It is a quiet Sunday afternoon here in the Land of Nodding Off; there is little traffic, not any sort of noisy anything, no one is out walking for it is too hot to be out. In fact it is so quiet the car sounds from the street sound like they are right in front of my house. There is a pall of somnolence that seems to be trapping every breathing mammal in its grip. My two dogs are sleeping so deep they ae snoring, and our little house guest who is much younger than they is sleeping so hard his little noise is hanging of the front of the chair.
This whole atmosphere reminds me of when I was a small girl and Sunday afternoons were set aside for rest. I would spread the funnies out on the floor and read every comic in them. Not so much understanding them all, but enjoying the colors contained in the pictures and the characters. I still save the funnies for last, for I am convinced they are the best part of the whole Sunday paper.
How our world needs Sundays rest! Imagine now if you can: no stores open, no blasting Captains of Capitalism shouting at us to get down here now it’s an Only Sunday Sale! No need to leap up out of bed before the sun gets up to crowd into the hours all the fun one can pack into them, for tomorrow work comes roaring back. Being able to have a cup of coffee on the front porch in nerve and muscle relaxing calm and quiet. To be able to take the time to actually hear the birds joyfully singing about the new day that is still fresh and clean and full of promise.
There was the getting to church on time, to be sure on Sunday mornings. And at the age I was speading the funnies on the living room in the afternoon, Sunday morinings could be fraught with contention. My oldest brother could never quite get himself together at the proper time to be able to walk out to the car fully dressed for church. Every Sunday morning, he came flying down the front steps, holding his dress pants up with one hand, his shirt and tie and shoes and socks streaming out behind him like his flag of standard, bellering to Mom “not to leave him”. He always rode in the back seat by the window that was shattered and cracked with veins of glass. He was the last one in the car, he got the seat no one else wanted. Mom let Mike and I ride in the front to keep us out of the line of his ire.
Once Church and Sunday School was over and our “good clothes” were changed into everyday ones, we could pretty much do whatever we wished as long at it was at home and was a quiet endeavor. We tried playing Rummy sometimes, but the competition became so fierce with the accusations of cheating flying about at the top of our voices that card playing was banished to any day but Sunday. Mostly we read, funnies, library books, whatever we could get our hands on. Well, all of expect Edwin, he would sort of wander off into places unknown only to come back just before Sunday dinner. A mystery he was.
Some Sundays, if it was a “good” movie, we would go to the Beecham Theatre downtown Orlando. I remember seeing such great movies there, those 50’s ones that were always so fantastic to a small girl. We saw “The Sands of Iwo Jima” there, in the Lodges in the Balcony! I remember standing up and shouting “that’s my Daddy” when John Wayne charged up the beach. My Dad got me some candy for that. Those Sundays at the movies were always so special, we didn’t go home first to change clothes, but we were admonished not to get them dirty or else. I can still conjour up my white maryjanes sort of shinning in the dark theatre. It was all very magical.
Other Sundays we had very special company, the Pastor and his wife were coming to have dinner with us! Another instance where we were told to change clothes but not into everyday ones; nice ones, clean most definatley and to put our “manners” on with them. It was always chicken, always. Sometimes fried, sometimes baked, but always chicken And mashed potatoes and gravy, with corn and biscuits. And desert!!
It seems it was an unwritten fact that the families of the church would “have the Pastor and his wife and family” to dinner on a sort of rotation. Because the Lutheran Church we went to was fairly large for its time, our turn didn’t come up too often. When I converted to the Catholic Faith, that idea that the faithful would take turns feeding the pastor seemed to have stuck with me. I had both of the assoiciate priests to dinner with my boys and I. Memories of those dinners still bring a smile to me face. I still think of asking the priests at my parish now to dinner. To me it is a blessing to be able to sit down and have a meal with God’s chosen ones.
The clock has circled around enough times now, it is time to feed DaBoys and their house guest Oreo. Time to finish out this day of rest. Time to bestir myself to get the necessities completed for this day. A couple of after supper walks. A bit of treats afterward, then a settling in to watch some great programs on PBS.
Here’s nodding at you!