When I was growing up, Sundays were always a different day of the week from any other. Monday through Friday was for work, school, house cleaning, running errands and whatever else needed to be done in one’s life. Friday nights were the delicious time before the weekend. Perhaps you had plans for that night, but if not you could stay up watching TV or reading with the knowledge that you could sleep in the next day. Saturdays were a day that was free to make plans that suited the individual, rather than the world. With one exception. One had better get in whatever food one needed to get through until Monday, and one had better get whatever cash one needed as the banks closed at noon. And cash was important, as in my youth I did not know anyone with a credit card.
Sunday dawned with quiet outside as deep as if one were in the countryside. If you ran out of milk ----too bad. If you had no cash for gas ---- you stayed home. All retail stores were closed and it was hard to find a nice restaurant whose doors were open. People were at home. Everyone I knew had the big meal of the day at noon, and it usually involved a large, hot, home-cooked meal which a female family member slaved over with great effort.
Now Sundays are indistinguishable from any other day of the week. One might go to church, but after that one could shop, watch sporting events on TV, check out a book at the library, run by the grocery store, or attend youth sporting events.
What I miss is the aimlessness of Sunday. After the church service and the mid-day meal, the afternoon stretched out with absolutely nothing to do. It was the day where I heard most frequently from the adults in my life, ‘entertain yourself.’ But once launched by their relaxed indifference, I fiddled about in my room with my dolls, or lay on my bed and read a book or went outside and roller skated around the neighborhood returning home to make elaborate treasure maps of the roads I had skated on. I remember always being surprised when it was time for the Sunday night waffles, since my absorption in my activities had taken me on a winding, aimless path through the quiet afternoon.
The Greek philosopher Heraclitus had it right in the sixth century BC when he said, “Time is a game played beautifully by children.” At least it used to be. I look around me now at the tightly structured youth weekends organized by the adults in their lives. While there are many good things about all the activities open to young people, I do wonder if they will ever have the joy of occasionally just being aimless.
