Bright Golden Brocade
I recently stumbled across a quotation by Yoshiko Uchida that sent me mentally back across the years. It read: “Sunday is sort of like a piece of bright gold brocade lying in a pile of white muslin weekdays.” As I read that, I marveled at how precious Sunday was when I was a child. First and foremost it was observed in the manner dictated by the Ten Commandments. Living on an Ozark Dairy/Beef cow operation meant little time to “smell the roses.” Especially in the summer when the gardening and hay baling was in full swing. We still milked and cared for the stock on the Sabbath but otherwise it was observed as a day of rest. Time was taken to catch a mess of perch from the creek or to make a freezer full of ice cream. Ingredients for the frozen concoction was dipped from the cream can and eggs retrieved fresh from the old red hen.
Usually we traveled from the Cole Camp Creek valley over to the Big Buffalo valley to see my paternal grandparents on Sunday. In my earliest memories they resided at Boyler’s Mill where Grandpa maintained the grounds for the owners. He kept the large park like setting pristinely mowed and weeded. Their caretakers cottage was small and so in the summer we often ate outside under the large shade trees. The mill pond and the large underground spring created a crystal clear stream through the center of the park. Wooden foot bridges arched over the bubbling water and Grandpa kept gold fish in his lily ponds.
A fabulous springhouse nestled against the gigantic hillside that rose behind the grounds. The water from that spring was dipped with a gourd dipper and its essence was absolutely addictive. I recall gorging myself one Sunday afternoon to the point of having a stomach ache. No man made drink has ever matched it then or now.
As Grandpa aged he was no longer physically able to keep up with the demands of the mill site and my grandparents moved to a four room house in the neighborhood to “retire”. They still had a big yard, lots of flower beds and a big garden but when we came to visit on Sundays, they were creatures of leisure, for they too observed the Sabbath.
Grandma always peeled a big pan of potatoes every Sunday morning and usually baked a big fruit cobbler. She had ample amounts of homemade bread from Friday’s baking and the rest of the dinner was carried in by the family. My Mother would always cook several chickens in the summer time when the young fryers were in their prime. Other times she would prepare a beef roast or a big meatloaf. Sometimes she would go down to the cellar and retrieve a few jars of canned beef just in case extra mouths to feed materialized. All four of my Aunts did the same thing so the table would be loaded with everything imaginable.
You might think my Grandmother would be cranky from that much company but it was just the opposite. She “expected” the weekly Sunday visits and the only one of her five children that was excused from regular attendance was her oldest daughter who lived about forty miles away. In the forties and fifties the roads did not encourage long trips in less than luxuriant vehicles.
When we arrived she came out to greet us in a fresh print dress and apron and if we were later than usual she would exclaim: “Lawsy me, I was about to give up on you getting here. It sure would have been a blue Sunday without company.” I doubt that she ever had a Sunday with no company. Some of her cousins would bring “potluck” and join in to visit and catch up and in the afternoons, many of the Buffalo Creek neighbors would drop by. In the warm summer months the men would take a split bottom chair and retire to the lawn. Out came the musical instruments and my Dad and his brothers made music on the lawn. Ancient tunes passed down for generations by their ancestors that had been carried from North Carolina, to Kentucky and then into the Missouri Ozarks. During music breaks Grandpa told wonderful tales of his childhood with old Pap, Jacob Wallace, his white Indian grandfather and I listened as much as allowed. I was usually admonished to join my cousins or at least set with the womenfolk. I would give the appearance of obeying but usually snuck back into the lilac bush if Grandpa was telling an especially good story that afternoon.
If I did play with my cousins we would amuse ourselves in Big Buffalo Creek that was just under the hill from the house. An afternoon of wading usually required about ten minutes of checking our feet and legs for leeches, especially between the toes. We, or our parents, never became upset over this occurrence, as it was just the price you paid for splashing around in the stream. Sometimes we would play King of the Hill atop the giant sawdust pile in the neighbor’s sawmill but usually my girl cousins were not fond of becoming that soiled and opted out.
This was a time when the Blue Laws were still in effect and no stores were open on Sunday. The law was a puritanical hangover from Colonial times and prohibited commercial activity on Sunday. These closing laws were designed to respect the Christian Sabbath. By the 1960’s these laws were being repealed and with the repeals have come decreased church attendance and family oriented activities. Dad didn’t run to Lowe’s to buy paint and lumber and Mom didn’t spend half her Sunday shopping in Wal-Mart. Needed purchases were made on the other six days of the week.
So when my mind recalls those “day of rest” recollections from so long ago, they do come back to me like bright golden brocade.
