|Like The Queen
Whatever happens to strike my fancy, but surely some sort of fiber content.
It's not raining here but it sure is gloomy. There should be streams of sunlight but there's only the artificial light from the two big lamps in the living room. Enough light so I could see to play with the cat who was insisting that that's what he wanted to do even if it is only 6AM. I do think I'll join you in some crafting. New sock yarn that a friend gave me yesterday needs to be sampled and I'm really tired of all the other things I'm working on. Hope the rain isn't too late to help the corn crop.
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Sunday, June 03, 2007 The mystery isn’t "Where are my archives?" but how in the heck to get in touch with Blogger, either via email or by wending through their impenetrable help program. Rats is about all I can say - unless it’s Double Rats. If anybody out there knows how to use the help desk or how to contact a blogger helper or why all my archives except the first year’s worth, have disappeared, please leave word.
Today is one of my favorite kinds of days - a Rainy Sunday. Rainy Sundays are like little gifts from the universe. Gifts of time, that rarest of all commodities. A Rainy Sunday says "Yes. You may stay indoors and knit." You don’t have to work in the yard. You don’t have to clean the house. It is OK to watch television during the day on a Rainy Sunday. It’s especially OK if you have some knitting you’d like to do. Or you could lie abed and read a novel on a Rainy Sunday. You can have popcorn and bananas for dinner if that’s what you want or if that’s all that’s in the house. A Rainy Sunday says "Take it easy."
And a Rainy Sunday after weeks of drought, when your corn looks so pitiful you realize you will get $0 this year from those fields. When it's still only a few inches high after 2 months, and it's yellow!!
Yes. Some Rainy Sundays are even more of a blessing than others!
When I was little Rainy Sundays were just about the only time Mama would play with us. I just realized this was probably the only time she had us all in the house at the same time and she didn’t want us to dissolve into squabbles. When we were children we did not want our parents around and they certainly didn’t want us around unless they had chores for us to do ... which was why we slipped away as soon as the breakfast dishes were done. The idea of parents hanging out with us while we played ball or tag or dolls or spies was not just unwelcome, it was creepy and maybe even horrible.
My parents seemed to have substantially more chores for their children than most and I had multiple hours of violin practicing I was expected to do as well. For all that they weren’t interested in what we wanted to do in our free time, they definitely had ambitions for us and they considered most of the hours in the day theirs to allocate. I’m not sure if my sisters were roped into so much planned activity - since none of them showed a predilection for a specific talent - and who knows what was really going on between parents and siblings. We see things so differently from the eyes of childhood and memory. My gift was tangible and my parents monitored the hours of my day with a strict watch. Sisters still complain that so much attention was proof that Mother Loved Me Best, but I always maintain that my childhood was stolen from me. From age 6 on there was never a day when I could just play all day unless we were in a car or I was sick in bed.
When the family gathers these days the children all cluster around the grown-ups instead of slipping away behind the church or down the alley or off into the woods. They want to play with the grown-ups and listen to the grown-up talk and, heavens! even participate in it. And their parents encourage it. And the media says "you must spend time with your children or they will grow up without confidence and do drugs". And pop culture songs like Cat’s in the Cradle will be all weepy and snotty about the old guy in the nursing home getting just what he deserved and hanging up with a sigh singing "he’d grown up just like me."
And I say BUNK.
And I didn’t raise my son that way - any more than I had to since he ended up being an only child at the end of a mile of dirt road. He did spend rather a lot of time with us, but that is because we were all there was. And he spent enough time away from us to brag to a friend, when he was 9 years old, "Oh yes. I was practically raised by dogs."
Oh. My. Well. I didn’t mean to rant. Especially a rant that makes me sound ridiculous because here I am praising Rainy Sundays because, in my memory, at least, they are the only days Mama played with us - and who knows. It may not even be true. I’m sure she didn’t play with us on all Rainy Sundays nor did she play with us only on Rainy Sundays. In fact - I’m not sure she played with us at all. What I bet she really did, on whatever sort of play day, was to pull out her good toys - her fine artists brushes or huge rolls of paper or the good modeling clay and she’d sit down with us and show us how to make a village of people out of pipe cleaner armatures dipped into plaster of Paris.
And I know that she did that sometimes. Not only can I remember specific Rainy Sundays, but my heart, each time I wake up to an outdoors all cool wetness and grey and maybe green glistening leaves, on a Sunday morning, swells with a happy anticipation of a day to freely play with the good stuff. A day given by the universe, by the Weather Gods, to snip out of the schedule and put into a 3 prong setting of pleasure, leisure and love.
Happy Rainy Sunday to you - whenever it comes. May you have access to all the good toys. posted by Bess | 8:25 AM