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.