Over the weekend, I was leisurely reading blog posts when I stumbled upon a slice titled The Quiet of a Sunday Morning on ‘Vanessa’s Voice‘s blog. It was a calming read. First it made me think of how I was spending my Sunday morning, the one I was living right then and there. Then, later in the day, her post was lingering in my mind and I found myself transported back to growing up. I came home and wrote.
Sunday Mornings meant 10:30 mass at Our Lady of Mount Carmel where I would admire, sometimes rate, the shoes of the parishoners as they headed up to communion.
Sunday Mornings meant a stop at Dunkin’ Donuts for a dozen donuts. All six of us jammed in the station wagon listening to my Dad hum whatever the final hymn was as we headed for donuts.
Sunday Mornings meant being the one to carry the donuts in, sure to get the a chocolate frosted. I’ve always needed my chocolate.
Sunday Mornings meant reading the comics. Every. Last. One.
Sunday Mornings meant albums on the stereo, Barry Manilow, Johnny Cash, Tony Orlando and Dawn
“you came and you left without taking, but I sent you away or Mandy”
“I fell into a burning ring of fire. I fell down down down into the deepest fire.”
“Tie a yellow ribbon round the ole oak tree, it’s been three long years, do you still want me.”
Sunday Mornings meant time to turn page after page of the Sears Catalogue dreaming and wishing.
Sunday Mornings meant the smell of pot roast and Lipton Onion Soup mix in the crock pot.
Sunday Mornings turned into Sunday Afternoons that were marked with a big meal at lunch.
Sunday Mornings meant togetherness and family.
Thank you, Vanessa, at for the Vanessa’s Voice inspiration.