Arms and the Van

         When organizing large masses of humanity, time is of the essence, as General Paton noted: "I would rather have a good plan today than a perfect plan two weeks from now." The general must have felt the crunch of getting his men into the best possible position within the shortest possible time. But, for all Paton's accomplishments, he should have tried getting twelve children into a van and off on a road trip within any time at all. After a feat like that, he could have retired in full colors.

          Perhaps it's a little unfair to General Paton expecting him to accomplish this marvel of command from scratch, when mom and dad were able to build up to it over the years. The first four of us were reared in an apartment in the busy center of Chicopee town -- with the church and school an easy two steps down the sidewalk and the grocery store just across the street, perfect for short forays and an occasional skirmish at the doctor's and the park. When the family moved to Granby, however, the plot thickened. Dad needed to travel farther for work, Mom needed to drive us to school and the park, and we were enlisting pretty rapidly in the Powell ranks. So, to paraphrase Jaws: We were going to need a bigger car.

          Dad always had a truck. At least, that's what I remember. Whenever he rumbled into the gravel driveway after a day of work at the Hampden County Correctional Center it was in a truck, first a red and then a green one. I was told there had been a gray one back in the mists of time when the campaign was just underway, but I was newly enlisted then, busily stacking blocks and doing other intensive training to notice much. There had also been a station wagon, which served Mom's needs until all lesser forms of travel bowed humbly to the great and powerful means of Powell transportation: the Van.

         The Van, like the ocean in the song, was big, and it was blue. Unlike the song's description of the ocean, though, I don't think the Van had a bottom, since anything dropped under the seats never seemed to come up again. We were convinced that pennies and nickels of enormous quantity must have been buried under the floor lining, offering easy riches to the Kid who would undertake the excavation; but it would have taken so much work that we were content to sit on the seats and dream about it. Once in a while one of us would get into the spirit of Jacques Cousteau and attempt the deep-sea dive. These searches yielded some success: handfuls of pennies, exotic pencil erasers, a matchbox car, a forgotten bag of M&Ms. The rare find of a quarter would cause much admiration and speculation on future missions, especially Rob and Bill who one day -- they said -- hoped to explore the trenches under the back seat. Sadly, lack of funding and equipment doomed the missions to what-might-have-been.

              Mom took the helm of the Van during the week, driving us to school and running practice and the dentist, carefully coordinating the trips to make sure we all went where we had to go, and came back when we had had enough of it. She performed these expeditions with the utmost skill and patience. Dad took over the wheel on Sundays -- after guaranteeing his small company dressed, pressed and at the ready, Dad would rumble out of the driveway in the blue fifteen-seater onto South Street, through the tree-lined roads of Granby which passed farms and fields and foresty hills, to church. 

             An hour of song and prayer while the Van waited for us in the parking lot. It rubbed shoulders with the two police cars and fire truck of Granby's Protection Force, which shared the parking lot with the church, as did the Town Hall; and our big blue Van was not one bit out of place among those noble vehicles.    

        

             

Mutiny in the High Trees

       Summertime brings with it the keen desire to do stuff. Even if you don't actually end up doing anything, there still a feeling that you could be doing whatever you wanted, if you weren't so busy combining lemonade with a lawn-chair. This feeling of course is a left-over from those days when you had finally stuffed everything from your desk into your backpack and waved goodbye to Mrs. O'Leary and raced out into the parking lot knowing you were a free man -- with three months to exercise that freedom to its limit. Summertime was like a sudden life extension for a dying patient; every day priceless, to be filled with meaningful activity, and water balloons.

      The Kids, needless to say, knew what kind of meaningful activity they wanted. No summer camp or Boy Scout Training Programs for them. The entire fourteen acres of our home in Granby, the field and the woods beyond, the nearby golf-course and the small-town roads winding their way to adventure, all this lay before them like the tower view of the kingdom to an admiring emperor.
Now all they needed was to carve out these raw materials into the delicate shapes of fun.

       It is amazing how much fun a Kid could milk out of the simplest and most mundane experiences. As soon as the sun rose we were up, bouncing down the stairs and demanding fun from every corner and cranny of the house, until Mom fed us cereal and opened the door to let us out. Sally the golden retriever raced out with us. The dew trembled on the grass. Lilacs in the doorway bloomed. Some things go beyond words -- that sensation of utter freedom in the early hours of the day, which might subside into a light boredom later on but which now fills the veins and breaks out in spontaneous shouting.

      "Don't be too loud!" Mom called from the window. Joe, Barbara, and Sarah paused from their frenzied dancing and looked at one another sheepishly. Sally rustled in the hosta bushes looking for her ball. Sparrows tittered in the trees. The first moment of delerium had passed, the first wild abandon to the gloriousness of the day, and now the concrete business of fun-making lay at hand.

          "What'yr wanna do?" Sarah asked the universe.

          "Sally!" yelled Barbara, running over to where the one-year old dog was busily digging a hole in the hosta bed. "Stop it, no dig! No dig!"

           Sally retreated from the plants and looked askance at The Kids. Unlike her colleague The Cat, who was an animal of calculating mind, Sally needed direction and encouragement. Most dogs do. She sat down and waited for further instructions.

            The Kids deliberated in the center of the side yard, which rolled at a slight tilt upwards toward the road. Hedges lined the far border with the neighbor's yard. Two big maple trees, one with a tree house up top and a sand pile beneath, cast their shade over the scene. Sally was beginning to doze off when a yell from Joe threw her into attack mode. Fortunately it was only a yell of excitement.

          "Pirates! Pirates! Come on, mates!"

          Something at last. Sally trooped behind The Kids as they raced behind the house to the gravel driveway and the Red Shed, where inside Barbara quickly took out the wooden swords and the plywood shields desperately needed on such occasions.

        "Here they are! And bananas for the crew," she said, as she handed out sword, shield, and a strip of cloth to the others.

         "It's bandana, not banana, and pirates don't have shields. They have pistols in their belts, and the captain has a big black hat and an eye-patch, cuz his eye's been blown out by a cannon-ball," Joe protested. "Give me that pipe, that's my pistol. I'm the captain. Let's go bury some treasure."

          Sarah scooped some shiny metal disks (used with nails when Dad could find any The Kids hadn't already buried) and threw them into an enormous wooden chest already stuffed with various metal junk. "The treasure chest's full, captain. We must bring it to the ship. The wind's a-blowing, it's a-blowing and a-blowing." She had heard this in a pirate movie and it appealed to her musical sense.

        "Ar-har, me mateys." Joe led the way out of the Red Shed, leaving Barbara and Sarah to lug out the wooden chest as best they could, which wasn't very good since it weighed about forty pounds. At the door Joe met Sally who had stood guard throughout the proceedings.

      "Blast me eye-balls! It's a sea-dog! Watch your livers, me hearties, these are wild beasties. Come on, me sea-dog, we'll make a pirate of you and you'll be our slave. To the ship!"

      Joe ran ahead to the tree-house, followed by Sally who didn't seem to mind her new slave status, then by the girls who dragged the chest behind them leaving a scarred trail on the gravel driveway. When they finally reached the green fishing net that served as the ladder Barbara dropped her end of the chest. It fell on Sarah's toe. Sarah screamed.

      "OWWW! You stupid! Right on my big toe!"

      "Sorry," Barbara whispered, shocked at having hurt her best friend in the world. "I didn't know your big toe was right there. Just try to forget about it."

      "That's the dumbest thing I ever heard. 'Just try to forget about it'? That's so dumb. I don't want to play this any more. My arms are tired."

       Poking his head out of the opening in the tree house Joe waved his pistol-pipe at the girls and growled, "Up, me hearties! Weigh anchor and set the sails for the . . . the seven seas! We sail tonight!"

      Barbara left the chest where it was and climbed the net like an expert monkey-imitator to join Joe in the tree-house. Sarah sulked. It wasn't fair that Joe was the captain every single time, she thought mutinously. Then she had an idea.

      "Where's our matey Jones?" Joe asked Barbara when she clambered aboard. The tree-house was an open platform, large enough for a small tent, with high wooden railings and a magnificent view of the back field and woods. Sally barked from her position below. She was enjoying the activity, and being a sea-dog has its advantages -- usually in the shape of baloney sandwiches stolen from some Caribbean Island village.

      "Jones be down below. My name be Smee. All ready to sail, Captian."

      "Good matey, Smee. Jones! All hands on deck!" Joe bawled.

      "The poop deck!" Barbara added, and dissolved in laughter.

       Joe scowled wickedly at her. "This be no time for cracking jokes, Smee. Where be our matey Jones? We got to catch the high tide before midnight. Jones!"

       Jones was making off across the yard dragging the treasure chest behind her. When the Captain saw this flagrant mutiny from the ship he gave a howl.

      "Sarah!!! Get back here with the treasure chest!!!"

     "It's mine! I'm the new captain! It's my treasure!" Sarah yelled, puffing as she tried to heave the chest to the driveway. Joe danced with rage on the fo'c'sle.

       "Come back! That's our treasure! You're not playing the game right!!!"

        Smee slid down the net, almost landing smack on Sally who was running excitedly back and forth across the sand pile and barking her head off. The dog could sense war in the air, and war almost always ended in sandwiches. Don't ask me why that is, but it is true.

       Joined by the Captain Smee-Barbara dashed after the faithless pirate. However, to their collective dismay they discovered that Sarah had dragged the Treasure-chest into the van and locked the doors. No threats or pleading could unbend her iron determination.

     "I have the treasure, I'm in charge, I'm the captain!" Sarah shouted through the tinted van windows. "This is my ship, I'm calling it the Pinata. Go and get your own ship. Anchors away!" She rolled the steering wheel and blew the horn.

    A council of war yielded no results. Barbara was of the opinion that Sarah had beaten them fair and square. Joe wanted blood. Sally scratched her ear and looked helpful. A stalemate threatened the mid-morning air.

     The back door swung open and Mom leaned out. "Who's blowing the horn? Barbara, Joe, Sarah?  You guys better come inside for awhile -- come in and have some sandwhiches."

     Sally leaped for the door before the others had a chance to move. A dog's instinct is always right.