On Sundays, (his only day off) Daddy would fix breakfast, which often included cinnamon rolls or butter kuchen from the bakery across the street from our house. Daddy would clean up the dishes while "his girls" got ready for church. He never failed to make an admiring comment as we appeared in our "Sunday clothes." Church was not too far from our house, but we would leave very early because our route was never direct.
First, I would knock on our next door neighbor's door to let her know we were ready to leave. Mrs. O'Brien was an elderly widow lady who attended the Lutheran church that we passed on our way to church. Mother would slide over to the middle of the front seat, and Mrs. O'Brien would squeeze in next to her. Our next stop was several blocks away to pick up a young teen who attended our church on her own. Before long, that stop included her step-brother and sister, which had us up to five in the backseat. The next stop was to pick up a single working girl who lived in an upstairs apartment over a large house on our street. At that stop, I would crawl out of the backseat and move up front to sit on Mother's lap ("Don't wrinkle my dress," she'd say.) to make room for her. The next stop was for Peggy, a teen-aged girl with a single parent. Eventually, her two younger brothers would be added. There would be additional lap-sitting in the back (no seatbelts in those days) until we dropped off Mrs. O'Brien.
After church, we would add one more stop to our trip home. Since Daddy was the church treasurer, we would remove the offering envelopes from the offering plates and Daddy would place them in the zippered bag. Next, we would drive downtown where he would deposit the bag in the night deposit box at the bank. Starving, we would arrive home to the smell of a rump roast Mother had placed in the oven that morning. Daddy would sit down with the Sunday paper, and I would read the Sunday comics (Dagwood and Blondie, Dennis the Menace, and The Family Circus), while Mother put the finishing touches on lunch. Afterwards, we'd take the required Sunday afternoon nap. Life was good. This next poem is an attempt to capture the serenity of life in those days.
Summer Song
When I was young
I whiled away
Warm, summer afternoons
In a backyard
Whose boundary was marked
By a silver wire fence
With scalloped edges
And bordered by
Beds of roses
Carefully manicured
On a Saturday afternoon
And gently watered in the evening
As the sun went down
And fireflies emerged.
Later, with yard tools returned
To their proper places
Daddy would appear
Suggesting a walk
To the corner store
For a carton of cokes,
An uncommon treat
Not just the cokes
But the walk
Hand in hand
In the dark
Unafraid
By Daddy's side
His gentle words of caution
To avoid root-raised portions of sidewalk
Provided assurance
That he cared.
Back home, bathed
And dressed for dreams
I pushed open the screen door
And joined Momma and Daddy
On the porch
To sip my soda
And drink the pleasure
Of my place on Daddy's knee
Until, with droopy lids
And whispered goodnights
I padded off
In slippered feet
To fall asleep
On sun-dried sheets
Beneath an open window
Where welcome breezes
Brushed my face
And night sounds
lullabied
A little girl
to
sleep.
