Sundays in Anderson: I wake up in time to be out the door by 7:45am. Grandpa is very adamant about this rule, and every Sunday, without fail, he gripes about the women folk taking their time and making us late. I truly believe the griping is less out of annoyance and more out of sheer ritual. Half an hour later we arrive at church. We are fifteen minutes early. Oh look at that, grandpa always exclaims, pretending to sound surprised, Were early. Grandma smiles and winks clandestinity at me as Grandpa continues on saying, Just means we can do more Hail Marys. We shuffle through the door into a nearly empty sanctuary where a man stands at the front pulpit chanting the words of the rosary. The Catholic service is short and sweet. While the pews are homogeneously of the fair-skinned nature, an African American priest stands tall, facing his parish and delivers an homily that leaves everyone feeling optimistic about the week ahead. The days of fire and brimstone are far behind us - this is probably due to retention issues within the Catholic Church. Towards the end of the service, I step aside as everyone else makes their way to the front for the communion. Being the non-denominational believer that I am, I am not welcome to drink the wine. Instead I wait alone in my seat, feeling like an outcasts sinner. After the service, we stop at Walgreens to pick up the paper. There is a drug store facing another drug store on every corner in town. Grandpa goes on his usual rant about the price of newspaper doubling. We read the funnies over the breakfast at Dennys where everyone knows to bring my grandfathers milk with his breakfast, never before. A mall stroll works off breakfast. We can be seen lapping before the stores open. A random speed walker or mall jogger will pass us by every so often, nodding in acknowledgment on his way. We arrive back home and Grandpa turns on his political news while Grandma opens a book. It doesnt take long before they are both out cold. Their snores drown out the television. While they nap, I grab my pole and my carton of worms, which I keep hidden in the back of Grandmas fridge, and set off for the dock. I fish for a couple of hours, rarely feeling so much as a nibble at the submerged end of my line, but thoroughly enjoying my afternoon nonetheless. My grandpa will eventually mosey his way down to the dock and show me how its done and my grandma will sit with me and watch. She always brings an extra sweater along to ensure I dont catch a cold. The sun sets slowly, lighting the lake on fire. While grandpa casts out what was formerly my fishing line, my grandmother reaches into her pocket and withdraws butterscotch candies. Norman Rockwell, himself, could not have painted a truer picture of American summer time.
Posted on: Sun, 10 Aug 2014 21:34:48 +0000
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