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Sunday mornings, 1960 493 words [360b]

Sunday mornings, 1960

Today seemed like any other Sunday.

We always looked forward to Sunday mornings.

My sister loved maple syrup. I loved butter. Or so we called them! Syrup was likely Karo corn syrup and butter was soft yellow plastic known as margarine.

I loved my pancakes soaked in it, oil oozing out onto melmac plates.

We were into plastic.

Nothing fresh ever passed our lips! Except for wild strawberries, served on home-made biscuits.

But we didn't care.

Dad worked overtime so Sunday was the day we saw him.

Mornings began with my father sitting in the green overstuffed chair as light peeked through venetian blinds. He read the Courier-Express, a big fat morning newspaper, as he smoked his Raleigh tobacco in a corn-cob pipe.

He seldom cooked. He knew how, knew how to sew and fix anything too. But he worked long hours. Sunday, if we were lucky, he made pancakes.

Mom cooked too, mostly out of a can but that was how it was in a factory town where folks lived on tight budgets. Sunday morning was her 'day off'.

In those days women struggled with griddles and girdles. My father only worried about the griddle, although he did help my mother if she asked. Girdles were trickier than griddles.

Dad made plate size pancakes, although there were small ones once the batter ran out or if he was in the mood.

Today seemed like any other Sunday.

The sun came out! A rare but welcome sight streaming in. Warm inside with radiant heat. Cold outside. It always was in March. And it was quiet. Too early to mow a lawn, especially those spots where shadows protected snow.

But too quiet.

I look around and see rays caressing plants in the kitchen window, illuminating celery painted walls. Shouldn't they be chartreuse? And shouldn't these rays be dancing across brown asphalt tile floors in the living-room instead?

I'm caught in the loss of place and time when past and present meet at the crossroads of a memory shaped into a dream. I dream today like I dreamt back then.

My father's been gone 22 years, like smoke from his favorite pipe. And my mother, God willing, and the creek don't rise, will make it a century next year. 1922... so many twos in my life in the year before my little sister was born making us an uneven number.

But today touches a time when pancakes were hot off the griddle and four of us sat down in our usual spots at the small kitchen table. Me in the corner leaning against grey ceramic tiles by the radio and black telephone, safe where my left-handedness wouldn't knock anything over. My mother, sister, father ... in that order. It was always that order.

I should've made pancakes this morning and soaked them in butter. I can afford butter, ceramic cups and ceramic plates. But no one sits at the small green kitchen table covered with plants. Not even me.

© 2021 Kåre Enga [177.360b] (7.mars.2021)

493 words

For my father (March 16, 1916 - February 26, 1999) written on the 22nd anniversary of his burial:

Green pancakes

Dad, add mint and hope — to dispel the stench
of last night's snores — that raspy voice of dreams,
mix in milk to make it creamy — bananas
to give some substance — baking powder
to fluff it up — pour on a hot griddle,
flip when done — a feast for Sunday morning's
breakfast — as we lick plates clean when finished;
but we beg — make extra for your monkeys.

© 2021 Kåre Enga [177.360] (2.mars.2021)

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