Parenting, Part 1 of Who Knows

There are some funny parenting moments from my childhood...

Like the time I was playing basketball at the end of the driveway with Evelyn and Joe. Remember the game, Horse? You should. Evelyn missed a shot after me and I, foolishly, yelled out: "HOR! You're HOR!" This, of course, sounds like I am calling my sister an awful word synonymous with prostitute. Believe it or not, I was unfamiliar with either definitions. I was immediately called into the house by Mom and punished-- sent to my room to think about the awful uses of lower class vernacular. It was a perplexing hour of punishment, let me be the first to admit it.

Or the time I was running around the house in the madman fashion the Powells normally partook in as our new addition was in progress. Dad and I were supposed to make our way to Saint Francis of Assisi Chapel in Springfield in about 10 minutes. Energetically exploring the imaginative saga within the confines of my mind, I dove through the window separating one of the the main rooms in our home from the adjacent in-house construction site. A fraction of a second passed in the slowest of motions as my leg swung unforgivably and knocked, from their resting place, a stack of windows that the contractor was about to install the next day. I barely had to look, I heard it first-- the glass shattered into ridiculing pieces. I yelped. My father hollered. I teared. My body seized and ran toward the stairs. My father grabbed my arm. I wept even harder. My dad, surprisingly, forgave me. We went to the chapel. We prayed. I went to confession. I made the sign of the cross and knelt in the pew and shook the hands of  all church goers about me. I was in the clear. And then it happened. I was not taken out to McDonald's or to the Frozen Lemonade stand or to the gas station for a bottle of pop. I was exiled from the post-church pleasures and excitement. I learned my lesson.

I will have to continue, as there are innumerable amounts of stories to be told and miles to go before we sleep....

Pre-Race

Every runner, regardless of talent, strength or team placement, has a pre-race strategy. When a runner can master exactly how to mentally and emotionally prepare for the next race on his plate, that race and that season will come together.

As a high school and college runner, I followed my raceday preparations as though it were a religion. Without them, running was incomplete.

The night before, I made sure every ounce of homework was completed before dinnertime. (Sometimes, that homework didn't get done.) At dinner, I piled my plate with Ziti (never spaghetti!), red sauce and a mason jar of water on the side. After dinner, I sat in the quiet of my room away from the noises of the Powell household and prepared my raceday bag--my racing spikes, my uniform, my number (if I had it), my team warmups, extra socks, trusty trainers, and my raceday blanket-- all while listening to Barbara's Soundtrack to Running.

I visualized my race. Visualized my opponents. Visualized aggression and speed. Even visualized the obvious pain I was to face.

The morning was always the most important to me. Waking with butterflies fluttering wildly in my belly, I would get out of bed and stand in front of my full length mirror. There, I would look at the runner that had trained all season to get to this point. I read over and over the inspirational quotations pasted up by my mirror:

"The will to win means nothing without the will to prepare"


"The greatest pleasure in life, is doing the things people say we cannot do."

"May your mind be strong and your feet be swift. Our Lady of Victory, Pray for Us."

"To win without risk is to triumph without glory."

Down the stairs I went to the same breakfast I always have before a race: peanut butter toast, a banana, and a small cup of coffee. I filled my Nalgene to the brim, the one with the peeling hip numbers 2 and 5 from my best races that season.

I followed this formula for 8 years of competitive running. And although I faced both good races and poor ones, I was confident each and every time I stepped on that line in my box with my team and looked down at the sea of competitors. I was prepared.

How do you prepare for Race Day?

Piece of Peace

I know that when I fall into the rhythm of the run, I am at peace.

When the trees whisper softly with their windy Autumn breath and the sun quietly laughs with its rounded belly as it sets beyond the Park.

When my feet brush the ground with cool, quick kisses, trailing the dirt path with loving adoration for the miles they meet.

When my own breathing and beating heart create a symphonic wonderment with the scurrying squirrels, the crunch of my footfall and the sounds of the almost-bare branches raising their arms up in victory for me.

When I become lost in the spiritual embodiment of the run, when my body loses touch with the realities of the world and hones in on its own movements, the beauty of muscle and sinew and bone in perfect unity with the beat of my heart and the rise and fall of my chest.

When all the world no longer matters. When my simple footfall in the woods becomes the only matter of importance, the only measure of happiness, success, honor. When I become the run.

That. That is when I am at peace.

Where do you find your peace?

Sharing Mom and Grocery Shopping

Ah, the grocery store. Affectionately known as Big Y. We all wanted in on those shopping trips with Mom.

It'd be a fierce verbal battle over who's turn it was to accompany Mom to the store and help her push the cart and fill it with the week's groceries:

2 gallons of milk
2 cartons of Jumbo eggs
Only 2 varieties of snacks: fig newtons, pretzels, fig biscuits, those Italian cookies that were only good if you ate the chocolate ones
1 special dinner item such as stuffed crust pizza, chicken nuggets or (if Mom went shopping unguided by us kids) the dreaded fishsticks
2 boxes of chicken burritos, my personal favorite
1 box of bean burritos, dad's favorite and no one else's
12 pack of toilet paper for all 3 bathrooms
12 pack of paper towels for all 12 kids' messes
3 family packs of Chicken, including breasts, wings and thighs... but mostly thighs. Mom liked to bread those for dinner
1 big block of cheese
1 large bag of potatoes
3-4 selections of cold cuts
1 large jar of Jiffy peanut butter
1 jar of strawberry jelly
1 24-pack of Popsicles
3 bags frozen vegetables, usually broccoli or peas or mixed 

Usually always the same. Sometimes it wavered in one direction or another. Some weeks called for more milk. Others for more dinners.  Mom could't be trusted to shop alone, we all knew that as youngsters. She needed our attentive eyes and watering mouths to help her make her decisions. Besides, we loved playing "avoid-the-red-lava-squares" up and down the aisles. And we all had grabby hands.

She also never brought along more than 2 of us. If she did, we were doomed to waiting patiently in the 12 passenger van, aching to know what she was placing in the cart. Once she was spotted exiting the mysterious 4 walls of the supermarket, we would rush out the van and offer our help with the bags, poking our eyes and noses in each one in inspection.

The summertime called for fresh veggies from Dad's garden rather than the frozen selection in Big Y's deep ice boxes. But, that also meant picking the green beans by hand. 7 of us would line the large patch of earth, our tiny bottoms atop an overturned bucket, snapping away the crisp vegetables-- eating half as many as we tossed in the bags alongside us. It was a hot, pleasant summertime activity. We would laugh and fight, but stayed under control when dad entered the premises of the garden. Dad always commanded attention.

And once the fight for shopping with mom was won, you knew you couldn't win the fight for sitting next to mom at dinner.  Always sacraficing one grand event for another.

Sharing mom was the constant battle.

Junior High Sass

Mater Dolorosa School was small, private and very Catholic. Uniforms were required. The girls were not allowed to roll up their skirts (we showed off our knees anyway) and weren't allowed to wear nail polish that wasn't beige or clear (we painted on the blood reds and sparkly blues) and we weren't allowed-- whatsoever-- to wear makeup or heels of any kind. We were the Children of God and were meant to be severed from all that was vain. We were meant to be close to Jesus and as far away from sin as possible.


But, I could not allow that. I was a hyper and outrageous 13 year old teeny bopper in the 8th grade, makeup splashing up to my eyebrows and perfume soaking my want-to-be-a-woman neck and wrists.  My turquoise platforms clumped along with me as I maneuvered the halls toward homeroom.  I was inconsiderate and thought that the world was mine and mine alone.

Typical, right?


I had a sassy mouth on me.


Sister Inez did everything she could to teach her students the intricacies and beauty of Science. She recreated the sounds and reverberations of the squawking and hissing rain forest for us. She guided the building of bridges and tried very hard to instill the passion for the Periodic Table into our cluttered, young minds.


And I did everything I could to get under her skin.


It was pop quiz day. A Friday. A miserably sunny Friday that mocked each and every student through the glistening classroom windows. Birds seemed chirpier and the clouds looked fluffier. With the bottom windows cracked open, it was horridly depressing sitting in my cramped, pencil-graffitied desk. I was in no mood for a quiz on the elements.  


Sister Inez was no taller than five feet. She never dressed in the traditional habit, but was always true to the color scheme. Grays. Blacks. Navy blues. She wrapped her frail, compact body in frilly button down shirts, topped with a mundane blazer not worth speaking about. Her ankle length skirt barely scraped her bulging ankles, nyloned feet stuffed into charcoal orthotic shoes.


"Please cross out each answer in the word box with one, neat line. Once you have completed the quiz, turn it upside down on your desk and fold your hands."


Okay, right. 

I started the quiz, scrawling my name messily at the top of the sheet. Looking up at the small nun, I watched her slide her way through the aisles, checking papers and keeping a keen lookout for wandering eyes.


And then.


I did it.


I took up my pen and scribbled out my word bank selections. Dark, ugly clouds of ink over each answer, blocking out any understanding of what the word might be. My eyes sparkled with disobedience.


She stood over me for a moment. I could feel her breath before I could sense her presence. I turned up my head slowly, a toyed smile creeping up on my lips.


"Those are not clean, straight lines Miss Barbara Powell."


"Of course they aren't, Sister.  I wanted to mark the words out completely."


With a huff grander than the winds of God and the power of the Holy Family,  she grabbed my arm.


"To the office. Now."


"Fine. My pleasure."


With a clunk and a swishay, I was out of the classroom and heading down the stairs to the office. To the bench outside Sister Corinne's door.


I had a sassy mouth on me.

Fishing Trip: At Trudy's Diner

We drove into the shoreline town as stray raindrops sprinkled the van windows. The black sky made the houses look dreary and drab, all huddled together near the ocean; from our vantage spot on the road we could see the beach and the water underneath the threatening sky. A black morning -- a morning defying our attempts to go fishing. The town seemed deserted as we drove up to the parking booth. The man inside took Dad's money for the ticket.

"Will the boats be leaving shore today?" Dad asked as he took the green parking stub.

"Today? Not a chance," the man said, and closed the booth window. So that was it.

"Well," said Bill, "we can get our hashbrowns at least."

Dad manuevered the van into a parkng space, easily done since there were hardly any cars in the lot; he switched off the ignition and faced us.

"Let's meet Uncle Ray for breakfast and then we can decide what to do," he said cheerfully.

"Yeah, be a shame not to take advantage of a day in New Hampshire," Mike added. We got out of the van. The cold wind blew raindrops in our faces, a strong sea wind carrying salt and missed adventure. Walking from the lot to the main street that divided the town from the beach's edge, the five of us looked wistfully at the waves pawing the sand with their white claws, the water curling its back towards the sky, and far away the matted underbelly of clouds merging with the horizon. The whole sea had become a snarling beast -- there would be no sporting with it this day.

"There he is!" Sam said, pointing up to a raised deck attached to one of the larger houses. Uncle Ray stood there. He was dressed, to no one's surprise, in a flannel shirt and a baseball cap. He waved at us.

"Hey guys! Sorry about the weather, huh? Come in and get something to eat."

He had been keeping watch for us on the threshold of the legendary diner itself, a grey-wooded deck accessibile by a narrow flight of stairs from the road, leading to the small doorway welcomingly ajar. We followed him inside; a long room with the table-counter and stools on the right and a few small tables and chairs squeezed on the left. Pictures of fish were everywhere. And people catching fish. And eating fish. And some fish eating the people. Already several customers sat at the table-counter, eating, as a large woman with an apron and a belligerant expression rattled pans in the background.

"Hello, Trudy!" said Uncle Ray.

"Morning," said the waitress gruffly. "No going out today, ey?"

"No, it's impossible weather out there," Dad said, pulling up a stool to the counter. We followed suit. Trudy looked at us for a few moments, tall and fearsome: a little more imagination and it would have been Brunhilda with her horned helmet. But instead of the expected battle axe she pulled out a notebook and pencil.

"What do you want?" she asked.

I nudged Sam. "Get the hashbrowns," I whispered, thinking of the proclaimed mountains of golden fried potatoes.

"YOU get them," retorted Sam, who clearly had less faith in diner fare.

"Two eggs and hash browns," said Uncle Ray.

"Three eggs and hashbrowns," said Dad.

Mike was silent, weighing the situation. Then he nodded and said, "Three eggs, a pancake, and hashbrowns."

He turned to Bill, smiling smugly. Bill caught the challenge of that smile and said, "Three eggs, two pancakes, sausage, and hashbrowns."

They all looked at Sam and me. Trudy rapped her notebook with her pencil point. Unless Sam and I chose quickly, I was sure she would burst out into a glass-breaking aria and lay waste about her; but could we rise to meet the bar so dauntingly set by the others? I pondered, scratched my cheek, rearranged the fork and knife on the napkin, and said, "Three eggs, three pancakes, sausage, ham, and hashbrowns."

Mike raised his eyebrows, Bill chuckled, Dad looked proud, and Uncle Ray shook his head. I looked at Sam.

"One egg, sunny side up," said Sam, placidly.

Confound that boy.

Fishing Trip, part 2

Now we had loaded the van with the coolers and blankets and tackleboxes, and we were on our way to New Hampshire. Dad drove, following well-known routes and only occasionally helped by the GPS system; Bill sat in the passenger's seat, drinking from his travel mug; Sam and I huddled under our respective blankets in the first row of seats; and Mike lay in the second row, asleep. In fact everone except Dad was soon nodding off. Every once in a while I would jerk into semi-wakefullness to see the yellow lights of a gas station go by, or the bright beams of a passing trailer, and then sink back into an uneasy oblivion. Somehow, two and a half hours spent themselves this way until Dad guided the van into the parking lot of a Dunkin Donuts. Apparantly we were near the border of New Hampshire or had just crossed it.



"Okay, let's grab some coffee and a muffin or something," Dad said as he parked. We went through our second ritual of yawning and stretching and stepped into the bracing air of the parking lot and toward the brightly lit interior of the store. Five forty-five A.M. and already a line was forming. A few policemen and a police woman in smart uniforms were adding cream and sugar to their coffees on the side, and a couple of workmen in paint-spotted jeans and denim shirts deliberated over the breakfast menu. The cashier looked tired but resolute.



"Well, I guess I'll take the number two," said one workman carefully, eyeing the enormous photos of stuffed egg sanwiches above the cashier's head. "If it has bacon in it."



"No, number two doesn't have bacon, it's the egg and ham," said the cashier, who was a young man with glasses and an expression that said, I am almost finished and I will NOT lose my patience. "Number five is the egg and bacon."



The workman squinted at the menu. "Huh! But number five doesn't have the McPattie potatoe things. Can I get those on the side?"

"You could," said the cashier with heroic calmness, "but it would be easier to get them already with a meal. Or you could order everything separately." He glanced anxiously at us as we gathered behind the mulling customer. Finally the worker ordered and moved on to the recieving booth with the police people. As a reward for the cashier's imperturbability we all ordered quickly and painlessly and soon had gathered up our coffees, muffins, bagels, assorted cream cheeses and butters, and went back to the van. Breakfast was undertaken as the first light of morning stole over the parking lot. Then Dad drove off on the last leg of the trip.

As the road began to pass through the fields and marshes that signalled the proximity of the ocean we noticed that the morning light was not as bright as it should be; the sky remained dark with angry-looking clouds, and the wind whipped the tall grass in the fields. Dad turned on the radio.

"Looks like a storm," he said.

We all sat up. Mike tossed his blanket to the floor and rubbed his eyes. "That would be too bad if the boat can't leave shore," he said. "If the waves are too high then they'll never let anyone go out on the water."

"Oh, I'm sure people would still go out," Bill remarked. "You know -- 'Look at me, I'm fishing in a Grade Two Storm, haha!' Doosh."

"Let me listen to the weather report," Dad said, peering out the windshield at the approaching Shoreline town and the ominous overhanging storm. A few raindrops pattered on the glass. Sam and I looked at each other. Would the boat be leaving the shore - or would we be doomed to an entire morning in the seaside diner with Trudy the waitress and mountains of hashbrowns? Soon we would know for sure.

It's Raining Now

It’s raining now. Big, fat drops of rain and perfectly warm weather.  The shine is shining through the raindrops and the air is warmed.  It’s a summer afternoon and I am just under five years old. My skinny little legs barrel through the living room and into the kitchen .

“Mom! Mom! Where’s my bathing suit?” I scramble excitedly toward my mom, pulling at her skirt hem.

Patiently, my mom directs me to the laundry room, sorting through the pile. Once my baby pink one piece is found, I wiggle into it quickly. I can’t waste time. There’s a rain storm outside!

I burst out the door, Joe in his shorts and Sarah in her diaper right behind me.  Jumping off the deck onto the grass, we scream with upmost delight. There is a waterfall of rain water spilling from the rooftops. There are puddles as wide as ponds and deep and the bath tub. With childish glee and giggling, we splash around the yard, finding the biggest and best puddles. We can’t get enough of the wet wonderland, the rain pouring down, the lakes of water, the streaming curtains of water rushing from rooftops and trees.

Giggles gush from our lips, bubbling laughter as the three of us flail our arms above our heads, swatting at the raindrops, opening our mouths wide to catch them eagerly. I scurry, slipping and sliding, toward the small slope in our yard. With a wave of laughter, I fly out on my belly and coast down the hill. Up and down that tiny bump of a hill, I was in ecstasy.

Yard to yard we dashed, discovering new games and adventures from the rain. By then, Sarah’s diaper was hanging by a tape, soggy and filled with water. Joe’s face was an enormous grin, minus the top two teeth.  And all of us were drenched, head to toe, and never happier. 

What Do You Want to Be?

When I was young, I knew exactly what I wanted to be when I grew up.

In Kindergarten, my heart was set on being a ballerina. My mom convinced me I had the perfect body for it. As long as I was a ballerina who was an author, as well. A talented, literate dancer.

In 1st grade, I wanted to be a baker. I convinced my friends at the lunch table that I was a Cookie Monster and I needed to sample their cookies so I knew what the best ones in the world were. I wanted to make my cookies better than the best ones.

In 2nd grade, I wanted to be a nun. I was sure that the only choices a woman had was to be a nun or to be a mommy. I was scared about giving birth so I opted for the sisterhood.

In 3rd grade, I told my math teacher, Mr. K., that I wanted to be like him. He was very good at multiplication.

In 4th grade, I thought I could sing. So I sang very loudly in church. The old women in front of our family's pew turned around often to look at me. One even told me that I was a very interesting singer. I took that as the highest praise.

In 5th grade, I knew I loved poetry. I wanted to sing out to the world through words dancing on paper, inspiring the uninspired. I joined Poetry Club. It was my identity.

In 6th grade,I began to run consistently. So, of course, I wanted to be a marathoner and win many gold medals throughout my running career.

In 7th grade, I wanted to be a businesswoman. I had no idea what that meant really, other than that I could make a bit of money and I could do pretty much anything I wanted. That idea stuck with me.

In 8th grade, I discovered fire fighting. Yes, fire fighting. I went to a day camp where I could hold the hose, and climb into a "burning" van, and repel off of a 3 story building, and ride up the ladder in the bucket.

I still dreamt of fire fighting into high school. It was a dream of mine that stuck around longer than the others.

Now, I am a runner. I am a poet. I am a creative-minded soul who sings even though she cannot, bakes from the box, and will always love cookies. I went to business school and realized that most of those that are successful there lose the sparkle of life along the way.

Who knows what I'll be when I grow up. Right now, I am Barb. Or Babs. Or Barbara. I am ME and I know I am going to grow into exactly who I want to be.

Snow Day [Part 2]

Trudging outside into the whitened, magical world of winter was the most fantastic thing a Powell kid could do. It was as though the farm had been transformed into a realm of greater adventure and more possibility for exploration and discovery. A snow day was the best play day.

I remember looking out the window and seeing the swallowed up mailbox, it's blackened crown peeping out from the top of a mound of snow, brutally piled up by the monstrous snowplows early that morning. The driveway was a path from the past, no longer visible. In the side yard, the statue of Immaculate Mary was lost, leaving a tower of padded white in her place. The lilac bushes bent over feebly in the front and side yards, bowing to the power of the weighted snowfall, surrendering. Across the street, the old barn's roof threatened to give out as the snowflakes made their journey from the clouds to their final resting place atop it. The ground was untouched, a clean, blank play canvas for our hastily laced boots and our snow angel arms.

The greatest hope was that the snow would be wet enough to build. If we could build then we could do anything. I remember inventing the snow chair. I would take a small snowball and roll it through the yard, pushing and pushing until my scrawny body could no longer. As soon as my snow ball became a snow boulder, I went to work. Retrieving a shovel from my dad's work shop, I dug into the top, carving out an indent for the cold-whipped bottoms of my siblings and I.

But nothing would ever compare to the mounds of snow left behind after the driveway was shoveled and the plows had done their work for the day. As my poor mother held her breath inside. Joe, Sarah, Evelyn and I would claim our own snow piles, digging into them and hallowing out the most beautiful snow forts ever created by man. We would spend hours, our frozen mittens clutching shovels, probing into the snow. The best forts had an entrance and an exit, with a room in the middle that would house the necessities of a snowball battle.

The greatest activity on snow days never changed, no matter what the snow type, be it wet or icy or powdery. When it snowed, we went sledding.

Sledding was never a straight forward affair. It was an epic journey. The hill near our house was a mile and a half away in the golf course at the end of our dead end street. It was tucked behind the Clubhouse, a beautiful hill with the perfect percentage of incline.

Setting out, there was always the question posed: "Through the course or on the road?" Traveling on the road there was easy. It was always plowed, at least a little, for halfway and it always felt shorter to the traveler. Going through the course on the way to the hill was a battle through the harsh elements, trampling through the snow, pulling our sleds behind us, acres of frosted ground and trees around us.

"Through the course!"

The last 5 minutes of the journey always resulted in someone running to catch a glimpse of the hill first. It was a competitive race for most, unless the cold had already gotten to you and you were losing interest in the hill in the first place. Once the Clubhouse was within reach, we trampled around it and came face-to-face with the beautiful hill.

It sloped down immediately behind the building. The right was completely devoted to sledding, carving the pathways and padding down the snow to make the ride quicker and more exhilarating. The left was useless for sledding, as it had the pokings of small, scrappy bushes. That was the side we used to race back up the hill after our swooshing journey downward.

At the hill's base, about 25 feet away, there was a pond. It was a competition to see who could make their sled reach the pond's edge. However competitive we were, we also we aware of the dangers. Having watched It's a Wonderful Life way too many times to keep count, we knew that Georgs Bailey had lost hearing in his ear when he braved the icy water to save his brother who had crashed beneath the ice while sledding. We knew not to risk it... too far.

After sledding until we could no longer feel our fingers and toes, we set out back home, tired and crabby, most likely yelling at each other and fighting because we were so cold and miserable.

But then, as we fell inside through the back door, dumping our snowy, wet clothes in a heap on the ground, there was one amazing thing to look forward to.

Hot cocoa.