In Carbon County, the Sunday Season happens just before the start of your workweek, so for most of us, it’s fifty times a year. There is never an excuse for non-participation in honoring this weekly ritual, as most of the time only a written excuse from the local undertaker is acceptable.

It begins for all good Christian kids, early on a Sunday morning—about five o'clock. I can recall the dim silhouette of the church sexton beginning his customary procession down the street through the emerging streaks of the early morning sunshine, his ethereal duty to call the flock to worship through the pealing of the bell for Sunday observance.

As a child of immigrants, my grandmother was dedicated in her love for me, pure and simple. I attribute my heritage to her and my grandfather. Their practices were steeped in a discipline of adherence to faith and the day that was to be celebrated. They gave me an appreciation for things in life that have no material characteristics, but turn out to matter most.

After services, I remember the walk home. The hamlets that lined the street had amazing aromas emanating from the open windows of their kitchens. I could see loaves of freshly baked bread cooling on sills and smell fragrant wisps of espresso combining with the cooling yeasts.

I could hear the click-clack of my grandfather’s spoon in his morning concoction of one tablespoon of Fernet Branca, one fresh egg, and one generous portion of honey against the bone-hued ceramic mug that awaited the full measure of his Italian coffee.

Like the changing of the guard, my grandmother very unassumingly marched across the kitchen and opened a door to her back porch which had on it a hook bearing the weight of a single garment, an apron. As she donned her fabric shield, my grandfather and I took our seats around her humble table and waited for her to join us at our morning breakfast that grandfather had prepared.

With the arrival of mom and dad and brother and sister, we took our place at this symbol of our season: the table. It was adorned with pasta, prepared just a few hours before with flour, salt and eggs, and with meatballs delicately spiced with hints of onion, garlic and green pepper. Grandmother's oven offered chicken and pork accented with the fruits from my grandfather’s garden. Tomatoes so ripe and delicious they were like crisp apples from an orchard, along with cantaloupe and figs so sweet they rivaled the stores of any hive.

Time seemed to have stopped; there was no rush to get to practices, tryouts or games. All of us were where we wanted to be. Entertainment was usually an anecdotal story told by one of us summarizing the week we enjoyed doing what kids do, or listening to what our parents would share with us as part of a life experience.

Sometimes, depending on the weather, I would go with my grandfather when we finished our feast to the bocce court at the local club. The hilarity was more intense than watching Abbot and Costello films. The mix of personalities and love for the game made the watching of a match between paisanos more entertaining than playing in the actual match—although children were forbidden to put their feet in the court.

Unlike the quantity of the holiday activities offered by seasonal practices, a Sunday Season is measured by a quality of life. It is a time that seems to have lost its place in most parts of the world because no one tries to practice it anymore. Thankfully, we still do it here. I am grateful for the enrichment I gain from participating and celebrating Sunday Seasons, because like the symbol that represents them—the table—the only thing that matters is the people who take their place around it.

Wishing you and your family, a very merry, and happy Sunday!

Tom McCall