Times, they are a change ‘in.
I grew up on a small farm in a small town. I remember Sunday mornings growing up. I would put on a pretty dress, girls were not to wear pants back then, occasionally I would sport a bonnet and white gloves and a little purse. We were poor, but proper. We lived out the country so we would all pile into the station wagon and drive for what seemed like ages to get to church. I was the youngest, so my place in the car was standing up in the space between the front and middle seats. This was long before seat belt laws. Pastor Halverson, during his sermons, would always slam his fist down on the pulpit and say “Well, well, well…” and then proceed to explain some passage of scripture. After worship, Sunday school, working on projects, playing, socializing and eating donuts, we’d pile back into the station wagon and head home for family Sunday pot roast supper.
Sunday’s were the thread that wove the rest of the week together. Blue Laws insured those threads were tightly secured. There was nothing else to do on Sundays. No shopping, no school events or sports. In the small town where I grew up it seemed everybody went to church and the whole world rested on Sundays. Well, except for mom who was always busy cooking or working in the kitchen.
Sometimes we grieve the good old days, don’t we? Life seemed so much simpler back then. But then we’d also have to admit that sometimes the good old days weren’t always really all that great, either. Our memories can be selective.
The good old days…