Except I don't recall an easy Sunday morning since I turned 14 or thereabouts.
What gives? I was eating supper last night, watching the final gunfight between Good and Evil at the end of For A Few Dollars More, and I was reminiscing to my daughter about my boyhood. Each Sunday, back when I was even younger than her, a local siding company would host a western on one of the three local channels we could pick up. In exchange for paying for the movie they would have all the commercial breaks they could stomach, and I learned about aluminum vs vinyl components as well as how to be cool, distant, and squint a lot. I also learned that my father loved westerns, and I did, too. Those Sunday afternoons seemed to last forever, because there was nothing to do except watch westerns and wile away the long hours to supper.
Now, somehow, things are different. I'm always busy, it seems. Perhaps my father was too, and I just never noticed it. Seems I always have a Saturday's worth of grass to cut, and odds and ends chores to take care of around the house, not to mention upwards of eight loads of laundry to process. When it's too hot to go outside anymore there's still the inside duties to take care of, like cleaning and folding that mountain of clothes.
Sundays are for running.
There's always groceries to buy, and by the time the week has drawn to a close there's always a list of things we need to pick up that the week never gave us opportunity to get. Like the almost-new dryer that we need to pick up at the grandmother-in-law's house, and the bags of mulch I need to recover my grapes, which are doing fairly well considering their leaves are riddled with insect holes. Oh yeah, I need insecticide, too. And prescription drugs from Wal-To-Wal-Hell-Mart, and a tube of Neosporin, which I discovered we're out of yesterday after I cut a two inch long gash in the soft part of my sole on a brickbat.
There's always another stop to make. Always. They seem to pile up like rocks in an avalanche. And this weekend, like every other, there's still work to do. Always there's work to do. There's a garden to prep for the late summer crop. There's a compost bin to be built. Tree branches to be trimmed, flower beds that need weeding desperately, and a fence to plan and a fence to complete. Two ditches that need mowing desperately. Fire ants to dispatch to the Infernal Hells. Betty to be washed. And. Oh yes, and. And that too.
So many projects, so little time.