st vincentAs a boy, Sundays meant getting up early to go to church.  Actually, getting up early to go to church was preferable to getting up late because the eleven o’clock mass was a High Mass, lasting longer and accompanied by St. Vincent de Paul church’s choir.  I had not yet acquired a taste for choral music and it’s a wonder that our church choir’s renditions didn’t sour me forever on Liturgical Music but it didn’t.  Dinner was always early, one or two in the afternoon on Sundays, which meant hanging around waiting for it to be ready.  It was often a roast beef or what my Mom called fresh ham, what most people called a pork roast and after dinner, we might go visit a grandmother or go for a ride.  As boring as a rides with your parents could be, they held the promise of two favorites:  the Roller Coaster Road (a winding, hilly road that Dad would travel at speeds that had Mom holding on unhappily) and a stop at Knudsen’s Dairy (which meant a black raspberry ice cream cone for me).  By the time we got home, it was usually too late to go outside to play … and besides, most of the other kids in our mostly Catholic home town were likely to have been similar kidnapped by their parents.  And, of course, Monday meant school and school meant to bed on time Sunday night.

Sundays haven’t been my favorite days as an adult, either.  Absent the routine of Sunday Mass, it is often a Day with Nothing to Do.   Saturday has always been Date Night for Muri and I … one can only go to the movies, go to the theater and dine out so many times in a weekend.  Sometimes, the cure for a Day with Nothing to Do is a Chore Day and if you’ve been coming around for a while, you know that I see chores as a useful path to mindfulness, a la Chop Wood, Carry Water.  However, Muri and I have divvied up our choresrainysunday very precisely … hers are inside and mine are out.  Outside, it is gray and raining for the third day in a row, so a Chore Day for Bud isn’t a possibility.   Often on Sundays we bring lunch to the park then sit and read in the company of ducks and park peeps … or do the same at out favorite beach park in Dana Point.  Not today.  Gray.  Rainy.  The problem is, if we don’t do something on Sundays, Muri and I usually get bugs (a condition most people call stir-crazy or cabin fever).   So, I’m sure we’ll venture out, maybe run some errands or go for a ride, sans Roller Coaster Road.  Oh, yeah … Sunday Night is Bud Cooks Night … it will be grilled mahi mahi … and then it’s the Academy Awards for Muri (just TV, she’s not going).   And I’ll be sitting in my recliner trying to catch up on the blogs I’ve been neglecting to read.  Maybe I’ll see you then.

Meanwhile, the sixties hit, Sunday Will Never Be the Same, by Spanky and Our Gang, the folk-rock group of the sixties known for its complex vocal harmonies, seems perfect for this ramble about Sundays.  Enjoy.

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