I am sitting in the living room at 319 South Brown Street in Dayton, Ohio listening to the Philco radio, the one next to Dad's chair. What a quieter time that was. WWII had not started yet, Bordons still delivered our milk in a horse drawn wagon, the trolley still went down the middle of Brown Street. Sunday morning means getting dressed up in my suit, getting in the old Packard Clipper and heading downtown the the United Brethren Church, Sunday School, and then a sermon by Rev. Dennis, later on, Rev. Herrick.
Dad was often at the hospital and Mom and I would walk to church, and after Sunday School and church, a treat I remember vividly to this day, we would head to Gallaghers Drug Store, sit at that long counter and have a grilled hot ham sandwich and a chocolate milkshake.
Sunday was a "quiet" day then, stores were mainly closed, not a shopping day, it was a day of rest. I remember Dad and my Brother would take naps, and I wondered why they were "wasting" such a pleasant time, I wanted to play or do something, which we often did.
In the evening we gathered around the radio, and listened. I forget which ones were on, but there was a regular lineup. We spent many thoughtful hours in front of that Philco.
Sunday was different than Saturday, now it is just another day, but it had it's own identity then, its own set of emotions and its own personality, it was ......... Sunday. You wore a suit on Sunday. The day had its own special aura, much like Christmas Eve. To this day, I don't think I ever attended a church service in anything but a suit, perhaps a sport coat and slacks. Now, my attendance has been abysmal the last sixty years, so I might have caved in to a more casual dress code.
