Another Sunday night. My least favorite night of the week. It’s been that way for a long time. I’ve lived through something like 3,163 Sundays. Sunday mornings and afternoons are wonderful. So, what is it about Sunday nights that causes me such angst?
I’m not sure when I started disliking Sunday evenings, but I know it happened some time since I’ve left childhood and early adolescence. It’s pretty silly because once my Monday morning routine starts, I’m fine. Maybe it’s because I am a procrastinator by nature. Evidence of this characteristic is never more observable than beginning at about 5 p.m. on Sunday evenings, no matter the season — winter, spring, summer, fall. It’s been that way for years. You would think that after something like forty years, I would have learned how to cope, or at least be more accepting about preparing for the week. I guess not. Look at me now. Instead of finishing my laundry for the week, I’m writing my blog! It’s way more fun. No doubt, I’ll be up late finishing the laundry. The cycle will continue.
Flash back to my childhood. My dad owned and operated a small “mom and pop” grocery store in the city. The store was open seven days a week. There were no employees, just my dad, my mom, and us kids. For some years my dad would close the store for a few hours on Sunday afternoon so that we might enjoy some family time together at home. Other years Sunday store hours were 8 a.m. until 2 p.m.
That’s the schedule I liked. Sunday dinner was usually at 2 p.m. and, being Italian, it was always macaroni and sauce, with meat and a salad. I’ll write more about our Sunday afternoon family fun in another blog. Tonight it’s about Sunday evenings at our 1100 square foot ranch house on Harmony Lane.
Since our big dinner was in the afternoon, Sunday evenings meant a small supper. My favorite was Mom’s home-made rice pudding. She made it on the stove top and served it warm in deep bowls.
Before supper, my sister and I took our baths and washed our hair. In those days daily bathing wasn’t the norm, at least for us kids. I don’t remember my brother’s routine. He is just over three years older than I, but when we were kids, he seemed so much older. Plus, back then we were arch enemies, like so many other brothers and sisters. I avoided him like the plague. It’s all good now (grin) .
Mom let us eat Sunday supper in front of the TV. Unlike the easy-breezy culture of today, eating in front of the television set was verboten in those days. With a week’s worth of anticipation building in us, we would find our spots on the living room floor, trays in our laps and wait for “Disneyland” to start. The magic of Disney captivated us. At some point, the show’s named changed to “The Wonderful World of Disney,” but the magic was always the same.
The climax of a Sunday night was watching “The Ed Sullivan Show.” I was very little but I remember seeing Elvis singing “You Ain’t Nothing But A Hound Dog” on the show. And who could forget that adorable Italian mouse, “Topo Gigio?” I will never forget watching the fab four make their American television début on Ed’s show that February night in 1964. I was in eighth grade and I fell in love instantly. Like the millions of other baby boomer girls, I was thrilled when they appeared again on Ed’s show the following Sunday.
I know my aversion to Sunday nights is not unique. I’ve swapped Sunday night “ugly” stories with others over these many years.
Suddenly, I hear a voice inside my head that sounds like Walter Brennan. I have no idea why he popped into my head, but I know it has something to do with my childhood and my family. He’s saying something like, “Well, ya know Rosie, that’s life, and ya got a gall-darned good one at that, so quit your complainin’ and get ready for Monday.”
Thanks Mr. Disney and Mr. Sullivan for the memories. And thanks, Mr. Brennan for the wisdom!