Monday

Mondays. . . I remember Mondays with fondness. Growing up, my Dad had to work on Saturdays, instead his weekend was Sunday and Monday. Monday became the day that Mom would take a day for herself and take the Oakridge Bus up to Fairweathers in Downtown London, or go to the old Central Library. My brother and I would come home from school for lunch, though howling winds and torrential downpours. Dad would always serve us either grilled cheese sandwiches (gurl cheese. . . that's how I used to pronounce them), or ham and mustard sandwiches (ick), sardines and tomato soup. The bread had to be white, at this time in his life he had not caught the fiber buzz. The mustard, an electric yellow smear. I can only now imagine him taking the time, degreasing his hands from the Mini, the MG, Mini Wagon, or the Austin America that he was working on (we used them for daily drives, the mini's), and then making sandwiches that my brother and I despised. My brother had a large head in his early years and he was short. I remember him sitting in front of his sandwich and picking at it. It is odd how you remember things as a kid. When I talk to my father about the Monday Lunches now, he gets a bitter look, and then softens. "Those were darn good sandwiches, I made them for you"~~~~~~~Thanks Dad. :) Oh crum, it's Tuesday, not Monday.