Dad: A Tribute

This month on the 18th my Dad turns 60. SIXTY! That is an incredible amount of years to be alive. And that makes him the oldest person I closely know. I want to take a moment and honor who he was and who he is.

My Dad made a point to take me fishing almost every summer I was alive (and willing) to go. My strange love for canoes and the water and lakes and seashores is attributed to him.

My Dad once dragged a 50 ton (note: exaggeration) fishing net off the beach and (to my mother's lovable dismay) into our 14 passenger van and used it to rig a ladder up to the best tree house in the world. Yep, the best. It looked out over the field and backwoods and also well into the neighbor's yard. And let me please remind you that it had a FISH NET LADDER! I don't care what you had as a kid, mine was the best.

Us kids are making up a little surprise for him. I don't think he reads this blog Dad, if you are, please stop now! But the following is my addition to that surprise.

We all grow older, both kids and parents, and evolve in our own very different ways. I mean, I am living in Manhattan, the busiest place in the world (arguably, I know) and I could not be any more different from my father. I am a mid-20 year old woman with a job working for the Man, earning my corporate paycheck and obsessed with shoes. But I am similar to him in the way that I have a hard time backing down. And that I really don't like people offering their opinions at inopportune times. And we both are very very privy to onions. They're really good. Especially with sausage.

What I am trying to say is that regardless of where I am now or what I am doing with my life, my Dad really is responsible for sculpting me into this strange lady I am becoming. Strange in a beautiful kind of way.

So please, enjoy the following birthday note to my Dad and realize that the Powell brood would be nothing in character if it weren't for the Leader of the Flock. Dad.

My Dad

A game of checkers on Dad’s belly, fireplace crackling in the background. One hearty laugh and the gameboard tilted and bounced. Dad always let me choose black. Red was his favorite color, anyway.

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A short lesson in how to cast and reel at a pond in the middle of nowhere. He knew I would get it. “It’s easy, Barbara. Just don’t hook my line or Joe’s.”

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A truck bed filled with beautiful, new sand backing up into the yard. Dad then handed off shovels to Mike and Bill and Rob and a kingdom was born. Summer was never complete until the sandpile was re-stocked.

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A monstrous tickle fight in the middle of the living room. Tears rolling down my cheeks, laughing harder than I ever had before. There was never an escape!

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The first time I received Holy Communion with just the family. Dad walked behind me down the aisle with his hand on my shoulder. I turned to look at him after I received the wine, just in time to catch a smile.

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Snuggled up against Dad’s side as he read out loud on the cream-colored leather couch. My eyes drooped drowsily as Dad’s deep voice lulled me to sleep.

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My memories with Dad are always us doing something together, whether outside on the farm, in his work shop, at the beach or a trip to the dump. Dad made being a kid exciting and adventurous, with no time to be bored.

But my favorite memories, without fail, are the nights when dad would put us kids to bed. There were 4 of us girls in one room and 2 of the boys in the room across the hall. Dad would stand between both rooms and tell us stories and sing to us. Sometimes he brought out his harmonica. Sometimes he told stories about the animals he captured as a kid. He would sing “You Can’t Get to Heaven on Roller Skates” and make up silly verses as we went along: “You can’t get to heaven in a mini skirt, ‘cos the Lord will think you’re a great big flirt! Ain’t gonna try my Lord no more!” He would spend what felt like an hour or more talking to us and singing with us and making bedtime more exciting to us kids.

And you know what? I brag about my childhood all the time. Because we had it made with our Dad. He knows his stuff, doesn’t he?

A very happy and early 60th birthday to my Dad, who does not have a Facebook, nor does he have access (that I know of) to my blog. Only Mama does and she's pretty good at secrets. 

Evelyn vs Me

Screams and gnashes. Hair pulling and threats. Sisters loathing, hating, abhorring, disliking more than anything else in the world. It was a wonder that we were able to live underneath the same roof for even a day, let alone our entire childhood existence.

Evelyn and I had the worst case of sisterly rivalry.

In between the few days that all went well in the world beneath that sloping farm rooftop, between the calm and the serenity of a Sunday morning, where all in the house were asleep, quiet, unmoving. Between those real precious moments, there was an animosity that grew with each and every interaction.

Of course, reader, I exaggerate. But anyone with a sister knows exactly what I mean.

Evelyn came in, came into the bedroom I shared with Sarah, Nell, Christina and baby Gina, screeching and raging like a hopeless woman lost in tears over the horrific plight she was unfortunately caught up within.

"WHO RIPPED MY PURPLE TANK TOP?! BARBARA, DO YOU KNOW WHO- [even louder now]- WHO RIPPED MY FAVORITE PURPLE TANK TOP?!"


There was no escape possible. No sneaky door to pull open or chandelier to swing from. No grandiose battling that only Mr. Toad and his cronies, Moley, Ratty and MacBadger, could  muster.

Shoot.

I cowered on the top of my bunk, pulling the blanket up close to my chin, the tattered Babysitters Club book I was reading flopped over on a lost page at my side. My off-white, greased-from-use Granby Public Library card bounced out of the paperback and fell pitifully to the ground, attempting a not-so-masterful escape.

I gulped. There was only one thing I could do here.


"I didn't do it! I didn't do it!" I kicked back the blankets and scuttled backward toward the wall. "You musta ripped it in the washer machine!"


No matter. Evelyn lunged up the rickety rockety ladder leading up to the ceiling-kissing bed, throwing herself at me. The end was clearly near. As near as her fingernails.

I hurled myself off the bunk bed and ran out of the room, screaming at the top of my lungs-- a blood curdling scream that rattled the windows and shook the floor beneath me.




Barreling down the stair with Evelyn in hot pursuit, I shot out the front door and flew over the gravel driveway and out into the side lawn. The Blessed Mother Mary, standing stiffly and planted,  looked patiently at me, her graceful hands clenched in prayer against her holy bosom. I hoped it was in prayer for me.

I dared a peek behind me. There she was. Evelyn, standing atop the stair overlooking the driveway, screeching at me in an inaudible and clearly angry language. There was no time to decipher. I fled into the back field, barefooted and gangly legged, running from the fury that was my older sister.

Summer Swelter

The weather we have now in Massachusetts brings me back to the sweltering days of summer when the only things I had to worry about were where my water shoes were located and how to find that blackberry bush without anyone following me and getting to all the ripe berries.

You have no idea how fantastic a summer berry bush is. Just behind our Barn was the juiciest and most abundant blackberry bush in all of Granby. Heck, it just might have been the best in all of Western Massachusetts. One summer I had discovered the ripened berries alone.

It was amazing.

That day, I had been pretending that a television camera was following me around, documenting my every move and opinion. We didn't have a television growing up, so, to me, watching television was a great honor-- not to mention actually starring on it. I was just finishing showing my "audience" the art of a pogo stick, when I suddenly remembered that berry bush. Yelping with personal delight, I threw the pogo stick to the ground, and, in a hushed, hoarse whisper, I told my imaginary cameraman:

"Follow me!"

Our Barn, as dilapidated as it was, held mystery and fascination for us Powell kids. If you circle round back the sagging building, you'll see the tall, hallowed phenomenon known as The Silo.  (If you don't know what a Silo is, I'm afraid you have little frame of reference to my childhood.) Just before the Silo was a clutter of trees that swallowed the side of the Barn.  But only one tree was special.

Hidden against her own kind, my Tree stood, anchored to the ground, her swaying branches dancing with her Spirit. Her seeds draped down from the budding wood,  her silken, green hair slipping through her branching fingertips. I felt love for my Tree. She was my caretaker, the shoulder I could cry on when no one else could possibly understand. She held me as I wrote nonsense and dreams in my black-and-white-marble composition notebook. She watched me as I gazed out toward the back fields and then hugged me as I thought of all the things I was going to accomplish in my life. When I climbed up her trunk onto her lap and shoulders and in her arms, I was safe. I was understood. And even though it looked like I was alone, I was not.

My cameraman followed me as I passed my Tree and came to the very back of the Barn. Immediately behind the building and in front of the berry bush was a large pile of decaying wood, old boards and scraps that had been thrown together after countless of farm projects over the years. I was tentative to walk there that day. The previous year, I had fallen victim to a swarm of bees that had hidden quite sneakily beneath a board. I had misstepped, angering them. As a small child, I was blanketed by the buzzing monsters, stung repeatedly, over and over. Had I been allergic, I would have died that day. Just like that little boy in  that movie "My Girl." Tragic.

As I avoided the wood and board pile, I finally approached the blackberry bush. There, on every possible branch, clusters of berries awaited me. Without a bucket to place them in, I began to grab at them, stuffing my mouth with the deliciousness of solitary and fruit.

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.