When I was a child, Sundays dragged. We went to church; sometimes we went out for breakfast, but the rest of the afternoon sped by in slow motion. In those days, there were no repeats on television, few sporting events on view, and only Lawrence Welk to look forward to as the sun set. My Mother couldn’t wait for him, while I used his show to catch up on homework. Or chat on the phone.
Time has passed. I suspect that Earl’s and my Sunday regime is as boring as the one I just described even though it’s forty years later and neither of us is a teenager longing for the phone to ring.
He goes to church; I visit a friend in an independent living facility. Sometimes we meet for breakfast after that. Sometimes not. Then we spend the afternoon reading the local paper and napping. Upon awakening, he surfs the TV guide; I read. Along the way we head toward supper. Salad and garlic bread; baked salmon and fresh corn on the cob. Nothing gourmet, but certainly representative of what Michigan has to offer in the way of fresh produce this time of year.
The thing about Sundays that I like best is that there is very little interruption. Nobody from my business world calls with a question; by mid-afternoon nobody from Earl’s does either. We hibernate without being bears in the middle of winter. We have our afternoon nap, and nobody is any the wiser. It’s the way it should be for at least one afternoon a week.
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