A shorter history of Sundays.

We had gone, the twelve-year-old and I, to the house down the coast on Saturday night to work on the fallen tree on Sunday. I woke late, which for me is almost mid-morning; not anywhere near midday or, God forbid, even later. I'd feel like the day had been stolen.

It had rained since midnight. The yard was sodden and there would be no cutting or burning. I drove down the hill to get the Sunday paper. No traffic; nothing. Even the horizon was gone; Port Philip Bay, dirty grey with drizzle met a leaden sky somewhere you couldn't see. 

The deadness sparked one of those momentary flashes of memory, lighting on those wet 1960s Sunday mornings; bringing alive that remembered frieze: knots of people outside a church after mass - ladies under hats, men in dark suits - coated and bent against the driven rain; ignoring the weather for the sake of fifteen minutes' cordiality. You couldn't just rush off. Near the church door a booth that opened only on Sundays sold the accessories of faith; beads, small statues, blue-glass candle shades for the home altar, stories of the saints, knick-knacks for the righteous and the holy. 

And incredibly, two newspapers. Not two actual newspapers: two titles. It is almost incredible to know now - with newsprint in its death throes - that a diocese as powerful and influential as Mannix's Melbourne would support two thriving rival Catholic newspapers. We took both, of course. We were not overly religious, just newspaper tragics. And there was nothing else to do on Sunday, was there? 

There never had been. My grandmother told tales of her childhood on the farm when the priest rode in a gig to say mass in the small wooden churches of outlying areas from his presbytery in a larger town. First Sunday, Lowesdale; second Sunday, Daysdale; third Sunday, Balldale; etc or various. Grandmother's farm was near Lowesdale. They made a day of it: after mass the priest directed his horse to proceed to the various rostered hostess's farms where lunch would ensue. 

According to the story, the horse hardly needed directing late in the afternoon on its way back to the presbytery.