In the sixties things were a bit different from now. I know you know this, it’s kind of obvious really. Anyway, at the time Sundays were treated very differently than they are now.
My “Wee” Gran didn’t do any work of any sort on a Sunday, apart from read her paper, The Sunday Post, and prepare her meals. She wouldn’t knit, do housework or gardening or anything like that and she wouldn’t have shopped either even if there had been any shops open to shop in. There was actually one single shop, which opened on a Sunday, it was hardware store and owned by a Jewish gentlemen.
Anyway, on a Sunday morning I was sent to church with my other Gran and Grandad. I’d walk down to their house and meet up with the other members of the family who were going. They would include my Aunt and her two daughters and we’d walk the short distance down to the “kirk” when we heard the bells. My Grandad was an Elder and he went earlier to get on with his duties, which I never really knew about.
The children sat in for the beginning of the service and then we’d be sent off to the church hall or the church hut depending on age. It was probably twenty minutes or so that we were in the church and it was a pretty boring time. We were given pan drops on the basis that they were big enough to ensure we couldn’t speak.
My two cousins, who were a bit older, used to go through the contents of their handbags and purses, which kept us entertained until it was time to head for the hut/hall. I can’t remember too much about what went on at the Sunday School apart from the times when we were shown films. Two older ladies who were also schoolteachers ran the Sunday school, but luckily didn’t teach at the school I attended.
They were a bit stern, well they were a lot stern in fact and allowed no nonsense whether it was nonsense or not. One year the Sunday School organised a trip for those of us who attended, it was to Cairnpapple in West Lothian to see the burial mound there. Well it was a day out and we were far too young to understand what it was although it was kind of cool. On the way home on the bus we started singing as children are want to do when on a bus. The Sunday School teachers almost had a heart attack. We must never sing on a Sunday outside of church they said.
After Sunday school it was back to Grans with Grandad coming along a few minutes later having completed his elder duties. We were then all given a plate of soup and sent home.
Sometimes I went to “wee” grans and listened to Family favourites on the radio. I’d sometimes do a jigsaw, which looking back now, was probably against the “Sunday working” rule but kept me quiet.
I never, ever finished that jigsaw. It was tided up when it was time for me to go and I’d start it afresh when I next visited.
Sundays were always colossally boring. We used to play out when we could but somehow it was always quiet and tedious. Some of the kids used to go to evening services or they’d be whisked of to their Aunties or such like.
Things are different now. You can almost do the same things you can do on a a weekday on a Sunday now as you’ll have noticed yourself. It’s just another day although there are people who still keep it sacred and as long as they let other people do their thing, that’s how it should be.
For Sundays then as like most things in life; plough your own furrow as long as it doesn’t interfere with anyone else ploughing theirs.