“How Sunday into Monday melts!”
Fall has been lovely, and today is another delight. It is bright, sunny and in the high 40’s. There is a breeze strong enough to ruffle the brown, dead leaves left on the oak trees and the yellow leaves of the cedar tree in the back. My yard is covered in layers of leaves. I can hear them being crunched underfoot, under paws, when the dogs roam through the yard. Henry takes his time roaming. Nala runs with wild abandonment around the perimeter of the yard. Henry bangs at the door to come inside, and I groan getting up to let him in time after time. Nala comes through the dog door panting with her tongue hanging and spit on her face from running with her mouth open. She is not a pretty sight.
When I was a kid, Sundays were filled with rituals. I had to go to church, to mass. Mostly I walked though once in a while I went with my father when he ushered the early mass. In the wintertime the 8 o’clock mass was never crowded. The dark and chilly Sunday mornings were better spent sleeping in, going to mass later. The 10 o’clock was a big draw. My father always smiled at me when he’d collect the money in my pew. When I threw my dime in, I always checked out the basket. It was filled mostly with ones and quarters.
Sunday dinner varied little from week to week, season to season. We usually ate around 2. We always had a roast. My favorite was roast beef. It had baked with cut onions on the top. They were the tastiest onions ever. Mashed potatoes were always served. I remember my mother draining the potatoes, adding butter and milk and then hand mashing them. Corn was the common vegetable. I liked niblet corn. I always thought creamed corn was a bit too messy when it spread across the plate into the potatoes or meat. We often had peas, my favorite, or green beans. My father liked the canned asparagus. He never had to share. We always ate Sunday dinner together.
My father loved to watch Sunday football. He was a Giants fan back then, pre-Patriots. Mostly he sat by himself in the living room. We knew how his Giants were faring as he was a loud fan, moaning, screaming and clapping. Sitting alone did not detract at all from his enjoyment. We usually sat in the kitchen playing games. He’d come into the kitchen for a snack and share the score with us. We pretended to care.
Some Sundays we visited East Boston and my grandparents. The house was always crowded, filled with the aunts and uncles and my cousins, a cast of thousands. I usually found a quiet spot. There was always spaghetti in a giant pan sitting on the stove waiting for us to serve ourselves. The block of cheese was on the table next to the grater. I always thought the cheese looked like a snow storm when it was falling from the grater to the plate. I used a lot of cheese. It was dark when we’d leave for home. I often fell asleep during the ride, my head against the door.
Sunday ended the same way every week. My mother took great delight in reminding us we had school on Monday so she sent us off to bed earlier than usual. Sundays ended without much fanfare.
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