Sunday blues

We didn’t drink on Sundays in those days. We practised nothing but boredom. You ate the biggest dinner anything could dream up, and it was always the same. Stewed chicken and dumplings and mashed potatoes. There seemed to be some sort of law that Sunday was for taking some stringy old hen and parboiling her until she was fit to stew, and always there had to be dumplings.’

‘I like chicken and dumplings,’ Maybelle said… ‘As a matter of fact, we’re having it today.’

‘Oh, God,’ Craig said. ‘I don’t really mind chicken and dumplings. It’s just that they mean Sunday, like turkey means Christmas and Thanksgiving. I’d rather have turkey on Sunday and chicken on Thanksgiving, and may be a steak on Christmas. If you get what I mean. It’s the thing I hate the most about this neck of woods. Everybody’s always doing the same thing. Always with the same people. At the same time and in the same place.’ …

‘…that’s why I hate Sundays – hated them even when I was a kid. You weren’t allowed to play baseball on Sunday. You couldn’t fish on Sunday. You couldn’t hunt on Sunday.’”

Robert Ruark: Poor no more, 1959

About Paul Jacko

Jacko was born in Czechoslovakia not long before the communist putsch in February 1948. He studied industrial chemistry there and left in 1969 for Australia, where he became a lawyer and established his own practice. He has now retired and beside hunting, fishing, camping, prospecting and playing golf he amuses himself by writing.
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One Response to Sunday blues

  1. Griffey says:

    So even Sundays are not what they used to be. Bloody carbon tax!

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