Memories of the Past…Sunday is Funday
When I was a kid, Sunday didn’t mean sleeping in or lounging around. Oh no—Sunday was Funday. At least, that’s what Mom called it.
The day started with the blare of oldies from the kitchen radio while Mom marched around in her bright yellow gloves, armed with a spray bottle and the unstoppable determination of a general preparing for battle. “It’s Sunday, everyone up!” she’d call. “Time to polish the plants!”
Yes, you read that right. We polished the plants. And not with anything normal—Mom swore by a dab of mayonnaise to keep the leaves shiny. My brother gagged every time he caught a whiff of it.
Next came the Great Outfit Organization. Mom insisted we lay out clothes for the week, labeled by the day. Monday’s shirt always had a stain (I swear it appeared out of nowhere). Tuesday was slightly less wrinkled. By Wednesday, you just prayed no one looked too closely.
Dusting, vacuuming, scrubbing—sure. But the magic of Sunday wasn’t in the chores. It was in the way we all piled into the living room afterward, exhausted but laughing, watching reruns of old sitcoms with a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches. It was in Dad singing along—loudly and off-key—to the cleaning playlist, and the way Mom winked at us when she declared the house “good enough… until next Sunday.”
Those Sundays were sticky with mayonnaise and Windex, messy with dust bunnies and piles of laundry, but they were also full of jokes, silly arguments over who did the best job, and that warm glow of family that made everything worth it.
Now, when Sunday rolls around, I still grin. Because Sunday will always be Funday
