Saturdays

I couldn’t wait for the weekend. As soon as I got off the school bus, I was free to wear jeans for two whole days. Saturdays began at dawn, unfettered by obligations. We rode those long coastal ridges on donkeys, and later, on horseback, until dusk. Sunday mornings were reserved for church. That meant no breakfast as mass began at 9 AM. It took up half a day as we had to walk to Saint Cecilia’s Church, nearly 2 miles away. My stomach rumbling. After mass, and a trip to the WC, my grandmother hunted for french bread at the Lagunitas Store, squeezing each one for freshness. We left with a loaf of Bordenave’s Viennese milk bread, and a copy of the Sunday paper, Mr. Lacy waving goodbye. I don’t remember the long walk home, or anyone giving us a lift. Few folks had cars. Sometimes we also hoofed into Forest Knolls to get the mail, adding another mile to the journey. Shank’s mare, my grandmother said. She had bunions, it couldn’t have been easy for her to clip-clop down the road like a pony in those old black lace-up saddle shoes with fancy eyelets and a design punched out on the kid leather—like a man’s dress oxford with a tall square heel. When we got home, we tucked into a big fry up of bacon and eggs with buttered Vienna bread, hot from the oven. I pored over the Sunday funnies, the likeness of my aunt smiling back from a Paisano ad on the last page. But, by then, the day was half gone. My grandmother fell asleep on the couch with the newspaper draped over her. It was a sleepy time, a day of rest—not like Saturdays where the day was all ours from dawn until dusk.

Tomales Bay gleamed—

severing the coastal hills 

with a sword of light.

10/11/2023 Write On! with Terri Glass