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.