Weekends at our house in the 1960’s took on a routine that
included work, play, and family. Back then, our parents managed life on a small
income and herded three boys along the way. We had jobs to complete, church to
attend, and Sunday dinners to enjoy.
On Saturday, we boys were charged with cleaning the house.
Daddy wasn’t a skilled mechanic, carpenter, or plumber, so we boys didn’t learn
how to do those kind of things. However, mother was a stickler for a clean
house, and she made sure that her sons would never live in “pig sties.” Sometimes
we tarried too long before beginning the cleaning, and Mother would show a bit
of anger to urge us toward our tasks.
We divided up rooms in the house. Somehow, I managed to get
the living room and a hallway. It was the biggest room in the house and held
the most pieces of furniture. The first
step was to drag out the old vacuum cleaner. The contraption had a removable
base in which water was poured. The machine was heavy and bulky and had no
wheels to make it easier to handle. The wood floors were cleaned, and furniture
was moved to vacuum in every nook and cranny.
The next job was dusting, something that we all hated.
Mother insisted that every item be moved and dusted. The furniture in the
living room included an old pump organ with ornate carving and shelves.
The rest of Saturday was filled with washing cars, pulling
weeds in the garden, or polishing shoes for Sunday. Jim and I always sneaked in
enough time for playing outside or just goofing off. By evening, we had taken
baths, and the family settled in the living room to watch favorite television
shows that included “Perry Mason” and “Gunsmoke.”
Sunday mornings began with pancakes or waffles for
breakfast. We finished and put on our “good clothes” for Sunday School. If
Daddy weren’t working, we all attended church. Neither parent put up with any
nonsense at church, and failure to behave would lead to swift punishment upon
our arrival back home.
After church, we boys hung up our clothes and put on our old
ones and headed outside. Mother worked to complete the feast that we called
Sunday dinner. Usually, a plate of fried chicken on a pot roast was served with
vegetables, biscuits, gravy, and some kind of homemade pie. Another special
treat was iced tea. On Sunday and holidays, the tea was poured from a Jewel T
pitcher. It was sweet and thirst-quenching. After the meal, the pitcher was
again placed in the dish cabinet in the hallway where it stayed until the next
“dinner.” Weeknight suppers just didn’t warrant the use of this special vessel.
The rest of the day was spent in play. Mother and Daddy
cleaned the kitchen and then sat down in the den. Mother would read the paper
until she nodded off to sleep, and Daddy would take a nap or get ready for his
next shift of work. In the evenings, we made the trip to church where they were
leaders of the MYF group, and then we’d race home, pop a big bowl of popcorn,
and sit down to watch “Bonanza.”
It’s more than fifty years later now. I miss my parents and
my older brother too. I’ve been blessed with my own family, but now the kids
are grown, and Amy and I are on our own. Still, I think about how enjoyable
those weekends were way back then. The memories become even more vivid when I
clean my own house and dust an old statuette of an axe man and a pitcher with a
cracked lid. Those items probably aren’t worth a dollar each, but to me, no
amount of money could ever buy them and the memories they conjure up.
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