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THE BEST PART OF THE WEEK

 

 

When memory takes me to the past

Sundays come to mind,

To countless chicken dinners

And rapport, as we dined.

 

Our table seated nine, back then,

With friends, ten or more.

We never knew how many guests

Would enter through our door.

The huge oak table beckoned us,

We each pulled up a chair,

Everyone bowed his head in thanks

And someone led in prayer.

 

The youngest sat on catalogs

To reach her cake-tin plate.

Two siblings shared an old wood bench,

One used an apple crate.

Blue oilcloth graced our table top

The plates were mixed designs,

Jelly jars served as crystal then,

The flatware had bent tines.

 

There was lots of smiles and chatter,

Not one unpleasant word,

With some good-natured chiding done

And stories to be heard.

Then after dinner was over,

Dad played his violin,

While we sang songs and danced a bit,

Everyone joining in.

 

The old house rang with laughter

And music filled the air.

The women discussed recipes

And kids ran everywhere.

Those times left vivid memories,

And if the past could speak

It would claim those Sundays as

The best part of the week.

 

9/13/90      Phyllis DeWitt VanVleck

 

3’rd … Indiana NPD 1990

 

This poem is based on my childhood.  There were three adults and six children in the house and Sunday company made for a crowded dinner table.  But, mom always had room for everyone. 

 

We called those cake pan plates, sideboards, and dad said they let you fill your plate full.  Times were tough back then too, but we were happy with jelly jars for glasses.  We didn’t know want because we had all the love we needed.

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