblings sat down. I listened as my father said grace, my siblings muffled giggles, and my mother hushed them. I listened as the food was passed around the table, silverware clanked, and the cat was shooed away. I leaned back at the top of those stairs, smiled, and picked up a book. I had escaped the Mystery Stew!




Later, as dinner came to a close, my father climbed the stairs to retreive his transistor radio from his bedroom. He saw me there reading a book about a boy who turned into a plant.




"Barbara! Go do your chores."

He passed by me on his way to his room and once again I let a victorious smile slip onto my face. I closed my book, slid down the banister, and happily skipped to the kitchen.

Cheaper by the Dozen?

I wouldn't trade in my childhood for anything. There were too many fantastic things about it that have made me into what I am and what my family is today.

Granted, we didn't have many possessions and extras when I was a kid. We mostly had each other to play with and the huge expanse of property that seemed to stretch out for miles.

Our home was a peeling, white farmhouse that stood proudly near the end of South Street. Surrounding our farmhouse were two large side yards, a sloping front lawn, and an endless back field, its perimeters peppered with woods. The majority of my childhood was spent outside on my parents' property with my best friends-- Joe, Sarah, and Evelyn.

It didn't take much to entertain us.

The back field was our most prized possession in those days. The adventures were constant and exciting. Joe was always the mastermind behind the day's games and journeys. He had a brilliant knack of creating the best scenarios. As his sisters and best friends, we would always go along with them.

The back field was a grassy mess then, a green playground. We would make our way to the highest patches, stalks that would hide our small bodies as soon as we knelt down. We'd scramble away from each other first, claiming our own territory. Dropping to the ground, we'd be surrounded by the cool weeds, unable to see each other. Then, laying flat on our stomachs, we'd roll. We'd roll and roll, knocking the grass down into a child-made path, trying to smother our giggles as we got lost in the grass.

The key to the game, though, was to keep quiet and make the best pathway without getting "found" by the others. I smile now as I write this because we would always bump into each other, erupting into fits of laughter as we discovered the other playmate, never able to keep quiet or successfully mowing down our own corridors in the grass.

Beyond the field was a campsite that my dad had set up. As you reached the back edge of the field, a small stream welcomed you, the only thing in the way of getting to the campsite. A bridge had been constructed, probably by my dad, out of a thick, rounded tree that had been cut down ages ago.

The stream was one of the best places on our property. It stretched beyond the field and gurgled its way toward the golf course next door. Donned in either well-worn water shoes, or completely barefoot, we'd splash into the cool water, disrupting the annoyed frogs and send them jumping in every direction.

Most of the time we were daring explorers, conquering a new land and discovering rare species of butterflies and water bugs and tadpoles. Other times we were the survivors of Jurassic Park, stealthily avoiding the dinosaurs that lurked behind the bushes. We were safe only in the water.

There were days that I spent playing beyond the back field alone, trekking through the stream as I made up scenarios in my head. I loved playing by myself even though I had so many siblings.

Since we were constantly out in the back field, dinnertime would creep up without any of us knowing it. My mom, the brilliant woman that she is, set up an old fashioned bell on the side of my dad's workshop. It was aged and a tad rusty, but when dinnertime came around, that bell summoned us home. You could hear it being rung from all the way out at the campsite.

DING A LING A LING A LING A LING!

That was the one thing that would send us Powell kids charging homeward, no matter where we were on South Street. Sometimes whoever would ring the dinner bell would holler. But the bell was enough.

When we stayed within site of the house, there was plenty of fun to be had.

A broken down tractor sat between the barn and my dad's workshop, a green spectacle. Joe was the best at taking charge, climbing up onto the driver's seat, switching the gears professionally, and grabbing onto the chewed wheel confidently.

"On the time machine!"

The time machine was the best thing about growing up. We could go anywhere we wanted on that old tractor and it never moved from its resting spot.

We went to outer space and fought the nasty aliens who were trying to take over the Earth in the future.

We went to World War II and hunted the opposing forces, creeping around bushes and trees and into the run down barn as we tried to hide from the enemy.

We went to the days of pirates, bounding toward the tall tree house that stood gloriously by the sand pile in our backyard.

We went everywhere.

The sand pile was another place of great adventure. Every summer my dad would go to a sand and rock distributor down the street and pick up a truck bed-full of sand. The day the new sand was dumped onto the last year's matted down pile was always an exciting one at the Powell house. As soon as dad's truck rumbled down our gravel driveway, we would run outside, shrieking.

In the very middle of the sand pile stood the great Elm tree. I don't remember the year my dad built the tree house, but when he did, my brothers and sisters would spend hours up there. It was a simple tree house, approximately 7 ft by 12ft . My dad had fashioned planks of wood together to make a sturdy floor with horizontal planks built in a fence-like manner that were about 4 ft high. The top of the tree poke through the floor to the side, offering a seat for the tree dwellers. The fort was topless and it gave the best view of the back field.

It was the ladder up to the tree fort that was the most incredible part, though. My dad had discovered a large fishing net at the beach one summer and brought it home without knowing what he would use it for. He staked the bottom of the net to the ground in the sand pile and attached it to the tree fort, creating a fish net ladder for us. It was a mother's nightmare, with misplaced rope and holes and height, but it was a little kid's dream. We would purposely get stuck inside the net, hiding in the pockets and climbing up without any intention of stopping at the treetops fort.

A simple childhood with simple pleasures...I loved every minute of it.

In the Middle

When I was born, I already had six siblings. Mike, Mary, Bill, Rob, Evelyn, and Joe were already part of my life. As I grew, so did the size of my family. My best friend, Sarah, was born the year after me, followed by the twins, Nell and Nina. They took my birthday. After the twins was Sammy boy, who in turn was followed by Gabrielle Noelle Marie, the Christmas baby-- more fondly known to the family as Gina. Robin and Debbie managed the team of 12 (somehow) and, just like that, the Powells were in full force.

"Just like that" is, of course, a segment of sarcasm.

My memories date as far back as the crib. My Father was a dangerously holy man, eager to spread the Word of Christ to all who would listen and especially to those that would not. If you were a naughty child, he'd summon the power of the Lord to help him with his parental control.

I must have been around 3 years old. I was in my crib, painfully alone in my older sister's room. The lights had been off for what felt like hours, but I could not lay my blond head down and close my eyes. The house was still and I was sure that all were sleeping soundly-- but me.

I began to cry, as a child would do, and I hoped someone would hear me. cries evolved into wailing when there was no response to my false tears, wanting so badly for my mom to soothe me.

But then..,

"BARBARA"

A deep, booming voice was outside my bedroom door, startling me.

"BARBARA, WHY ARE YOU CRYING."

It had been more of a statement for me to turn off the self pity rather than a question of concern.

"BARBARA, THIS IS GOD. GO BACK TO SLEEP."

Today, I'm well aware that God was not outside my door with orders to stop crying and to go to sleep. But my young and impressionable three-year-old mind was convinced that my Dad had alerted God and told on me.

I sniffled meekly, "Okay."

Other instances in my childhood seem to truly capture who I am as a person and shed some light on why I possess a certain personality.

Sarah and I used to share a room together, our cribs immediately across the room from each other. During this period of time, I was her personal alarm clock. As soon as I opened my sleepy eyes and realized that it was morning, I would sit up excitedly in my pudgy white diaper, clasp the railing tightly with my tiny fists, and hoist myself up to stand. I'd take one look at Sarah sleeping peacefully and made up my mind that if I was going to be up, then she would have to as well.

And with that, I would let out an animalistic, complaining bawl. My little body bounced up and down on my plastic mattress as I attempted to wake my best friend up in the most brutal way possible.

Fortunately, she would always wake up for me.

There came a time when I had enough of those bunchy diapers. I had seen my older brothers and sisters go in and out of the bathroom without the silly things. I was intent on being a "big kid."

So I did the only thing I was capable of doing.

My mother walked in on me one day while I sat on the bathroom floor, tearing my diaper off, successfully attempting to change my own diaper. I was immediately (and quickly) potty trained.