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Small Town Soup by Karrie McAllister The shortness of Sundays Mondays are usually pretty long for me. We’re usually swamped with the big mess of the weekend and the luring stress of what lies ahead for the rest of the week. Tuesdays are rather ho-hum. Wednesdays are always a struggle because we’re trying so hard to get over the hump of the week. Thursdays are spent attempting to clean up the mess we’ve been putting off for the past three days, before the weekend comes again. Fridays are rather fun, and Saturdays drag on because usually means it’s time to do some work around the house, in the house, or trying to think of reasons to get out of the house so we don’t need to do any work. But Sundays are faster than a mom running after a child holding scissors in one hand and a lock of his sister’s hair in the other. They are rare, they are precious, they are fleeting. Sundays are the one day each week that my family spends real quality time just being a family, and I just can’t get enough of it. There is no laundry to be done, and no lawn to mow, just a thick newspaper and a never ending pot of coffee (or bottomless sippy cups of chocolate milk, whichever is preferred.) But for me, it’s always been this way. The Sundays of my youth were spent at a cottage on a lake, far, far away from anything but a bait shop. With no church around, we spent our Sundays finding faith in each other and the miles of nature that surrounded us. We took hikes and boat rides, and on special Sundays, my Dad cooked breakfast on an old griddle and charcoal grill that we somehow managed to balance on a rock in the middle of nowhere. If we were lucky there’d be wild onions that he and I picked mixed up in our scrambled eggs. One year we spent Easter at the cottage. In good Polish tradition, we had our basket packed with sausage, cheese, and eggs. But without the aid of a Catholic church, the food was not blessed by the sprinkling of holy water. Thankfully for us, it rained, and my parents and I held our basket out from the safety of our covered porch and let the spring shower bless our food. No matter the weather, with the sinking of the afternoon sun came the inevitable-- packing the car and putting away those Sunday memories for the next weekend. We dreaded the long ride back home, complete with the ABC game and I Spy, to where real life and the work week were waiting for us. When I was older, we didn’t travel to that cottage so often, but that didn’t change the quality of our togetherness. It’s strange how some memories stand out in your mind, and for no real reason, there is one particular Sunday morning that I’ll never forget. Our house was set far back from the road, and because the weather was rather sunny that morning, I decided to walk the long driveway, conveniently past the blackberry bushes, all the way out to the street to get the newspaper. Walking back up to the house and still popping berries in my mouth, I heard the sounds of my Grandfather playing polkas on the piano. I knew for certain my Mom and Grandma were dancing around the kitchen and that I’d join in as soon as I put down the paper. And that’s what happened. Of course, in our little part of the world, it’s nearly impossible to hear polka music and not see at least two women dancing… When Grandpa’s fingers were tired, the three women in the house set to making a big breakfast for everyone, but not before putting on Patsy Cline’s Greatest Hits. That album would definitely be included in the soundtrack of my life, not only because I spent countless childhood hours performing those songs, but also because they bring back so many memories. “I fall to pieeeeeces…” we sang as we fried bacon and cracked eggs. For me, those random memories are the most precious, and the ones I strive so hard to give my children. Last Sunday at our home was one of those memory making days. Sunny skies, newspapers, and bacon, it started out perfect. Lounging together in our pajamas, we picked through the comics to find something my five and three year old would understand. There wasn’t much, but that didn’t stop them from those fake chuckles that eventually turn into full belly laughs. And in good traditional form, I even plucked out a few Patsy Cline songs on the piano. Eventually we got dressed, played outside, visited with neighbors, ate popsicles and just really enjoyed our time together as a family. That doesn’t happen often enough anymore, even on Sundays. We stayed out all day, and before I knew it, the sun was heading for it’s final decent for the day. Not feeling like preparing any big meal, we cooked hotdogs and marshmallows on the campfire for dinner. And when there were more marshmallows on my kids’ faces than in their tummies and the fire was starting to die down, I looked at those sticky faces and hoped they would remember the fun day we had, even if it did fly by. But for all the fun, I was kind of sad that the day was over; I wished my Sunday would never end. I wished it would last forever—or at least a month of Sundays.
Karrie McAllister, Webmaster and Regular Columnist, has dabbled in everything from coal mining to culinary classes. She and her family live in Northeast Ohio where conversations in the grocery store and pierogis are as common as Amish buggies. Her local column, Small Town Soup, appears in local newspapers and her writing has appeared on numerous web sites. She is slowly discovering the benefits of being a stay at home mom, including mid-afternoon naps, staying in pajamas until noon, as many leftover PBJ sandwich crusts as she wants, and being constantly entertained by her two nutty children. Read more of Karrie at her website, www.KarrieMcAllister.com.
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