Way back in the 1950s and the 60s, the Chordettes, Connie Francis and Bing Crosby all sang ‘Never on a Sunday’. It was about being kissed, any day but Sunday, for that was the day of rest.
    That never on a Sunday meant something very different in my early years — no work on a Sunday, never on a Sunday! That didn’t apply to doing the farm chores or meal making. It certainly applied to abstaining from extra work — no gardening, laundry or unnecessary fencing. It also applied to sports; no sports of any sort, not team sports, not solo sports — no sports. Sunday afternoon, following church attendance in the morning, was given over to family time, aunts and uncles stopping by for a visit and ‘faspa’. After the mandatory afternoon nap! Faspa was a Sunday late lunch; cold meat, buns, cheese, pickles and dessert. Not a lunch and not a supper, more a tide me over till tomorrow repast. Our classmates were pretty evenly divided in these customs. Those not of the Mennonite faith could play, dance and sing any day, including Sunday.
    In my teens this custom gave way to practicality. There was Sunday morning worship service, but after my father returned to university and began teaching, he needed Sunday to get farm work done. For several years he attended summer school, so hay making and bale hauling often fell on a Sunday, as did sheep shearing. If you want to farm, there are obligations. Even then, the arrival of a family member brought everything to a halt — people were/are important.
    When I married Ed, he held Sunday as a day of no work. There was acceptance of sports, organised and independent. So many Sunday afternoons we filled the family vehicle — a 13 passenger van, with the children and their friends and headed off to the city to the Pan Am Pool, or out to the Pembina Hills for tobogganing. A good baseball game or a snowmobile derby were certainly acceptable activities.
    I was privileged to be a stay at home wife and mother until our youngest child was in grade eight. This brought about a change in my time allocations. When I carefully explained that by spending a few hours in the garden, or doing a few loads of laundry, I was relaxing, and making the week ahead easier. It wasn’t really working, it became a form of recreation. Not every Sunday. And quilting on a Sunday afternoon wasn’t really work either, a hobby, really. It took a bit of adjustment for the family, and before you knew it, a few hours working on a project vehicle on a Sunday afternoon wasn’t work either!
    Just like beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so is the definition of work. I still don’t believe in unnecessary hard work on a Sunday.
    Just what I need/want to do! “ Oh, any day that you like the best, and day that is but my day of rest…But never ever on a Sunday, a Sunday, a Sunday ‘cause that’s my day of rest” Bets that if you’re over 80 you’re humming that tune!