Sundays

During the 50's Sundays' had their own identity. It was a day of rest, most stores were closed, and many went to church. In our home there was quite a ritual. First there were eight siblings to dress. The older ones picked out their best clothes, and hats were part of the custom in the Catholic Church. The idea was to keep your head covered. Before we even left for church there were baby shoes to polish and that was my task. Cleaning up those shoes with a white roller ball that hid a multitude of scuffs. I also assisted in wiping down faces much to the chagrin of the boys. However I was a general want a be.The infants were carried by mom, and older siblings. We piled into the old woody station wagon, squished together like a can of sardines, a conflagration of arms and legs. I had a beautiful derby hat that I wore and felt absolutely regal in it. I sang in the choir and I thought it might help me be "discovered".
Once we arrived at church it was truly a dramatic entrance. Always father first followed with a wife with babe in arms and then single file the little chick-lets in succession. There was pride on mom's face. This was her brood.
It was hard to sit still. The mass was in Latin, and the garb and color of the priests robes were more captivating than the Latin phrases. We would elbow each other and fig-it, but one stern look from day settled us down.  
After church we usually went to a local deli. If I went in with them I could smell the dill pickles in a big barrel, and freshly cut cold-cuts.  The store was so small and packed so tight with wares that the clerk would have this tall stainless prongs which he would reach up to the shelves to retrieve whatever. The real purpose of the visit though was to bring home the treats; usually apple turnovers, They were miles above the Table Talk Apple Pie dad would buy during the week. Now we headed home, with visions of sweets dancing in our stomach.
At that point it was mom in the kitchen cooking a pot roast. Our stomachs were churning and the smells emanating from that pot were simply enticing. One day I lifted the cover so I could take a great big smell and the steam burnt the edge of my nose. I had pink freckles for a week. A lot of things went into that pot, carrots, parsnips, potatoes, onion, garlic, a potpourri of flavors and smells. How we enjoyed those Sunday dinners.
I was the one with a sweet tooth. I eyed those apple turnovers with unabashed enthusiasm. I was never too full for an apple turnover.

There was the inevitable clean up after a meal and I tried to rationalize that Sunday was a day of rest. So dad told me to rest while I washed the dishes. He had such good answers to my protests.

The rest of the day was spent in the usual mixture of play, sibling quarrels, and mischief of various degrees. The truth is Sunday had an identity of its' own and I will never forget it.