Sick Day

It was a hot and unpleasant day. The heat stuck to me like a fuzzed dryer sheet, unashamed by the electric snag it had on me. Or perhaps more so like those rascally prickled bunches that traipsing about in the woods and fields will get you. It was damn hot and I was damn uncomfortable.

To make matters worse, my head was pounding. Angry pops of hurt that refused to leave me alone, scraping up against the inner tunneling of my head, filling the gaps with reckless waves of pain.

                                

This is the worst day of my life.

It was early June. School was almost over and there was little to be accomplished in the classrooms. Teachers brought the kids outside to sit in a circle and weave dandelions in the little girls’ hair and catch grasshoppers for the boys. To quiz the group on their freshly-learned vocabulary and create stories with those new words. To laugh and bond and play in the warm shade that the beating sun created with its marriage to the trees. The four walls of the school were forgotten as children laughed the afternoon away under their melting blue ceiling poking through the harbored peeking holes in the branches.

And I was not there.

I lay there on the couch, my eyes barely able to focus on the blinking and flashing VCR. Don Quixote was there atop a plump, smiling ass, his chin crooning up to the heavens as he proudly rode down what should have been the quiet road. But his anthem followed him along his journey, a trot and a kick and a boom and a tra-la-la of adventure song, attributing the notes to his bravery and valor.

I was too uncomfortable to care.

My head lay against a swampy pillow on the couch, a blanket knotted up in a ball at my feet. A sudden surge of frozen air swept over me, causing my spine to curl against my back, a tremor to overtake my frail body. The aching coupled with a moan as I shuffled my feet, capturing the blanket and slid it up toward my arms. I grabbed at the quilted squares, pinks and roses and purples and greens sewn together in an endearing pattern.

I will always associate that blanket with being sick.

And then, a moment of peace. Of wonder. Of calm and of beauty and of perfect medicine.

The household cat—be it Checkers the dark gray and tuft white feline or Buster with the lightened gray coat or Stubby the three-legged cat— jumped up on my hot and cold stomach and nestled himself against me. It was as though he knew I was at the end of the rope, the deepest depth of the pit, the last straw of my sickly camel. He fell into a thunderous purr, brushing his head against my temperature-rising skin.

I fell into slumber, the adventurous chime of Quixote and the happy rhythm of my cat setting my sickened and uncomfortable body to rest.  

Sneaky

Mom used to call me sneaky. Said I was the sneakiest. 

Margooo, she'd croon. You should use it for good, she used to say. You should be a private eye, a detective. Join the CIA.

You can do all the sneaking around you want in the CIA, I thought.

But, I was just sneaky.

Mary went to her classes much earlier than I hopped into mom’s van for school. She was the oldest girl. She never wore family hand-me-downs, like me. I loved to creep into her room once she was gone.

I poked my nose in her jewelry box. Pulled out the Tiffany earrings snuggled in that iconic soft blue pull string bag. I fingered them jealously, rolling the rounded pearls through my fingertips, aching to wear them. She won’t be home until after cross country practice, I thought, she won’t know I ever took them to school today. I eyed my ears in the mirror. They shouted at me, burning with a desire I could not control. I slipped the backings from one, poking the needled silver through my dainty young ear, dropping the velvet stringed fabric and holding onto the other pearl so tightly it hurt. I pushed it into the remaining ear. I was thrilled. I knew I’d get away with it.

And I think I did.

Dad sometimes left his wallet out. Either on his dresser upstairs or on the kitchen counter or on one of the side tables in the family room. I wanted money. I wanted to be just like the kids at school who went out to the movies and the mall every weekend. Bought the hot lunch at school and the candy bars to follow. I craved George Washington. Abraham Lincoln. Mr A. Hamilton. But, especially, Andrew Jackson.

I was just sneaky.

One time, Dad caught me. Well, more so that he noticed there were a few gentlemen missing from his well-packed wallet, a wallet browned and cracked from use, yet endowed.

A household alert went out.

Whoever took my money, he bellowed, Whoever took my money must place it in this envelope in the kitchen before tomorrow morning. THEN there will be no punishments. His hot, angry breath powered through the walls, into the surrounding rooms, hitting my now naked ears like a dulled punch against a padded wall.

Shoot.

I never put the two Andrews into the envelope in the kitchen before the next morning. Rather, I dropped them beneath the table where his wallet plumply sat. Victims of a misfortunate fall— that was my reasoning.

I never took a dime from my father again.

And sadly, I never joined the CIA. I must have lacked the qualifications. 

A Summer Saturday

A Summer Saturday

A sweaty summer Saturday. A faint breath of wind on the grass. The looping chase of sparrows as they tease each other against the brilliant blue canvas. The sun arching its back, stretching out atop it's pillowed sky, arms of sleepy light raised in every direction. The side lawn lazily drinking the yellowed rays as the lilacs smiled drowsily on the side. 

The front steps, cracked and wise from the last century of steps and bounds, stomps and skips and leaps. Braces himself.

We tumbled down them, a shower of crab apples pattering our blonde heads. Shrieks. Giggles. 

Resounding faintly as I now reminisce. 

The old, dear friend of the steps, a peeling white farmhouse, sighs with a happy creak, watching the children stream out toward her blankets of grass. Her cherry door rubs its knobbed nose, trembling still from the hurried excitement.   

Crunch crunch crunch. Barefoot over the gravel driveway. Toughened feet of farmtown youth. The cool green grass, soothing. 

Around and around we spin, twirling about with our heads swung back, gasping from laughter, bumping into one another from dizziness. Collapsing in heaps. The farmhouse looks over the children, her windows agape, their happiness flitting through. 

A car passes unknowingly, a soft put and whir. Slow Children reads the sign.

We used to argue that we were quite fast. 

Collections of treasures. Dandelions for mother. A clover. A butterfly sighting followed by a squealing chase--no capture. And luck! A praying mantis-- the ultimate possession. A June bug's shell shed against the elm tree. It crackles as we pry it from the bark.

A sweaty summer Saturday. The windowed eyes of the aged Farmhouse, the gapped stone steps, watching the children at play. 

Homemade Radio Shows: a sampler

Murder in the Wherehouse?

A Short but Riveting Sherlock Holmes Tale by Powell Radio

Starring Sarah as Watson and Sam as Sherlock Holmes

(Music: “Duh duh duuh!” and drumming on the speakers)

Narrator: Welcome back to….Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.

Today’s Episode: Murder at the Warehouse! (“Duh duh duuuh!”)

We find ourselves at Baker street -- 2b Baker Street – where Sherlock Holmes,

and Dr. Watson, are at the breakfast table.

Watson: Well, Sherlock, what d’you think we’ll do today?

Sherlock: O, I don’t know, maybe go . . . strawberry picking?

(muffled laughter)

Watson: What a wonderful idea! I’d better get my little hat.

Sherlock: I’d better get my, uh, uh, uh, uh, tractor?

Watson (laughing): Your tractor! What a wonderful idea! Do you have a hay ride for everybody?

Sherlock: Yeah!

(knocking on the door)

Watson: What’s going on? What’s that? You’d better get it.

(Whispering off-stage: “Sam, it’s a note. Go on, say it, a note.”)

Sherlock: There’s nothing there except a note!

Watson: Read it to me.

(Pause. Whispering: “Meeting at the warehouse, something about meeting at the werehouse.”)

Sherlock: Uh – “Will meet you . . . at . . . the warehouse . . . at . . . twelve, er – twelve o’clock in the

morning.”

(bursts of laughter)

Watson: Are you joking?

Sherlock: No, it says that.

Watson: Let me see – you can’t read! It says, “Mr. Chucky . . .” hahaha!

Narrator: AND SO the two friends jumped into their car and drove to the warehouse to find out

what was the trouble.

Watson: Vroom vroom vroom vroom, vroom vroom vroom vroom

Sherlock: (taps on the speakers to imitate footsteps)

Watson: We’re in a car, you dummy.

Sherlock: Okay!

Watson: (singsong) Vroom vroooom vroooom, vuhrooom vroom vroooooom….

Narrator: And they reached the warehouse.

Sherlock: Well – here we are.

Watson: oh great, what do we do now?

Sherlock: Well the note says twelve o’clock. But it’s all dark and nobody’s here.

(Pause)

Watson: I"m going in to investigate! Arrghhhh!

(Shouts and crashing)

Sherlock: Ow!

Narrator: And that’s the end of our episode, join us next week for another exciting adventure

of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson!

Watson: Bwaa ha haaa!

Parenting, Part 1 of Who Knows

There are some funny parenting moments from my childhood...

Like the time I was playing basketball at the end of the driveway with Evelyn and Joe. Remember the game, Horse? You should. Evelyn missed a shot after me and I, foolishly, yelled out: "HOR! You're HOR!" This, of course, sounds like I am calling my sister an awful word synonymous with prostitute. Believe it or not, I was unfamiliar with either definitions. I was immediately called into the house by Mom and punished-- sent to my room to think about the awful uses of lower class vernacular. It was a perplexing hour of punishment, let me be the first to admit it.

Or the time I was running around the house in the madman fashion the Powells normally partook in as our new addition was in progress. Dad and I were supposed to make our way to Saint Francis of Assisi Chapel in Springfield in about 10 minutes. Energetically exploring the imaginative saga within the confines of my mind, I dove through the window separating one of the the main rooms in our home from the adjacent in-house construction site. A fraction of a second passed in the slowest of motions as my leg swung unforgivably and knocked, from their resting place, a stack of windows that the contractor was about to install the next day. I barely had to look, I heard it first-- the glass shattered into ridiculing pieces. I yelped. My father hollered. I teared. My body seized and ran toward the stairs. My father grabbed my arm. I wept even harder. My dad, surprisingly, forgave me. We went to the chapel. We prayed. I went to confession. I made the sign of the cross and knelt in the pew and shook the hands of  all church goers about me. I was in the clear. And then it happened. I was not taken out to McDonald's or to the Frozen Lemonade stand or to the gas station for a bottle of pop. I was exiled from the post-church pleasures and excitement. I learned my lesson.

I will have to continue, as there are innumerable amounts of stories to be told and miles to go before we sleep....

Pre-Race

Every runner, regardless of talent, strength or team placement, has a pre-race strategy. When a runner can master exactly how to mentally and emotionally prepare for the next race on his plate, that race and that season will come together.

As a high school and college runner, I followed my raceday preparations as though it were a religion. Without them, running was incomplete.

The night before, I made sure every ounce of homework was completed before dinnertime. (Sometimes, that homework didn't get done.) At dinner, I piled my plate with Ziti (never spaghetti!), red sauce and a mason jar of water on the side. After dinner, I sat in the quiet of my room away from the noises of the Powell household and prepared my raceday bag--my racing spikes, my uniform, my number (if I had it), my team warmups, extra socks, trusty trainers, and my raceday blanket-- all while listening to Barbara's Soundtrack to Running.

I visualized my race. Visualized my opponents. Visualized aggression and speed. Even visualized the obvious pain I was to face.

The morning was always the most important to me. Waking with butterflies fluttering wildly in my belly, I would get out of bed and stand in front of my full length mirror. There, I would look at the runner that had trained all season to get to this point. I read over and over the inspirational quotations pasted up by my mirror:

"The will to win means nothing without the will to prepare"


"The greatest pleasure in life, is doing the things people say we cannot do."

"May your mind be strong and your feet be swift. Our Lady of Victory, Pray for Us."

"To win without risk is to triumph without glory."

Down the stairs I went to the same breakfast I always have before a race: peanut butter toast, a banana, and a small cup of coffee. I filled my Nalgene to the brim, the one with the peeling hip numbers 2 and 5 from my best races that season.

I followed this formula for 8 years of competitive running. And although I faced both good races and poor ones, I was confident each and every time I stepped on that line in my box with my team and looked down at the sea of competitors. I was prepared.

How do you prepare for Race Day?

Piece of Peace

I know that when I fall into the rhythm of the run, I am at peace.

When the trees whisper softly with their windy Autumn breath and the sun quietly laughs with its rounded belly as it sets beyond the Park.

When my feet brush the ground with cool, quick kisses, trailing the dirt path with loving adoration for the miles they meet.

When my own breathing and beating heart create a symphonic wonderment with the scurrying squirrels, the crunch of my footfall and the sounds of the almost-bare branches raising their arms up in victory for me.

When I become lost in the spiritual embodiment of the run, when my body loses touch with the realities of the world and hones in on its own movements, the beauty of muscle and sinew and bone in perfect unity with the beat of my heart and the rise and fall of my chest.

When all the world no longer matters. When my simple footfall in the woods becomes the only matter of importance, the only measure of happiness, success, honor. When I become the run.

That. That is when I am at peace.

Where do you find your peace?