Today is yesterday, cloudy and chilly, but the weather report is a mix, a sort of a peek a boo game between the sun and the clouds. The high today will be 53°. That’s jacket weather.

When I was a kid, Sunday was a different sort of a day. I had to get dressed early to go to mass. I wore my Sunday church clothes, not to be confused with my school clothes or my play clothes. Most Sundays I walked to church, a short walk, as it was right beside my school. I preferred the downstairs for mass, no sermon there. I was never fond of sermons, most were dull. A bit of humor would have helped, but I guess sin and eternal flames are never funny. I always sat in the back, the best spot for a quick getaway.

My father always bought the Sunday paper. He read the Boston American. I remember he sat in the chair by the picture window to read it. He never read the funnies so I’d grab them. I’d lie on the floor to read. I remember the print would sometimes smear, and ink would get on my fingertips. The television was usually on showing the Sunday Cinema. The only movie I remember was Lassie Come Home, an old black and white film.

Sunday dinner was the special meal of the week. On the menu were always mashed potatoes and a couple of vegetables, canned vegetables. The roast varied. Sometimes it was a whole chicken, other times roast beef. We’d sit at the table. My mother, though, would often stand and eat at the counter.

Some Sundays we went to East Boston to visit my grandparents, my mother’s parents. My mother had seven siblings. She was the third born. My mother’s sisters were usually there on Sundays with their kids, the cousins. The women, including my grandmother, sat in the kitchen. The men sat upstairs watching football. On the stove was always spaghetti, enough to feed everybody. I loved that the cheese was in a chunk and had to be grated over the spaghetti.

It was dark when my father drove us home. I would sometimes fall asleep leaning against the backseat door. I do remember a white house with an oxen yoke, minus the oxen of course, over the garage. That was the sign we were almost home.

My leg is the best it has been. I believe my sloth days are the reasons. Now I need the energy to clean or blinders to ignore the dirt.

This entry was posted on October 26, 2025 at 1:07 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.