The forecast was for light rain. I’m still waiting, but it is getting darker so maybe I just need to be more patient. The air is thick. It is in the mid-70’s. Everything is Sunday quiet.

When I was a kid, Sunday didn’t have much to redeem it. It was my least favorite day of the week. No matter the weather, I usually had to walk to church. I suffered through mass. The only good thing every Sunday was dinner. It always seemed special. My favorite was roast beef. My mother made the best gravy. I’d make a pile of my mashed potatoes and poured gravy on the top of the pile. As the gravy dripped down, the potato pile always looked like a volcano erupting. When I saw Close Encounters of the Third Kind, I watched Roy Neary sculpt Devil’s Tower with his mashed potatoes. It was more sophisticated than my volcano, but it still made us kin of a sort.

I flew to Philadelphia on a Sunday for what Peace Corps calls staging, the time just before you leave for in country. I checked in, received a packet of information including a time table for the next four days, was given a stipend of money and a hotel room key. I was both nervous and excited. I’ve never forgotten that Sunday. I can close my eyes and see the line in front of and behind me. I remember checking in at the table, at the end of the line. I remember dragging my heavy bags across the small hotel lobby to the elevator. I remember finding my room. On that Sunday, common events became uncommon. My least favorite day of the week bumped every other day of the week to become my favorite.

This entry was posted on July 20, 2025 at 1:55 pm and is filed under Musings. You can subscribe via RSS 2.0 feed to this post's comments. Both comments and pings are currently closed.