Sundays used to mean freshly pressed dresses with matching purses....white, buckled shoes and Sunday School. We'd come home to a large dinner, all eight of us around the round, oak table, then to Wichita to visit my grandma and grandpa. We'd all line up on their couch and sit quietly...not speaking unless spoken to, until we were given permission to "run and play". We'd creep up attic stairs, sit on front porch steps to watch the traffic on Harry Street or play with toys now considered precious antiques.
We'd drive home along deserted city streets where families frolicked together or worked in their yards. Closed garage doors kept everyone home and quiet evenings were filled with "Walt Disney" and "Bonanza" while having popcorn and Grape Crush.
There were no Quik Trips, no Wal-Marts. Like a twenty-first century Christmas Day, Sundays were closed. We planned around it, not even thinking twice. It was a day for worship, a day for family. It was the seventh day of rest to recharge, reflect, relax.
Unfortunately there are times when I get caught up in the Sunday madness and make a trip into town. But how I long for the days when the sidewalks rolled up on a Saturday night and were kept in quiet seclusion until the dawn of Monday.