The Sundays of Childhood

Life is so busy. From one day to the next, you never know what may pop up to do. As children, this is especially true because we go and do what our parents do—or where they tell us to go. I never thought much about planning when I was a child. Perhaps that is why I am an obsessive planner now!

Anyway, there was always one day that went a certain way. There were no plans that had to be made on this day. It was just what we did.

That was Sunday.

Sunday morning was church.

I was blessed to have grown up in one of the most beautiful places on Earth, beside a lake with water so clear and pure you could almost drink it. On the shores of that lake is a little white church. A beautiful country church like you might see in a Norman Rockwell painting. Galilee Mission, white as snow, sits on the greenest grass and, most days, beneath the bluest Carolina sky.

This was where my Sunday started.

I can still hear the wooden front door open and rub across the wood floor in the spot where the building has settled and the door tends to catch. I can still smell the wood. Hear my shoes on the old wood floor.

Granddaddy (Mama’s daddy) was there, his hat sitting on the very back pew where he would retrieve it when church was over.

An old gas stove sat at the back of the church to keep us warm in winter. There is a little door with sooty windows you could peep through and see the flames inside. 

People are talking and greeting one another.

On the pews were fans for the hot summer days. They were square, stiff cardboard pieces with scalloped edges and scenes from the Bible printed on them. My favorite was the one of Jesus and the lambs. They were stapled to what looked like paint-stirring sticks, and I believe they had information for a funeral home on them.

I loved the singing.

My favorite song was "Onward Christian Soldiers." Other regulars were "The Old Rugged Cross" and "What a Friend We Have in Jesus."

Miss Ivy, one of the older ladies, would rock back and forth while she sang. Just slightly, going up on her toes a little each time she rocked forward.

My Granddaddy's voice, always from one of the back rows near the heater, could be heard, and to this day I can hear him singing in that church.

One day I will have to do a whole bit just about the church. As I sit here now, going back, there are so many memories I want to preserve.

The cicadas joined in the singing.

Somehow they always made summer feel hotter.

After church, we went home to change clothes. This was done fairly quickly because it was lunchtime and folks were getting hungry.

Sunday dinner was always at Mur (don't ask, I don't remember) and Granddaddy's house. These are Daddy's parents. They lived up the Ambrose—pronounced, for the purposes of the road, as "Amburse"—Road.

A two-story cream-colored house situated amongst mimosa trees and big old gum trees.

Most of the time when we arrived, there were already a few vehicles in the drive. Uncle Wayne and Paulette with Terry. Aunt Pet and Uncle D with some of their folks.

Going up the back steps into the utility room, you would smell the food the moment you opened the door. Voices and laughter floated out along with the smells.

From the utility room, there was a step up into the kitchen. The utility room door was mostly closed because there was no heat or air out there. The doorknob was perpetually loose, just slightly. Enough to give the old knob a distinctive noise when it was turned and the door squeaked open.

I cannot describe the sound of the door. It is in my mind only as Mur's utility room door.

If you'd ever heard it, you would remember.

From the utility room, you were in the kitchen. The heart and nerve center of every grandmother's house.

There were always women bustling around, stirring, mixing, setting the table. They would stop long enough to hug the newcomers. We are a big hugging family. To this day, I will hug a stranger if it seems fit. Hugged a man at the emergency vet one night while he was waiting for his dog to have surgery.

But I digress.....

Mur would be in her apron, and she smelled like Sunday.

What does Sunday smell like to me?

Scented powder, Avon lotion and hairspray.

Lord, the hairspray!

That woman's hair would not move from the time Cleo fixed it for her on Thursday or Friday until just before time for her to go and have it set the next week.

Usually, she had some sort of food item or utensil in her hands and would lean her head down to me and say, "Give Murs a kiss."

And I would kiss the soft cheek that smelled like Sunday.

This is the point where my family would drift apart. Mama would be quickly assigned a chore in the humming kitchen while Daddy went "on through the house" in search of the other men.

Sometimes they were not very far, in the den just past the kitchen. Especially if it was winter. The best heater was in the den. In the summer, you would find them on the front porch. A nice screened-in job.

I would float between the two groups looking for a cousin to play with.

Eventually, the men were called to eat. They ambled through the house to sit at the kitchen table. The men would take up the seats at the table and, after the blessing was said—the only time the house was quiet—they would start eating while the women danced around the table like a Maypole, reaching over to fill plates of food to be handed off to their children for them to "get somewhere and eat."

The ladies did not eat at the same time as the men. Not necessarily because of some outdated "serve the man first" plan—although, if I'm honest, that played a part too. The table wasn't big enough for everyone to sit at once, so it just made sense for it to go in shifts.

Men and children first.

Mur would busy around, refilling bowls with collards and beans. Aunt Peg might be on tea duty and keep the glasses filled.

When the menfolk finished eating, they would retire somewhere to get comfortable. Either back to the porch or out under the big old trees in chairs to whittle and recap hunting and fishing stories.

The women would sit at the newly vacated table and pick at the food that was left. In all honesty, they probably were not all that hungry from having "sampled" while they were cooking.

Cleanup began, and I usually disappeared so as not to be spotted and set to drying dishes or something.

Come on, I'm being honest.

Of course, at that age I wouldn't have been expected to help with the dishes.

I wanted to play on the stairs.

The stairs had a door at the bottom which was always closed. The second floor was hardly ever used and therefore was not heated and cooled unless someone was visiting.

But I loved to play with a Slinky on the stairs or, for some reason, just liked to sit on the top step and slide down on my bottom.

This, however, I do not recommend as an adult.

I accidentally did that sort of "land on my butt and bounce down the steps" at my house a few years ago and broke my tailbone.

It still hurts!

Another favorite pastime was trying to catch one of the feral kittens that seemed to always be around Mur's house. I seldom caught one, and most of the time when I did, it required a trip to the bathroom to put on the stinging hell in a little brown bottle—Merthiolate.

Burned like the devil when dropped on the scratches.

But Mama would blow on them and send me on my way with a warning about playing with cats and getting worms!

Lazy Sunday afternoons would be spent talking, laughing and visiting. Later in the afternoon, everyone would sort of drift back to the kitchen for a bit of leftovers and more dessert.

For me, it meant time for one of my favorite shows, The Wonderful World of Disney. Of course we had to get through Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom first.

Unless there was a boxing match.

Boxing trumped even Marlin Perkins!

Back then, we only had three television stations. Four, if the wind was right and you could pick up ABC out of Virginia!

Fortunately, The Wonderful World of Disney came on one of the reliable channels.

The highlight of my day reached, I would watch the intro with Tinker Bell spreading her dust on Cinderella's castle, so excited for the cartoon adventure about to take place.

And that's when I would hear the inevitable:

"Come on, Missie, time to go home."

Seriously, I've waited all day for this and NOW we have to go??!!!

Sometimes the pleas to watch just a few minutes worked, but just as often they did not.

Back home and time for bed.

A whole week ahead. Who knew what Monday or Tuesday or Thursday might bring, but I knew for certain the next Sunday's agenda.

Memories that exist nowhere but in my mind, but so strong I can close my eyes and see and hear and smell it all as if it were yesterday.

Family and traditions.

What a wonderful way to grow up.