Why Is Sunday Longer Than Monday?
Every Sunday. Always the same. No one ever moved. Like they ate glue and got stuck. It was so boring.
At six years, Sunday proved the longest day of the week. Once home from church, the hours passed so-o-o very slowly.
Dad napped on the sun-room divan wearing his Sunday suit pants, white shirt rolled up to his elbows, and his tie draped over the maple lounge chair nearby. The Sears and Roebuck catalog lay on the floor, inches from his fingers. Mom was somewhere in the house doing Mom things.
Oh how many more hours before the end of the day?
The neighborhood kids vanished. They had been at church, dressed up fancy, boys with leather shoes, crooked neckties, buttons showing. Girls in dresses with pretty flowers and petticoats and shiny patent shoes. This fancy clothing was not for running around at the park up the street from our house where I spent nearly every day of the week. Were the kids pining to be out of doors too or did they have company?
Sitting alone on the front porch, watching cars drive by, what would I do?
One Sunday I decided to wash clothes.
I filled my tiny washing machine with water, begged Mom for a little Tide detergent then gathered my doll’s clothing. There I sat, rhythmically cranking the miniature plungers up and down, dislodging the make believe filth from my sedentary doll’s clothes.
The glass faceted wash tub sporting a mini-wringer, squeezed water from the wet laundry. With laundry suitably clean, I filled the washer with fresh water, rinsing the soap from the fabric. One more wringing and I was done. Afterward, I scattered the wet clothes on the porch floor near the sudsy and rinse water puddles.
Well, I made a mess of the porch. But the sun would take care of that for me. Besides, I had something else I wanted to do. I wasn’t sure what that was yet? It had to be something fun to make this gosh-darn-long-Sunday go away.
The dog. Where was the dog?
“Tiny!” I called, leaving my naked doll sun-bathing, patiently waiting for someone to pick her up, perhaps dress her in her nice, clean clothes. I suppose Mom did her Mom thing, cleaning up the front porch while I searched for Tiny. Don’t quite remember that part.
Never knew what happened to the little wringer washer. It disappeared somehow.
Anybody out there remember those long Sundays or perhaps that little Wolverine washing machine? I found a picture of it tonight. It is just as I remembered.
I hope my memories last longer than those gosh-darn-long-Sundays of long ago.
Sleep well my friends.
I think tomorrow is Monday. Yess!
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