Monday through Friday if you were to ask
me what day of the week it is there’s a 50 percent chance I’d guess
wrong. My biological clock simply doesn’t do weekdays. One day is as
good, or bad, as another. Even though I haven’t been back to school in
45 years I’ve always associated weekdays with school and homework.
Nothing fun ever happened in the middle of the week so, like most people
in America, I live for the weekends.
I’ve
always associated Saturday with good food. For 40 years if it was
Saturday I was chowing down on barbecue at a cattle, horse or charity
auction somewhere in America. My fondness for Saturdays goes all the way
back to my elementary school days when Friday was beans and cornbread,
or fish day, in the school cafeteria because the Catholic kids couldn’t
eat meat. As all us Methodist kids dined on brick-hard cornbread, slimy
beans, and cartilage-filled composite fish that tasted worse than the
garden snail my brother dared me into eating, we almost started a
religious war, such was our hatred for Catholic cuisine.
As
a result of being undernourished on Famine Fridays, I was always hungry
when Saturday rolled around. It was also my best shot at getting a bowl
full of the delicious homemade ice cream Uncle Charles made.
Because
I always worked weekends, to deaden the pain of not being in my
scintillating company, my wife worked for 30 years as a checker in a
grocery store. You’d be surprised how good a pain-deadener time-and-a
half-pay on Sundays can be. But for me, Sunday was never really
profitable because it’s the day I wrote my column and the day I rode the
ranch looking for problems. My forecast for the weekend was always a
90% chance of hard work with a 10% chance of getting paid for it.
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