Simple Sounds of Sunday

I've come to really enjoy Sundays. I think the thing that I appreciate is that regardless of the ever present list of to do's, there's a slow pace and solitude that doesn't seem to exist on any other day of the week.

This morning I woke up early and slowly wandered downstairs. I turned on the stereo,  just loud enough to be heard, but still quiet enough to not wake the family, the dogs, and the other strays we acquired the evening before. As the sunlit kitchen filled with sound, I started the coffee. I filled the percolator with cool clear water and counted six level scoops of our favorite New Orleans Market Blend. Sorry Kurig, but we're old school here.  The percolator pulsated and forced the earthy aroma of brewing coffee in time with the gentle groove of the Bill Evans Trio who were busy entertaining a smoke filled Village Vanguard more than fifty years before. Music, like books and movies is a time machine.

I stepped out the front door Tony Soprano style in my white bathrobe and grabbed the Sunday edition of the Foster's Daily Democrat, which is a paper I both embrace and loath, mostly for the same reason, which is that the front page and most of its guts, despite all that is going on in our world, are usually dedicated to stories of cats being displaced because their owner was arrested for stealing chicken eggs or some other local calamities.

In short order I heard the brisk patter of the dogs coming down the steps with my pajama wearing wife in tow. The dogs went out to do their thing, and Deb and I sat in the kitchen drinking coffee reading the paper and reflecting on the previous evening as well as forthcoming day. She looked at me with her sleepy eyes, dishoveled hair and no make up. She didn't need it, and a heart beat increased to the pace of the percolator and the Jazz.

As soon as Bill Evans and his boys finished their set the CD carousel shifted and the music changed to the sound of Stax, Atlantic, and Mussel Shoales. Southern Soul abounded. Redding, Aretha, Arthur Conley joined us as we fried country ham and local brown eggs (Brown eggs are local eggs, and local eggs are fresh eggs)

The day progressed and the disc changer continued to do its job. Nick Drake, The Lumineers, The Civil Wars, Blind Boy Fuller each took their turn in providing the soundtrack to our day as we puttered, cooked, napped, washed, dried and folded. Mundane. Simple bliss occured each time I gazed at the clock to realize it was only ten, one, or even three.  In time their would be dinner, wine, cigars and maybe a fire.  Maybe tonight we'd walk the Boardwalk Empire or Break Bad.

To be honest there wasn't much more to it than that. Even now as I type, I wonder why I'm writing this. Why would anyone want to read it? It's slow and it doesn't move well. It's not compelling, and there's no tension or conflict to hold a reader's interest.

It's like Sunday.