BECOMING THEM

FROM WHERE I SIT     BECOMING THEM     Feb. 24, 2013     Pat Spilseth

Sunday morning meant church when I was a kid.  My family would attend services and stay to visit as long as Dad could stand the small talk, then walk home to eat Sunday dinner.  If we were lucky, Dad would drive our blue Hudson to the Dahl Cafe in Lowry for a special dinner.

Saturday night was bath night.  Mom would wrap my curly brown hair with twisted white rags into long pipe curls that I tried to sleep on overnight so I would be presentable Sunday morning.   Sunday meant dressing in Sunday clothes: my shiny Mary Jane patten leather shoes, lacy anklets or white tights, and my Sunday dress, not my weekly play clothes or work clothes.  The folks had to show up at the red brick, Lutheran church with me in tow, hoping desperately that I would behave and not cause a ruckus, which embarrassed them terribly and made Daddy angry.  

I was an only child at that point, Princess Patty.  Lots was expected of me, and I’ll admit it, I was a bit spoiled.  Dad was gone most of the week hauling cattle in his long trucks to far-away destinations like St. Paul and Philadelphia so Mom was alone with only me for company too much of the time.  Eventually, she took in “roomers” Ruth Jesness and Lorraine Beacher to keep her company.  I think the loneliness was stifling her happy spirits.

After a quick breakfast of cereal, juice laced with the abominable taste of greasy Cod Liver Oil , which was deemed to prevent colds, I raced to the only bathroom for a last minute potty break.  Then we were out the back door, which was never locked, walking down the cracked cement sidewalk to church a few blocks away. 

Church meant quiet time, with adults dressed in suits and heels, few accompanied by children.  It was a boring morning for a kid.  Some of the Dads fell asleep during the sermon, the only time we didn’t have to stand and pray.  The hymn sing didn’t allow sleep as the choirs sang loudly with spirit-filled fervor.  Trying to stay quiet and attentive during the service, most kids were bored with the sermon, its big words and strange stories.  Kids got fidgety; we wanted better stories with more action.  After all, we’d just slept eight hours.  What else could anyone expect?

Sunday was a Day of Rest, but not for Mom, who would sometimes skip church to peel and boil potatoes and carrots while a roast with lots of onions cooked in her GE oven.  If Dad had a good work week and happened to feel “flush”,  we would drive several miles west on Hwy 55 to Lowry.   All of us enjoyed Sunday dinner cooked by the couple who owned the Dahl Cafe.  Either a beef or pork roast or chicken fried in oil and batter heavily salted was a lip smacker.  There’d be  a selection of vegetables, overly boiled, like mushy carrots, peas or beans.  I loved those yellow corn kernels but hoped to avoid the peas; they made my stomach churn.  

After lunch, we’d return home where I’d check out Dick Tracy and LIttle Orphan Annie in the funnies; the folks read the Sunday newspaper and relaxed in their Mr. and Mrs. LazyBoy chairs in our little-used living room.  I’d play with my dolls, but soon I’d get bored and start pestering my folks. That might motivate them to take a Sunday drive out into the country to the home of friends, the Amundsons, Pladsons, Faulkners or Tehaars, where there were kids to play with.   

Other Sundays we’d visit Mom’s Norwegian relatives in Starbuck or Dad’s Dutch relatives in Brooten.  However, when we drove to Brooten, we had to time our visit to catch Grandma and Aunt Sadie at home between the required services at the Christian Reformed Church.  Dad figured if the church goers would listen to a sermon the first time, why would they have to return for a second and third service?  Not big on church and rules, Dad converted to Mom’s religion and became a Lutheran.  The Lutherans were OK with movies and dancing; they weren’t quite as strict as the Reformed Church.  Though he didn’t have much rhythm, according to Mom, he did enjoy dancing at the Lakeside Ballroom

All the shops downtown were closed on Sundays in the Fifties.  Not even a grocery store was open for those who forgot to buy milk or bread on Saturday.  Sunday was a day of rest, but kids thought it was a boring, endless day.   Our only salvation was if parents would visit at a house that had kids to play with.   At the Husoms, I’d inspect Evelyn’s salt and pepper collection and check out Inez’s clothes closet.  I was lucky to get some of her hand-me-downs as she was a few years older than me.  Alvin had a bow and arrow and would demonstrate how to shoot the arrows at a target.  At the Amundsons, I could play with their son Richard, and the Faulkners had Bonnie, Buster, and horses.   

Many years down the road, after college, marriage and children, Sunday morning, once again, became time for church.  Though stores are open today and every day, I usually avoid stores on Sunday to stay at home or visit with friends.  Just like the Fifties, we dress up a bit for services.  We take daily showers, maybe a bath on Saturday.  We attend church services at our neighborhood church a few minutes from home and love to stay for coffee time with doughnuts. The service, which has some riveting sermons with good music and stories, brings relevance of religious teachings to our daily lives.  We drive home for Sunday sandwiches or Dave’s puff pancakes, or we drive twenty minutes to D’Amico’s Italian cafe in Wayzata. 

Isn’t this the same routine my folks followed when I was a kid?  All in all, I guess Princess Patty and her family are now much like my parents were in the fifties on a Sunday morning.   I’ve just grown older...I’ve become THEM.