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.