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.