Memoir: Sunday Morning

It’s Sunday (“Another Sunday,” I’m tempted to write; however, I don’t like to take Sundays so casually for granted.)
by Charlie Leck

A small pile of books sits on the corner of my desk to my right. On a shelf, in the bookcases also to my right, are, perhaps, two dozen uncategorized and assorted books. From the volumes in the biography of Lyndon Baines Johnson, to Eric Fromer’s book on the reconstruction of the union following the ugly war between the states, to Bill Bryson’s book on travels in Europe and then a biography of Henry Aaron, these books comprise my reading list. They share that list with a number of titles on my iPad reader: The Best American Short Stories; Little Crow; The Warmth of Other Suns.

Oh, how often have I written in praise of Sunday morning!
It’s Sunday morning. The massive New York Times sit on the kitchen counter, near where I’ll have a gluten-free English muffin just a little later – along with another cup of coffee (made from freshly ground beans from Sumatra).

A walk is a necessity, to keep these old (nearly 72 year old) legs working and usable. I’ll be tempted to forget about the exercise today so I can get on with the reading and, perhaps, watch also a little of the men’s Olympic gold-medal basketball game on TV today. My camera is the motivator. If I take my camera along on the walk there is always the chance I’ll come upon the wild turkeys or that the sun will splash just so through the leaves of the trees. Walks are more easily accomplished when I have my camera in hand.

Finally, there are photos to work on. I went into town yesterday to visit my wife at the farmers’ market where she sets up every Saturday. I met, finally, her friend and market helper, Ingrid, about whom she often talks so glowingly. What a genuine and nice girl.

     Ingrid, who helps my wife at the Midtown Farmers Market

I’d urge everyone to go to a farmers market near them a few times during the season, just to see the glorious colors and the peaceful, happy faces of the sellers who so joyfully present the work of their hands. I took market photos because I was so fascinated by it all. The farmers’ market movement is one of the really good things that has happened in our nation in the last two decades.

     The two fantastic young women who sell the most wonderful rolled butter
     just a few booths down from my wife's.

     Over the years, my wife's good customers have also become
      friends who she enjoys seeing again and again.

Sundays are special. I can’t explain it. They just are. People move more slowly on Sunday; they seem more satisfied with life – more generous – more accepting of what they are and of what other people are as well. Soon, the church bells will toll from way down in Saint Bonifacius (five miles away) and I’ll hear them up here in my tree-top library because the doors and windows are open on this cool morning.

Let this stand this morning as my confessionem (L. from confiteri).

“We should be confessing our complicity with the Powers, the ways we benefit from the injustices they structure to our advantage, and the racist and sexual stereotyping that we thoughtlessly perpetuate in our encounters with others. Instead, we tend to confess infractions of the rules the Powers themselves have established. – Walter Wink, Engaging the Powers

Confession, as Saint Augustine understood it, is our proclamation of faith – our statement about the power and graciousness of God and our thankful response to it.

“Grant me, Lord, to know and understand which is first, to call on Thee or to praise Thee? And, again, to know Thee or to call on Thee? For who can call on Thee, not knowing Thee?” – Saint Augustine, The Confessions of Saint Augustine.

     Entertainment at the market ranges from good to wonderful!

     A couple agrees to pose for me. I find the people at the
     market beautiful.

     Most of the visitors to the market just pass on by
     and we love to observe them.

     I want to stop some people to tell them how beautiful they
     look, but I would only frighten them!

     

     To walk around and see the colors is alone enough reason to go
     the farmers' market!

_________________________

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