When I was a kid, Sunday afternoons were always quiet, relaxed times. After Sunday School and church services (as a preacher’s kid, I had to go to both), we’d come home to “Sunday Dinner”, usually something roasted—beef, chicken, pork, ham or even lamb (having lamb made us unusual among people we knew).
My mother got everything ready and put it in the oven before leaving for church, a process that was easier when we lived right next door; when we moved to another town, and lived on the other side of town from the church, the dinners became less varied because she couldn’t leave it to the last minute before putting it in the oven. The main reason for this is that my mother never learned to drive and always had to rely on others for a ride to church.
After Sunday dinner, the afternoons were quiet—my dad had worked in the morning, after all (though a lot of people seem to forget that it was work). In the summer, he’d watch the Cubs on TV, probably falling asleep before it was over. I’d read the comics from the Sunday paper (something my dad wasn’t allowed to do when he was a kid, a story in itself). My mother read and napped.
Obviously this eventually ended. I grew up, my dad retired from the church, and a few years later, both my parents were gone. Sundays on my own continued to be quiet, though quiet all day because I stopped having anything to do with churches. This is when I started going out for lunch on a Sunday.
Now, half a world—and half a century—away from where my Sundays began, the days are still quiet. Today, for example, Nigel and I had lunch at an Asian foodcourt in Northcote (at a shopping area I’ve mentioned before). Sometimes we do a little shopping. But whatever we do, the day is still as quiet as it ever was.
All of which is why I try to write quieter posts on Sundays, though sometimes circumstances have interfered with that good intention. Actually, sometimes other days’ posts are quiet, too. In any case, Sunday’s are quiet for me, so it makes sense this blog should be, too.
The surprising thing, though, is that whatever fond memories I have of earlier Sundays, and even through they’re still relaxing, all things considered, I love Saturday more. But that’s a topic for another quiet Sunday post.
3 comments:
I always found eating lamb to be somehow exotic. I never had it as a child, I don't think, so I'd almost always have it when I was at a restaurant if it were on the menu (lamb or duck, which I also never ate as a child).
I never had lamb until I was an adult. My mom never had it and as far as I know hasn't ever. Just not a common thing here.
Arthur, as much as I love your political posts, I really love when you do these types of posts. It inspires me to write about things you remind me of, then I get lazy. bwa bwa.
I read a few years ago that only a small percentage of Americans—something in the order or 20%—had ever tasted lamb. I just assumed everyone had until I head that.
Roger: I often order lasagna because it's something I love, but have never made myself. Failing that, I also tend to order things that sound kind of exotic.
Nessa: Aw, thanks! I love it when bloggers use their space for posts like this, which is why I started doing it, too. A lot of these just start with a stray memory, so maybe you could start with that, too. I'd love to see you do more of these kind of posts.
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