Wreck My Sundays

Personal Writings

            Pearl River      I was late to the game, and it took a New Yorker article to introduce me formally to Maggie Rogers, a young singing and pop sensation.  It wasn’t my first meeting.  Often when I’m home, having walked the dog and eating my oatmeal in the predawn, I ask Alexa to play alternative country, the Brushland playlist.  I had heard this amazing song, “Don’t Forget Me,” a number of times without knowing that the artist was Rogers.  It’s one of those songs I’ll always remember like “Red Dirt Girl,” “Simple Man,” “Forever Young,” “Maggie May,” and hundreds more, like favorites that mean something for whatever reason to you.

The refrain in the Rogers’ song, as she imagines someone leaving her, is ….

So close the door and change the channel
Give me something I can handle
A good lover or someone that’s nice to me
Take my money, wreck my Sundays
Love me ’til your next somebody
Oh, but promise me that when it’s time to leave
Don’t forget me

All of that is great stuff, but I really love the phrase, “wreck my Sundays.”  It’s almost a universal.  My brother had a classic expression he would often repeat about protecting the “architecture of the day.”  If we’re lucky, Sunday is a day of rest, but often it’s more than that.  It’s a chance to catch up.  Get to something on your list, home, garden, or work, that doesn’t fit well on any other day.  Maybe it’s a chance to get ahead.  Pack for an upcoming trip.  Read something that has been on the stack.  Linger with the morning papers.  Walk the dog a second time in the dusk, holding hands with your partner.  We never get it all done.  We all wish Sundays were longer.  As the super poppy Bangles classically sang,

Wish it were Sunday (Ooh-oh)
‘Cause that’s my fun day (Ooh-oh)
My I-don’t-have-to-run day

I’ve been lucky this year for five weekends ACORN has been training activists, organizers, and community leaders on the impact side of climate change who are fighting back as part of the Anthropocene Alliance.  Only one more to go, next weekend in Oakland.

For me, being on the road means not being on the bayou for very many Sundays this spring as much as I would like.  Paddling my canoe early on Mother’s Day before anyone was up, the irises are gone, but it was easy to flush ducks as I passed by.  An alligator, swimming out of a cut in the banks with only his head showing, dived under as soon as I came closer.  These are good omens like the redwing blackbirds flying in and out of the surrounding reeds, the owls hooting behind the camp, and the woodpeckers going after the dead water oak.

Some chores will get done, and some left behind.  Some emails sent, and some left for the airport.  Yards will be mowed.  The family will gather for dinner.  Mothers gone will be missed, and mothers with us will be kissed.  We will all vow, as we regularly do, to not disturb the “architecture of the day” while allowing no one to “wreck my Sundays.”