Sundays
After church on a Sunday morning, delectable,
tantalizing aromas, coming from the kitchen, met us at the front
door. My father was usually home on Sundays and he would peel
apples at the enamel-topped kitchen table for my mother's delicious
pies, while she mixed and rolled the pastry.
On Sundays, we always had roast beef and
gravy and lots of vegetables. Turkey and chicken, at least in
our house, were just for special holidays. How times have changed!
Dad loved horseradish and I remember, once,
taking a forkfull of what I thought was potatoes and thought that
my whole head would burn off. He believed in us trying things
but it was a great many years before I tried it again.
Our hot dinner was at noon and a cold supper
at night so that my mother could go to the evening service at
church.
When we were ready for dessert, in the
summertime, my mother would give me a bowl and I would hurry to
the drug store, over three long blocks away, to have it filled
with vanilla ice cream for our apple pie. Then I would run all
the way home so it wouldn't melt. In the colder weather, apple
pie was served with cheddar cheese. My father always said that
apple pie without cheese was like a hug without a squeeze.
Sunday school was in the early afternoon
and then, clothes changed, I would sit and daydream, mostly. We
weren't allowed to play on Sunday, so the hours dragged. In the
summer I would sit outside on the verandah or back steps and read
a little or just admire the flowers.
When my mother finally went to church,
Dad woud turn on the big floor-model radio in the dining room.
I lived for this special time. We sat there at the table, not
talking, just listening and laughing at Edgar Bergen and Charlie
McCarthy, Amos and Andy, and Jack Benny.
At about 8:15, my father would stand at
the window and keep watch. My mother always walked home with a
neighbour; sometimes they would stand and chat and other times
would say goodnight right away. When Dad thought that my mother
was finally on her way, he would tell me that I had better get
up the wooden hill - and fast. I stayed glued to the radio until
the very last minute and then made a dash for the stairs and up
to bed.
I can't remember ever telling my father
how much Sunday evenings meant to me but he didn't say anything
either and I know how much he enjoyed the programmes. The merriment
showed in his blue eyes, thinking that we had pulled a fast-one
on my mother. I often wonder if we really did. ~Joan Adams Burchell~
(copyright)
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