Apple Pie II, BYOB Day Five

Come Sunday afternoons the chores would be called off, and we’d do what my grandfather called “visiting”-calling on relatives in nearby towns and farms. Though we’d just drop in unannounced, they’d always be glad to see us, and somehow the timing was right so that the rhubarb pie was out of the oven and cooling on the windowsill. Whatever folks were doing, they’d drop everything to sit and chat, telling stories, laughing about this and that, asking me what mischief I’d been into. –Epic: The Story God Is Telling by John Eldredge

Fiction Writing Prompt: Write a story set around Sunday visiting.

Journaling Prompt: What’s your Sunday tradition?

Art Prompt: Sunday visiting

Non-Fiction / Speechwriting Prompt: Tell your audience about a quaint tradition that has disappeared and make the case that it would be a good idea to revive it.

Photo Credit: Clarice on Flickr

4 Responses to Prompt #1281 Sunday Visiting

  1. Donna says:

    I remember when Sundays were a time of rest and enjoying the family. The quote from Epic: The Story God is Telling by John Eldredge took me back down memory lane. Gosh, what I wouldn’t give to have one of those Sunday afternoons with my grandmother.

    • Liz says:

      Life was different back then, and in some ways, better. My family never went out visiting, but I do remember lazy Sunday afternoons. When I’m lazy now, I feel guilty. We’ve lost our ability to relax and rest! Thanks for stopping by, Donna.

  2. Win says:

    Sunday mornings were always spent in church with my very religious Mother. But, as soon as we got home from church, we’d shed our church clothes and got dressed in shorts, t-shirts and sometimes shoes. Our not so religious Dad would load us in the back seat of his giant Chevrolet and head for the hills. Mom always had a sack filled with peanut butter and banana sandwiches. We shared a quart jar of water. That was before drinking water in Arizona was a “good” idea. My Dad would four wheel across the desert in a direction I think he picked at random. We would eventually end up at some desert hills or rock outcroppings. He’ d let us out of the back seat and order us to start climbing. We climbed until he told us to get back into the car. He’d sit on the front of the car and watch us haphazardly climb those hills while smoking a cigarette. Sometimes my Mom would climb with us. Most of the time she talked my Dad’s ears off about anything and everything she’d encountered throughout the week. I never thought he was listening. We found a lot of horny toads. They were easy to catch because they were slow. My Dad would make us let them go as they were “endangered”. One time we saw a small Gila monster. My Dad warned us away from it telling us it was deadly poisonous. I am still deathly afraid of those things. We’d have red cheeks and plastered down hair after climbing in the desert for a couple of hours. We’d share a gulp of water out of the jar after we settled back into the backseat of the Chevy. Mom handed out the, now wilted peanut butter and banana sandwiches so we could eat them on the way home. The route back to the house was always different. Sometimes we would pass huge flower gardens. Sometimes we’d drive by the “crazy” hospital as my Dad called it. It looked very scary with the barbed wire stretched across the top of the fences. Sometimes we fell sleep on the way home. A mess of sand covered, sticky little kids whose only worry was stickers or Gila Monsters.

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