Tag Archives: Sunday

A Morning of No Enthusiasm

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Sometimes, I wake up early and can’t fall back asleep with rampaging thoughts of all I need or want to do. Not today. I lay abed long after I woke up, trying to drum up a little incentive to get up.

There was a cool breeze coming in through the open window; I was cozy under the soft comforter. Darla, from her spot beside the bed, had rested her big head on my chest, to accept all the attention I could give her. She rewarded me for the petting with an occasional big lap of her tongue on my face. Rosa Parks, not to be left out, had nestled in to the space under my other shoulder, so that my second hand could scratch behind her ears. Her throaty murmurs – the closest thing to a purr I’ve ever heard coming from a dog – let me know she was enjoying the interlude, too.

Finally, I got up and made coffee. Last night before I went to sleep, I’d jotted some notes in my journal as reminders of what I wanted to accomplish today. There it was, if I needed a refresher. There is house work, yard work and garden work. There are bills to pay and bookkeeping to be done. I have a list of stories and articles to prepare for the next issue of the Beacon.

There is a long list for the studio, including cleaning and clearing space, preparing work for the Museum Week Art Show, and packaging a collagraph to be mailed out. There is old work to finish and plans for new work waiting. As I am wise to my wily ways of avoidance, procrastination and trade-offs, I rarely allow myself to go to the studio first. It is reward, for jobs well underway or tasks completed.

Sunday mornings used to be an exception to that rule. When I had television, my Sundays started in the studio, with the TV tuned to CBS Sunday Morning, coffee conveniently on the shelf beside me, and whatever I was currently involved in, on the drafting table in front of me. It was a lovely way to wake up, and made this day of the week stand out.

When television went digital, the only way to get a signal out here in the middle of Lake Michigan is to pay for satellite TV. I’ve never been much of a TV watcher. For the news, Jeopardy, and a handful of other programs, it hardly seemed worth the cost. I do miss that excuse to spend Sunday mornings in the studio, though!

Now, I get my news from the computer, where one link leads to another, and it’s easy to waste an entire morning following a single event. It’s also simple, from this spot at the desk, to click over to social media, to see what’s going on there, and comment on a status or two. Before I know it I’ve wasted half a day.

It’s afternoon, now, on this precious Sunday. It’s high time to get into gear, and find a little energy and enthusiasm for all the things that wait for me!

Church on Sunday

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I was once in a car, following my sister Cheryl and her family to a restaurant.

[In light of the many personal story embellishments that have been making the news lately, let me just say right up front, I’m not POSITIVE it was me in the car behind Cheryl. It could have been one of my other sisters…maybe Brenda…who later related the story to me. Over the years, I’ve taken it on as my own. I’m not even sure that a restaurant was the destination, but…]

Midway through the drive, Cheryl unhooked her seat belt, turned around in her seat and – as her husband continued driving – was seen yelling at her children and angrily rearranging the games and toys they had brought with them.

Upon arrival at the restaurant [or wherever…], I [or whoever…] asked what all the commotion had been about.

“They said they were CROWDED,” Cheryl said through gritted teeth, “I have two children! They each have a window! They each have half of the back seat!” To fully explain her justified anger, she added, “Don’t you remember church on Sunday???

Well, of course.

Who could forget church on Sunday?

My Dad was the only driver in our family. Our car was a normal station wagon. We had a large family. Aunt Margaret lived next door, with her large family. The Immaculate Conception Church was in town, four and a half miles from our house. Mass was at eleven. We all had to get to church. It went like this:

In the front seat, Dad at the wheel, leaning against his door. Next to him, my mother, with a baby on her lap. Then Aunt Margaret, sometimes with a baby on her lap, too. That was it, unless Patsy “Doney” was visiting; if he was, he squeezed in, too.

In the second seat, in our Sunday finery: Brenda, Cindy, Sheila, Cheryl and Shirley. Cheryl was a little older than Shirley, but Shirley was a little bigger than Cheryl. There was sometimes a battle about which one of them should get the “bottom level” and which one had to sit on someone’s lap. Sometimes, we just crowded all five of us in side-by-side. On the next level, perching on the laps of those of us on the seat, were Gail, Mary, Nita, Robin and – when she was big enough to be there instead of on her mother’s lap in front – Joannie. Sometimes we’d have to squeeze in a friend or two, as well.

In the back end, sitting in a circle around the spare tire, were all the boys: Ted, Barry, Kim, Bobby and Greg. Sometimes Topper’s boy, Brad, if he had spent the night. Dave joined them after Amy was born, and took over the spot on Mom’s lap in the front.

We were never early for mass. We usually had to park on the side street, about a block away.

It was just as well.

As the doors opened and we spilled out from all directions, grabbing the hands of little ones while straightening our clothes and trying to keep up with Dad’s long stride, I’m sure observers would wonder what brought the “clown car” to the town on a Sunday morning!