Why I Hate Sunday
David, Brad, Heidi and Helga circa 1978. Photo by Dr. Robert M. Rogers
A true story.
I took Mom to church for Palm Sunday, today.
I’m happy to take Mom, but church doesn’t do much for me. I don’t sing, I don’t pray, I just try to be calm and patient.
When we got home I made us both a Taylor Pork Roll sandwich. It reminded me of being at the Jersey Shore and Summer.
Then I watched the last hour of Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2, for the umpteenth time, and cried like a Baby Groot.
Sunday has always been a depressing day for me.
I never really liked going to church.
Dad never went, and I was envious that he got to stay home and watch stupid football all day, while I had to go and try and sit still for the whole service, when all I really wanted to do was be home watching Davey & Goliath.
One Sunday was particularly gory and horrifying. I was about 6 or 7, in Oklahoma, and as soon as we parked the car when we got home, I noticed one of our German Shepherd’s (I think it was Hildi) barking at something in the grass. My brother Brad and I hopped out of the red Volvo Station Wagon and Hildi stopped her barking momentarily to give us her attention, then immediately returned to barking. We looked at the grass where she was barking and we saw a tiny rabbit. We picked up the baby rabbit and took it inside and Mom got us a shoe box to put it in. It’s right eye was bleeding and it rubbed his wounded eye around the inside of the shoebox until there were many red lines going around and around inside the box. We tried to feed it, but it wouldn’t eat. It died in a day or so.
I buried the little one-eyed baby rabbit in the back yard.
A few days later, I dug it up to see how it was, and it was covered in maggots. I felt shocked and horrified, and buried it back up. I don’t think I was naive enough to think it was going to be alive, but definitely not a maggot free-for-all on top of my one-eyed baby rabbit.
I guess that’s why I hate Sunday.
