In a July 4 post, I mentioned that my father did not like holidays. I suppose a more appropriate word would have been didn’t celebrate those days. It wasn’t his religious faith (our church recognized the main religious celebrations) or that he didn’t like the food. His philosophy was to treat every day the same. Or so he told me. But Sunday was always different at our house.
No work on Sunday, a holy day. None. Nada. Zero. If something broke, an emergency fix held it until Monday. No cleaning beyond mopping up a spill or a quick sweep of the broom to pick up food crumbs after a meal. Mama cooked Sunday dinner on Saturday. Foods that could be refrigerated and eaten cold—fried chicken or ham, potato salad, deviled eggs—or foods that could be warmed on the gas stove burners. Sunday was a quiet day at home. Church first followed by lunch.
We wore our church clothes all day, so resting, napping, writing letters, reading, listening to gospel music or preachers on the radio, and light play for children were the acceptable activities. Then leftovers for dinner before we departed for Sunday evening church. My father frowned when we skipped Sunday evening church with him and Mama to go to an amusement park while on vacation in Missouri, but he didn’t punish our defiance. Ah, the taste of freedom.
My mother continued most of the Sunday traditions after my father died that fall. “It would be disrespectful to his memory not to,” she said. Energetic twin teens changed that. We tried to keep the morning and evening church schedule with Mama, but we visited neighbors or friends on Sunday—sometimes in church clothes, sometimes not—and we abandoned Sunday quiet times.
And holy days and holidays, no matter what day of the week, became our favorite times to get away from home.