I remember Sunday morning
I would meet him at the park
We'd walk together hand in hand
Till it was almost dark
Now I wake up Sunday morning
Walk along the lane to find
Nobody waiting for me
Sunday's just another day
- written by Terry Cashman, Gene Pistilli
Sunday Will Never Be the Same by Spanky and Our Gang was one of those coming of age songs from my youth. I was no longer in school and working in my first radio job at WCOS in Columbia SC. As it sat in the control room and listened to the lyrics I bypassed all that stuff about a lost love and thought to myself that indeed, for me, Sundays have changed and they will never be the same.
Up until then, grade school, high school and college Sundays were the days dedicated to getting caught up on my studies for the next week of classes. I remember spreading out on the living room floor surrounded by books diving into Math, English, Geography and History. My stomach would be growling because the aroma of Sunday Dinner cooking on the stove filled the house. I had already done my part of setting the dining room table, and now I was ready for lunch. There was a certain urgency to complete my studies before lunch was served because I knew that I would be too sleepy to study after the dishes were washed and set in the rack to dry. Lordy I love electric dishwashers!
Cube steak and pot roasts were my favorite because I loved the thin beef gravy mom would make and serve over rice. This gravy was as thin as red eye gravy but made from beef instead of ham. I have never seen this kind of gravy anywhere but at Mom’s table and I sure do miss it. Green beans, corn on or off the cob, squash cooked with onions, southern style were others of my favorite veggies. However, I hate to admit it, but butterbeans or lima beans were on my list of veggies to avoid. I know, how can I call myself a southerner if I don’t like butterbeans? But I don’t.
As the study load increased in high school, time spent with the books increased after lunch. But, since it was after lunch and the dining room table was available, I would move my workspace to my place at the table. Good thing too, because if I were still on the living room carpet, I’d be sound asleep. By then Math had morphed into Algebra, Geometry and Trigonometry and using a compass and protractor would not have worked very well on the carpet. Forty years later, when we were cleaning out Mom’s home after her passing, I could still see little indentations in the surface of our dining room table. With a slight twinge, I thought that would never be the same either.
Sunday afternoons in college were spent studying at the desk built into the wall of my dorm room at the head of my bed. I must admit that I should have spent more time working there than I did. I’m sure there would have been less angst when exam times came around. But I was out in the world now and there were lots of other things to do on a crisp, clear Sunday afternoon.
So, on that day in ’67 I sat in the control room listening.
Sunday will never be the same
(Sunday will never be the same)
I lost my baby's heart
I must be back again
No more school, no more homework. Yes indeed, Sundays will never be the same! Oh MY!