We drove into the shoreline town as stray raindrops sprinkled the van windows. The black sky made the houses look dreary and drab, all huddled together near the ocean; from our vantage spot on the road we could see the beach and the water underneath the threatening sky. A black morning -- a morning defying our attempts to go fishing. The town seemed deserted as we drove up to the parking booth. The man inside took Dad's money for the ticket.
"Will the boats be leaving shore today?" Dad asked as he took the green parking stub.
"Today? Not a chance," the man said, and closed the booth window. So that was it.
"Well," said Bill, "we can get our hashbrowns at least."
Dad manuevered the van into a parkng space, easily done since there were hardly any cars in the lot; he switched off the ignition and faced us.
"Let's meet Uncle Ray for breakfast and then we can decide what to do," he said cheerfully.
"Yeah, be a shame not to take advantage of a day in New Hampshire," Mike added. We got out of the van. The cold wind blew raindrops in our faces, a strong sea wind carrying salt and missed adventure. Walking from the lot to the main street that divided the town from the beach's edge, the five of us looked wistfully at the waves pawing the sand with their white claws, the water curling its back towards the sky, and far away the matted underbelly of clouds merging with the horizon. The whole sea had become a snarling beast -- there would be no sporting with it this day.
"There he is!" Sam said, pointing up to a raised deck attached to one of the larger houses. Uncle Ray stood there. He was dressed, to no one's surprise, in a flannel shirt and a baseball cap. He waved at us.
"Hey guys! Sorry about the weather, huh? Come in and get something to eat."
He had been keeping watch for us on the threshold of the legendary diner itself, a grey-wooded deck accessibile by a narrow flight of stairs from the road, leading to the small doorway welcomingly ajar. We followed him inside; a long room with the table-counter and stools on the right and a few small tables and chairs squeezed on the left. Pictures of fish were everywhere. And people catching fish. And eating fish. And some fish eating the people. Already several customers sat at the table-counter, eating, as a large woman with an apron and a belligerant expression rattled pans in the background.
"Hello, Trudy!" said Uncle Ray.
"Morning," said the waitress gruffly. "No going out today, ey?"
"No, it's impossible weather out there," Dad said, pulling up a stool to the counter. We followed suit. Trudy looked at us for a few moments, tall and fearsome: a little more imagination and it would have been Brunhilda with her horned helmet. But instead of the expected battle axe she pulled out a notebook and pencil.
"What do you want?" she asked.
I nudged Sam. "Get the hashbrowns," I whispered, thinking of the proclaimed mountains of golden fried potatoes.
"YOU get them," retorted Sam, who clearly had less faith in diner fare.
"Two eggs and hash browns," said Uncle Ray.
"Three eggs and hashbrowns," said Dad.
Mike was silent, weighing the situation. Then he nodded and said, "Three eggs, a pancake, and hashbrowns."
He turned to Bill, smiling smugly. Bill caught the challenge of that smile and said, "Three eggs, two pancakes, sausage, and hashbrowns."
They all looked at Sam and me. Trudy rapped her notebook with her pencil point. Unless Sam and I chose quickly, I was sure she would burst out into a glass-breaking aria and lay waste about her; but could we rise to meet the bar so dauntingly set by the others? I pondered, scratched my cheek, rearranged the fork and knife on the napkin, and said, "Three eggs, three pancakes, sausage, ham, and hashbrowns."
Mike raised his eyebrows, Bill chuckled, Dad looked proud, and Uncle Ray shook his head. I looked at Sam.
"One egg, sunny side up," said Sam, placidly.
Confound that boy.
The Whole Family
Christmas 2006
2/11/11
Fishing Trip, part 2
Now we had loaded the van with the coolers and blankets and tackleboxes, and we were on our way to New Hampshire. Dad drove, following well-known routes and only occasionally helped by the GPS system; Bill sat in the passenger's seat, drinking from his travel mug; Sam and I huddled under our respective blankets in the first row of seats; and Mike lay in the second row, asleep. In fact everone except Dad was soon nodding off. Every once in a while I would jerk into semi-wakefullness to see the yellow lights of a gas station go by, or the bright beams of a passing trailer, and then sink back into an uneasy oblivion. Somehow, two and a half hours spent themselves this way until Dad guided the van into the parking lot of a Dunkin Donuts. Apparantly we were near the border of New Hampshire or had just crossed it.
"Okay, let's grab some coffee and a muffin or something," Dad said as he parked. We went through our second ritual of yawning and stretching and stepped into the bracing air of the parking lot and toward the brightly lit interior of the store. Five forty-five A.M. and already a line was forming. A few policemen and a police woman in smart uniforms were adding cream and sugar to their coffees on the side, and a couple of workmen in paint-spotted jeans and denim shirts deliberated over the breakfast menu. The cashier looked tired but resolute.
"Well, I guess I'll take the number two," said one workman carefully, eyeing the enormous photos of stuffed egg sanwiches above the cashier's head. "If it has bacon in it."
"No, number two doesn't have bacon, it's the egg and ham," said the cashier, who was a young man with glasses and an expression that said, I am almost finished and I will NOT lose my patience. "Number five is the egg and bacon."
The workman squinted at the menu. "Huh! But number five doesn't have the McPattie potatoe things. Can I get those on the side?"
"You could," said the cashier with heroic calmness, "but it would be easier to get them already with a meal. Or you could order everything separately." He glanced anxiously at us as we gathered behind the mulling customer. Finally the worker ordered and moved on to the recieving booth with the police people. As a reward for the cashier's imperturbability we all ordered quickly and painlessly and soon had gathered up our coffees, muffins, bagels, assorted cream cheeses and butters, and went back to the van. Breakfast was undertaken as the first light of morning stole over the parking lot. Then Dad drove off on the last leg of the trip.
As the road began to pass through the fields and marshes that signalled the proximity of the ocean we noticed that the morning light was not as bright as it should be; the sky remained dark with angry-looking clouds, and the wind whipped the tall grass in the fields. Dad turned on the radio.
"Looks like a storm," he said.
We all sat up. Mike tossed his blanket to the floor and rubbed his eyes. "That would be too bad if the boat can't leave shore," he said. "If the waves are too high then they'll never let anyone go out on the water."
"Oh, I'm sure people would still go out," Bill remarked. "You know -- 'Look at me, I'm fishing in a Grade Two Storm, haha!' Doosh."
"Let me listen to the weather report," Dad said, peering out the windshield at the approaching Shoreline town and the ominous overhanging storm. A few raindrops pattered on the glass. Sam and I looked at each other. Would the boat be leaving the shore - or would we be doomed to an entire morning in the seaside diner with Trudy the waitress and mountains of hashbrowns? Soon we would know for sure.
"Okay, let's grab some coffee and a muffin or something," Dad said as he parked. We went through our second ritual of yawning and stretching and stepped into the bracing air of the parking lot and toward the brightly lit interior of the store. Five forty-five A.M. and already a line was forming. A few policemen and a police woman in smart uniforms were adding cream and sugar to their coffees on the side, and a couple of workmen in paint-spotted jeans and denim shirts deliberated over the breakfast menu. The cashier looked tired but resolute.
"Well, I guess I'll take the number two," said one workman carefully, eyeing the enormous photos of stuffed egg sanwiches above the cashier's head. "If it has bacon in it."
"No, number two doesn't have bacon, it's the egg and ham," said the cashier, who was a young man with glasses and an expression that said, I am almost finished and I will NOT lose my patience. "Number five is the egg and bacon."
The workman squinted at the menu. "Huh! But number five doesn't have the McPattie potatoe things. Can I get those on the side?"
"You could," said the cashier with heroic calmness, "but it would be easier to get them already with a meal. Or you could order everything separately." He glanced anxiously at us as we gathered behind the mulling customer. Finally the worker ordered and moved on to the recieving booth with the police people. As a reward for the cashier's imperturbability we all ordered quickly and painlessly and soon had gathered up our coffees, muffins, bagels, assorted cream cheeses and butters, and went back to the van. Breakfast was undertaken as the first light of morning stole over the parking lot. Then Dad drove off on the last leg of the trip.
As the road began to pass through the fields and marshes that signalled the proximity of the ocean we noticed that the morning light was not as bright as it should be; the sky remained dark with angry-looking clouds, and the wind whipped the tall grass in the fields. Dad turned on the radio.
"Looks like a storm," he said.
We all sat up. Mike tossed his blanket to the floor and rubbed his eyes. "That would be too bad if the boat can't leave shore," he said. "If the waves are too high then they'll never let anyone go out on the water."
"Oh, I'm sure people would still go out," Bill remarked. "You know -- 'Look at me, I'm fishing in a Grade Two Storm, haha!' Doosh."
"Let me listen to the weather report," Dad said, peering out the windshield at the approaching Shoreline town and the ominous overhanging storm. A few raindrops pattered on the glass. Sam and I looked at each other. Would the boat be leaving the shore - or would we be doomed to an entire morning in the seaside diner with Trudy the waitress and mountains of hashbrowns? Soon we would know for sure.
2/1/11
It's Raining Now
It’s raining now. Big, fat drops of rain and perfectly warm weather. The shine is shining through the raindrops and the air is warmed. It’s a summer afternoon and I am just under five years old. My skinny little legs barrel through the living room and into the kitchen .
“Mom! Mom! Where’s my bathing suit?” I scramble excitedly toward my mom, pulling at her skirt hem.
Patiently, my mom directs me to the laundry room, sorting through the pile. Once my baby pink one piece is found, I wiggle into it quickly. I can’t waste time. There’s a rain storm outside!
I burst out the door, Joe in his shorts and Sarah in her diaper right behind me. Jumping off the deck onto the grass, we scream with upmost delight. There is a waterfall of rain water spilling from the rooftops. There are puddles as wide as ponds and deep and the bath tub. With childish glee and giggling, we splash around the yard, finding the biggest and best puddles. We can’t get enough of the wet wonderland, the rain pouring down, the lakes of water, the streaming curtains of water rushing from rooftops and trees.
Giggles gush from our lips, bubbling laughter as the three of us flail our arms above our heads, swatting at the raindrops, opening our mouths wide to catch them eagerly. I scurry, slipping and sliding, toward the small slope in our yard. With a wave of laughter, I fly out on my belly and coast down the hill. Up and down that tiny bump of a hill, I was in ecstasy.
Yard to yard we dashed, discovering new games and adventures from the rain. By then, Sarah’s diaper was hanging by a tape, soggy and filled with water. Joe’s face was an enormous grin, minus the top two teeth. And all of us were drenched, head to toe, and never happier.
1/12/11
What Do You Want to Be?
When I was young, I knew exactly what I wanted to be when I grew up.
In Kindergarten, my heart was set on being a ballerina. My mom convinced me I had the perfect body for it. As long as I was a ballerina who was an author, as well. A talented, literate dancer.
In 1st grade, I wanted to be a baker. I convinced my friends at the lunch table that I was a Cookie Monster and I needed to sample their cookies so I knew what the best ones in the world were. I wanted to make my cookies better than the best ones.
In 2nd grade, I wanted to be a nun. I was sure that the only choices a woman had was to be a nun or to be a mommy. I was scared about giving birth so I opted for the sisterhood.
In 3rd grade, I told my math teacher, Mr. K., that I wanted to be like him. He was very good at multiplication.
In 4th grade, I thought I could sing. So I sang very loudly in church. The old women in front of our family's pew turned around often to look at me. One even told me that I was a very interesting singer. I took that as the highest praise.
In 5th grade, I knew I loved poetry. I wanted to sing out to the world through words dancing on paper, inspiring the uninspired. I joined Poetry Club. It was my identity.
In 6th grade,I began to run consistently. So, of course, I wanted to be a marathoner and win many gold medals throughout my running career.
In 7th grade, I wanted to be a businesswoman. I had no idea what that meant really, other than that I could make a bit of money and I could do pretty much anything I wanted. That idea stuck with me.
In 8th grade, I discovered fire fighting. Yes, fire fighting. I went to a day camp where I could hold the hose, and climb into a "burning" van, and repel off of a 3 story building, and ride up the ladder in the bucket.
I still dreamt of fire fighting into high school. It was a dream of mine that stuck around longer than the others.
Now, I am a runner. I am a poet. I am a creative-minded soul who sings even though she cannot, bakes from the box, and will always love cookies. I went to business school and realized that most of those that are successful there lose the sparkle of life along the way.
Who knows what I'll be when I grow up. Right now, I am Barb. Or Babs. Or Barbara. I am ME and I know I am going to grow into exactly who I want to be.
In Kindergarten, my heart was set on being a ballerina. My mom convinced me I had the perfect body for it. As long as I was a ballerina who was an author, as well. A talented, literate dancer.
In 1st grade, I wanted to be a baker. I convinced my friends at the lunch table that I was a Cookie Monster and I needed to sample their cookies so I knew what the best ones in the world were. I wanted to make my cookies better than the best ones.
In 2nd grade, I wanted to be a nun. I was sure that the only choices a woman had was to be a nun or to be a mommy. I was scared about giving birth so I opted for the sisterhood.
In 3rd grade, I told my math teacher, Mr. K., that I wanted to be like him. He was very good at multiplication.
In 4th grade, I thought I could sing. So I sang very loudly in church. The old women in front of our family's pew turned around often to look at me. One even told me that I was a very interesting singer. I took that as the highest praise.
In 5th grade, I knew I loved poetry. I wanted to sing out to the world through words dancing on paper, inspiring the uninspired. I joined Poetry Club. It was my identity.
In 6th grade,I began to run consistently. So, of course, I wanted to be a marathoner and win many gold medals throughout my running career.
In 7th grade, I wanted to be a businesswoman. I had no idea what that meant really, other than that I could make a bit of money and I could do pretty much anything I wanted. That idea stuck with me.
In 8th grade, I discovered fire fighting. Yes, fire fighting. I went to a day camp where I could hold the hose, and climb into a "burning" van, and repel off of a 3 story building, and ride up the ladder in the bucket.
I still dreamt of fire fighting into high school. It was a dream of mine that stuck around longer than the others.
Now, I am a runner. I am a poet. I am a creative-minded soul who sings even though she cannot, bakes from the box, and will always love cookies. I went to business school and realized that most of those that are successful there lose the sparkle of life along the way.
Who knows what I'll be when I grow up. Right now, I am Barb. Or Babs. Or Barbara. I am ME and I know I am going to grow into exactly who I want to be.
1/11/11
Snow Day [Part 2]
Trudging outside into the whitened, magical world of winter was the most fantastic thing a Powell kid could do. It was as though the farm had been transformed into a realm of greater adventure and more possibility for exploration and discovery. A snow day was the best play day.
I remember looking out the window and seeing the swallowed up mailbox, it's blackened crown peeping out from the top of a mound of snow, brutally piled up by the monstrous snowplows early that morning. The driveway was a path from the past, no longer visible. In the side yard, the statue of Immaculate Mary was lost, leaving a tower of padded white in her place. The lilac bushes bent over feebly in the front and side yards, bowing to the power of the weighted snowfall, surrendering. Across the street, the old barn's roof threatened to give out as the snowflakes made their journey from the clouds to their final resting place atop it. The ground was untouched, a clean, blank play canvas for our hastily laced boots and our snow angel arms.
The greatest hope was that the snow would be wet enough to build. If we could build then we could do anything. I remember inventing the snow chair. I would take a small snowball and roll it through the yard, pushing and pushing until my scrawny body could no longer. As soon as my snow ball became a snow boulder, I went to work. Retrieving a shovel from my dad's work shop, I dug into the top, carving out an indent for the cold-whipped bottoms of my siblings and I.
But nothing would ever compare to the mounds of snow left behind after the driveway was shoveled and the plows had done their work for the day. As my poor mother held her breath inside. Joe, Sarah, Evelyn and I would claim our own snow piles, digging into them and hallowing out the most beautiful snow forts ever created by man. We would spend hours, our frozen mittens clutching shovels, probing into the snow. The best forts had an entrance and an exit, with a room in the middle that would house the necessities of a snowball battle.
The greatest activity on snow days never changed, no matter what the snow type, be it wet or icy or powdery. When it snowed, we went sledding.
Sledding was never a straight forward affair. It was an epic journey. The hill near our house was a mile and a half away in the golf course at the end of our dead end street. It was tucked behind the Clubhouse, a beautiful hill with the perfect percentage of incline.
Setting out, there was always the question posed: "Through the course or on the road?" Traveling on the road there was easy. It was always plowed, at least a little, for halfway and it always felt shorter to the traveler. Going through the course on the way to the hill was a battle through the harsh elements, trampling through the snow, pulling our sleds behind us, acres of frosted ground and trees around us.
"Through the course!"
The last 5 minutes of the journey always resulted in someone running to catch a glimpse of the hill first. It was a competitive race for most, unless the cold had already gotten to you and you were losing interest in the hill in the first place. Once the Clubhouse was within reach, we trampled around it and came face-to-face with the beautiful hill.
It sloped down immediately behind the building. The right was completely devoted to sledding, carving the pathways and padding down the snow to make the ride quicker and more exhilarating. The left was useless for sledding, as it had the pokings of small, scrappy bushes. That was the side we used to race back up the hill after our swooshing journey downward.
At the hill's base, about 25 feet away, there was a pond. It was a competition to see who could make their sled reach the pond's edge. However competitive we were, we also we aware of the dangers. Having watched It's a Wonderful Life way too many times to keep count, we knew that Georgs Bailey had lost hearing in his ear when he braved the icy water to save his brother who had crashed beneath the ice while sledding. We knew not to risk it... too far.
After sledding until we could no longer feel our fingers and toes, we set out back home, tired and crabby, most likely yelling at each other and fighting because we were so cold and miserable.
But then, as we fell inside through the back door, dumping our snowy, wet clothes in a heap on the ground, there was one amazing thing to look forward to.
Hot cocoa.
I remember looking out the window and seeing the swallowed up mailbox, it's blackened crown peeping out from the top of a mound of snow, brutally piled up by the monstrous snowplows early that morning. The driveway was a path from the past, no longer visible. In the side yard, the statue of Immaculate Mary was lost, leaving a tower of padded white in her place. The lilac bushes bent over feebly in the front and side yards, bowing to the power of the weighted snowfall, surrendering. Across the street, the old barn's roof threatened to give out as the snowflakes made their journey from the clouds to their final resting place atop it. The ground was untouched, a clean, blank play canvas for our hastily laced boots and our snow angel arms.
The greatest hope was that the snow would be wet enough to build. If we could build then we could do anything. I remember inventing the snow chair. I would take a small snowball and roll it through the yard, pushing and pushing until my scrawny body could no longer. As soon as my snow ball became a snow boulder, I went to work. Retrieving a shovel from my dad's work shop, I dug into the top, carving out an indent for the cold-whipped bottoms of my siblings and I.
But nothing would ever compare to the mounds of snow left behind after the driveway was shoveled and the plows had done their work for the day. As my poor mother held her breath inside. Joe, Sarah, Evelyn and I would claim our own snow piles, digging into them and hallowing out the most beautiful snow forts ever created by man. We would spend hours, our frozen mittens clutching shovels, probing into the snow. The best forts had an entrance and an exit, with a room in the middle that would house the necessities of a snowball battle.
The greatest activity on snow days never changed, no matter what the snow type, be it wet or icy or powdery. When it snowed, we went sledding.
Sledding was never a straight forward affair. It was an epic journey. The hill near our house was a mile and a half away in the golf course at the end of our dead end street. It was tucked behind the Clubhouse, a beautiful hill with the perfect percentage of incline.
Setting out, there was always the question posed: "Through the course or on the road?" Traveling on the road there was easy. It was always plowed, at least a little, for halfway and it always felt shorter to the traveler. Going through the course on the way to the hill was a battle through the harsh elements, trampling through the snow, pulling our sleds behind us, acres of frosted ground and trees around us.
"Through the course!"
The last 5 minutes of the journey always resulted in someone running to catch a glimpse of the hill first. It was a competitive race for most, unless the cold had already gotten to you and you were losing interest in the hill in the first place. Once the Clubhouse was within reach, we trampled around it and came face-to-face with the beautiful hill.
It sloped down immediately behind the building. The right was completely devoted to sledding, carving the pathways and padding down the snow to make the ride quicker and more exhilarating. The left was useless for sledding, as it had the pokings of small, scrappy bushes. That was the side we used to race back up the hill after our swooshing journey downward.
At the hill's base, about 25 feet away, there was a pond. It was a competition to see who could make their sled reach the pond's edge. However competitive we were, we also we aware of the dangers. Having watched It's a Wonderful Life way too many times to keep count, we knew that Georgs Bailey had lost hearing in his ear when he braved the icy water to save his brother who had crashed beneath the ice while sledding. We knew not to risk it... too far.
After sledding until we could no longer feel our fingers and toes, we set out back home, tired and crabby, most likely yelling at each other and fighting because we were so cold and miserable.
But then, as we fell inside through the back door, dumping our snowy, wet clothes in a heap on the ground, there was one amazing thing to look forward to.
Hot cocoa.
11/4/10
Snow Day! [Part 1]
"No school today-- stay in bed!" My mother's voice was a welcomed disturbance from my deep sleep. My eyes barely crack open as I rolled over to look out at the world from my top bunk. Light was streaming though the window, blindingly so, as the newly-risen sun was amplified against the fresh white blanket of snow that has tucked the world in.
My sleepiness was immediately rectified as I realized what this meant: SNOW DAY! I sat up in my bed suddenly, knocking my head against the ceiling. My four sisters stirred along with me, excitement beginning to buzz in our small room.
"No school! No school!" Joe burst into the room, his wiry body springing through the door and rocketing around the room. He jumped up to Sarah's bunk across from mine, "Get up, get up, get up!"
With energy that not even a strong cup of coffee could do for me now, I swept my blankets back in a hurried frenzy and swung myself off the bunk, falling with a fantastic THUD onto the bedroom floor. I neglected even bothering with the bunk's ladder-- it was straight off and onto the floor.
There is no way we were staying in bed. A snow day was not something to be wasted!
After shoveling down our breakfast of hot oatmeal, we scurried throughout the house in search of all of our winter gear-- starting with the closet by the back door. This was a treasure trove of jackets, snow suits, boots, gloves, hats, and more. It is a deep, narrow closet that, to this day, no one knows the true contents of it. It had a faint musty smell was never properly lit. Searching for personal items in there was like rooting through the 1000 pieces of a jig saw puzzle for that one piece. . . a little difficult.
What we could not find in the closet, we could find in the laundry room. When I was about 10, my parents built an addition onto our old farmhouse, creating a kitchen, dining area, family room, and a new basement. My father revamped the laundry room with 16 cubbies against the far left wall. Each kid has a cubby of their own in which all their clean clothes are placed once my mother finished washing. And although the poor woman tried so hard, there was never any order to this room. Clothing spilled off the cubbies and onto the floor, carpeting the ground. Neglected shirts and sweaters and pants pile the wicker chair next to the dryer, pleading to be folded by the rambunctious children. 10-year-old me overlooked this. I still knew where to find my gloves and I knew my favorite pair of snow pants were underneath the basket in the corner.
Everyone had snow pants. The origin of the pants are completely unknown to me, but they got the best use. My favorite pair were a faded pink, the pant legs just too short to cover my ankles. I had to pull on my older brother's socks over the pant bottom to keep out the cold and snow and wetness. The suspender straps were equipped with plastic buckles-- one sorry winter, the left buckle broke, forcing me to knot the strap to the snow pants' bib in order for it to stay up. Once my socks were bunched on, I would stuff them into a pair of boots a size too big and tie up the mis-matching laces. I swept my tangled, unbrushed hair into a ferocious pony tail and pulled on a knitted hat over my head, hiding the fugitive strands of hair. My arms shot through the arms of my poofy black winter coat and I hurried to zip and button. Finally, my fingers grabbed at the striped gloves awaiting me and I pushed my way out the door and into the white world awaiting me.
My sleepiness was immediately rectified as I realized what this meant: SNOW DAY! I sat up in my bed suddenly, knocking my head against the ceiling. My four sisters stirred along with me, excitement beginning to buzz in our small room.
"No school! No school!" Joe burst into the room, his wiry body springing through the door and rocketing around the room. He jumped up to Sarah's bunk across from mine, "Get up, get up, get up!"
With energy that not even a strong cup of coffee could do for me now, I swept my blankets back in a hurried frenzy and swung myself off the bunk, falling with a fantastic THUD onto the bedroom floor. I neglected even bothering with the bunk's ladder-- it was straight off and onto the floor.
There is no way we were staying in bed. A snow day was not something to be wasted!
After shoveling down our breakfast of hot oatmeal, we scurried throughout the house in search of all of our winter gear-- starting with the closet by the back door. This was a treasure trove of jackets, snow suits, boots, gloves, hats, and more. It is a deep, narrow closet that, to this day, no one knows the true contents of it. It had a faint musty smell was never properly lit. Searching for personal items in there was like rooting through the 1000 pieces of a jig saw puzzle for that one piece. . . a little difficult.
What we could not find in the closet, we could find in the laundry room. When I was about 10, my parents built an addition onto our old farmhouse, creating a kitchen, dining area, family room, and a new basement. My father revamped the laundry room with 16 cubbies against the far left wall. Each kid has a cubby of their own in which all their clean clothes are placed once my mother finished washing. And although the poor woman tried so hard, there was never any order to this room. Clothing spilled off the cubbies and onto the floor, carpeting the ground. Neglected shirts and sweaters and pants pile the wicker chair next to the dryer, pleading to be folded by the rambunctious children. 10-year-old me overlooked this. I still knew where to find my gloves and I knew my favorite pair of snow pants were underneath the basket in the corner.
Everyone had snow pants. The origin of the pants are completely unknown to me, but they got the best use. My favorite pair were a faded pink, the pant legs just too short to cover my ankles. I had to pull on my older brother's socks over the pant bottom to keep out the cold and snow and wetness. The suspender straps were equipped with plastic buckles-- one sorry winter, the left buckle broke, forcing me to knot the strap to the snow pants' bib in order for it to stay up. Once my socks were bunched on, I would stuff them into a pair of boots a size too big and tie up the mis-matching laces. I swept my tangled, unbrushed hair into a ferocious pony tail and pulled on a knitted hat over my head, hiding the fugitive strands of hair. My arms shot through the arms of my poofy black winter coat and I hurried to zip and button. Finally, my fingers grabbed at the striped gloves awaiting me and I pushed my way out the door and into the white world awaiting me.
10/30/10
Fishing trip, prt 1
It was three in the morning and Dad was shaking me awake.
"Hey Joe, it's time to go! Get Sam up too. We need to load the van."
In the split second between opening my eyes and realizing what was going on, I had the strong feeling that anything asking me to get out of bed was simply too absurd to be taken seriously. Then I remembered. Oh, yeah, fishing trip.
From the mattress laid out on the floor I reached up to shake Sam, or what I assumed to be Sam wrapped like a mummy in the heavy cotton blanket. "Sam," I told the mummy, "wake up. We have to get ready for the fishing trip." The mummy stirred -- away from my hand -- and went still. "Wake up," I said, "and get your clothes on." The mummy mumbled something. "That's no excuse. We have to load the van with the coolers and stuff. Come on. Off you go!"
I lifted my younger brother's body and pulled him down onto the mattress on the floor. Beneath his wrappings the mummy thrashed to free himself; Sam's head popped out of an opening, his sleep-scarred face wincing in the light from the hallway. He scowled. He said,
"Aaargagoorgeerargeegorrarr," and twisted like a contortionist in a violent stretch.
"Good morning to you," I told the mummy, and went downstairs to help load the van.
My older brothers Mike and Bill were awake, standing in the kitchen in flannel shirts and baseball caps, coffee mugs in hand. Dad was packing the last of the sandwhiches into the red cooler along with the mustard, maonaise, apples, Sunkist juice pouches, and cheese; he too had a flannel shirt and a baseball cap. He talked excitedly.
"If we can get up to New Hampshire by five-thirty we'll have plenty of time to meet Uncle Ray and have breakfast with him before the boat leaves at six-thirty. Wait'll you see the little seaside diner -- I was there a few years back with Uncle Barney. They serve you an enormous breakfast, eggs, ham, and a mountain of hashbrowns. The waitress is a big German lady named Trudy, and when she put the plates in front of us she said, "Now you better eat ALL of that or you're not coming back in here again.' She meant it, too."
"So did you eat all of it?" Mike asked over the rim of his mug.
Dad chuckled. "Well -- yeah." We laughed as well, imagining Dad and Uncle Barney, both with good appetites, hurridly eating a mountain of hashbrowns under the glare of the German waitress.
Sam shuffled in, wearing a flannel shirt and a baseball cap. He went for the coffeepot.
"Good morning, Sam," Bill said with a teasing edge in his voice. "What, coffee? You can't have coffee, I'm afraid, sir, you're too young. But we have some delicious -- soymilk, if you want. We just have to, you know, milk the soycows first."
"Mmmm." Sam said. He poured coffee into a travel mug and slipped on the lid. "Are we stopping at Dunkin Donuts on the way?" he asked.
"Once we get in New Hampshire," said Dad, heaving up the cooler. "All right, boys, let's get going!"
"Can't wait to sleep once we're in the van," Mike murmured, as we filed out the back door into the darkness of morning.
"Hey Joe, it's time to go! Get Sam up too. We need to load the van."
In the split second between opening my eyes and realizing what was going on, I had the strong feeling that anything asking me to get out of bed was simply too absurd to be taken seriously. Then I remembered. Oh, yeah, fishing trip.
From the mattress laid out on the floor I reached up to shake Sam, or what I assumed to be Sam wrapped like a mummy in the heavy cotton blanket. "Sam," I told the mummy, "wake up. We have to get ready for the fishing trip." The mummy stirred -- away from my hand -- and went still. "Wake up," I said, "and get your clothes on." The mummy mumbled something. "That's no excuse. We have to load the van with the coolers and stuff. Come on. Off you go!"
I lifted my younger brother's body and pulled him down onto the mattress on the floor. Beneath his wrappings the mummy thrashed to free himself; Sam's head popped out of an opening, his sleep-scarred face wincing in the light from the hallway. He scowled. He said,
"Aaargagoorgeerargeegorrarr," and twisted like a contortionist in a violent stretch.
"Good morning to you," I told the mummy, and went downstairs to help load the van.
My older brothers Mike and Bill were awake, standing in the kitchen in flannel shirts and baseball caps, coffee mugs in hand. Dad was packing the last of the sandwhiches into the red cooler along with the mustard, maonaise, apples, Sunkist juice pouches, and cheese; he too had a flannel shirt and a baseball cap. He talked excitedly.
"If we can get up to New Hampshire by five-thirty we'll have plenty of time to meet Uncle Ray and have breakfast with him before the boat leaves at six-thirty. Wait'll you see the little seaside diner -- I was there a few years back with Uncle Barney. They serve you an enormous breakfast, eggs, ham, and a mountain of hashbrowns. The waitress is a big German lady named Trudy, and when she put the plates in front of us she said, "Now you better eat ALL of that or you're not coming back in here again.' She meant it, too."
"So did you eat all of it?" Mike asked over the rim of his mug.
Dad chuckled. "Well -- yeah." We laughed as well, imagining Dad and Uncle Barney, both with good appetites, hurridly eating a mountain of hashbrowns under the glare of the German waitress.
Sam shuffled in, wearing a flannel shirt and a baseball cap. He went for the coffeepot.
"Good morning, Sam," Bill said with a teasing edge in his voice. "What, coffee? You can't have coffee, I'm afraid, sir, you're too young. But we have some delicious -- soymilk, if you want. We just have to, you know, milk the soycows first."
"Mmmm." Sam said. He poured coffee into a travel mug and slipped on the lid. "Are we stopping at Dunkin Donuts on the way?" he asked.
"Once we get in New Hampshire," said Dad, heaving up the cooler. "All right, boys, let's get going!"
"Can't wait to sleep once we're in the van," Mike murmured, as we filed out the back door into the darkness of morning.
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