Sunday’s Respite

Sunday morning is here, a day like any other except you can’t buy hard alcohol here, and only beer after noon.  Well one much make sacrifices in life and plan better.  In France most of the businesses have closed.  Some of the food stores only open for a few hours on Sunday Morning and some restaurants are open for business, but Sunday is mostly a day of rest unless one lives in the big cities like Dijon or Paris.  I think Pennsylvania stills has its share of Blue Laws, a remnant of Quaker proper behavior.  I think Utah has kept a close eye on Sunday Business, it still being a somewhat Mormon State, and many parts of the old south still cling to Sunday closures.  California is that anything goes state, I think they pioneered staying open on major holidays and weekends and well, what ever.  Small merchants like their collective day of rest and the big box stores like to take in as much business as possible.  Of course one finds companies such as Hobby Lobby closed on Sunday due to general principle.  I don’t know that closing on Sunday has hurt their bottom line.

When I worked for the telephone company I loved working on Sundays.  I got time and a half and my eight hours contributed to the 49 hour rule.  Once I went over 49 hours, I was on double time.  So working Sunday meant I reached the 49 hour rule sooner.  For five years I made a lot of money and I worked a lot of hours.  I used to average about 1200 to 1400 hours of overtime each year.  I’ll let you do the math.  So I would come home after eight to ten hours on Sunday, grab the thow Sunday papers, go have dinner at Mr Steak across the street, and then spend a few hours reading the paper and getting warm.  Most of my overtime came during the winter months when the storms came in and I got wet as hell.  A bottle of wine, a rocking chair in front of the heater, and the newspapers.  If I was lucky I could pull in the only classical radio station left in the Bay area.  Otherwise it was the eight tracks in the stereo.  Sunday was my day of rest, such as it was.

Oh, I’ve tried to be religious but me and organized religion never got along too well.  Too many people telling me how and what to believe and if I didn’t believe just right, well, just too bad.  So after decades of trying, I just said to hell with it, let god tell me if he wanted and if he didn’t, fine.  I’d go my way and he could go his.  That is where it sand between him and me.  He’s got his truths and I’ve got mine.  I have little need of churches, ministers, and all the other hoo-raws that so many love to throw in your face.  Believe as you will and accord me the same right.  Sunday becomes special because I like to fix that special dinner for sweetheart.  Well, that goes for Saturday as well.  Sunday is for meals like Arctic char or sockeye salmon.  This type of meal that I take a little more care in preparation.  Perhaps some cheesecake and coffee in the morning.  I am one of those who loves to buy whole bean and brew fresh ground coffee.  One day a week should mean something special to a couple, to a family.  While some families love their pizzas with Monday Night football, can’t stand to watch it anymore, haven’t since Johnny U died.  Meanwhile there are those with kinds in high school who play sports or support their school and Friday night or Saturday are special due to school sports, yeah, I understand as much.  I still think we put too much emphasis on sports in secondary schools and don’t get me started on college sports.  Yeah, I played, so what?

I’m retired but sweetheart still works,  To me one day is the same as the next.  I don’t have to be anywhere, I don’t have to do anything except what I plan to do.  Time is different now.  Of course that was true when I was driving truck.  All days are the same except when it comes to the reset.  One day follows another until you run out of hours.  Then you stop, take your break and if you are lucky you have a decent place to do the reset.  Maybe you are lucky enough to be near a food store and can get a couple of steaks and some bottles of wine or beer.  Yeah, I know, no alcohol in the car, but screw you, I have to do the reset.  I want to eat some decent food, I’ve got the propane stove, the small skillet, and what not for cooking.  Got my water kettle for boiling water and making coffee.  Got time to sleep and time to read.  Yeah, 36 hours isn’t really enough but I’ve got to make a living.  If your aren’t moving you aren’t making any money.  Sad truth to trucking.  You are paid by the mile and regulated by the hour.  And everything is your fault.  Did the shipper overload you?  It’s your fault.  Did that little car cut in front of you and brake real hard so that you made his trunk very small?  It’s your fault.  He can stop in under two hundred feet, you need four hundred.  It never occurred to him that it’s close to an act of suicide to do that, but it’s still your fault.  Glad I don’t drive anymore.  It’s a hard life and it costs more money than its worth.  That’s right, you only get paid by the mile.  All the expense of being on the road belongs to you.  It eats up about 70% of your pay.

So Sunday is another day to me, nothing special anymore.  Sweetheart gets to sleep a little more to make up for the week.  I take care of her needs when it comes to cooking and such.  Remind me, her car needs an oil change, got to take care of that today.  I would go back to the old method of doing it myself but it is such a hassle these days.  So after I install the filtered water faucet I will see about getting her oil changed.  I should get the truck serviced tool, it could stand an oil change as well.  That will be next week.  Gots lots of chores to attend.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s