Saturdays

The house always seemed warmer to me on Saturday mornings as a kid. Which is perhaps why it was never a problem to get up early. Usually I would hear a slight sound that would bring me out of my deep sleep to a half awake state; aware, simply, that I was enveloped in warm blankets. As my consciousness slowly grew, I would play with the little strings that so frequently came loose on my quilt, thinking about the upcoming day. Soon I would hear the muffled sounds of the floorboards creak in the tiny 3-bedroom house that all seven members of my family lived in, and the soft, muffled voices of my parents from the room across the hall.
Then a long creak of the floor and the steady sound of heavy footsteps that only my dad made, could be heard going down the hall. It wasn’t long before sounds of the cupboards opening and pots and pans being clamored around were heard through the walls. Dad was making breakfast! I remember lying there listening to the comforting sounds of my dad in the kitchen. They seemed to tell me that I didn’t have to worry, that everything was alright.
Soon came the most welcome sound of sizzling bacon. It wouldn’t be long before the smells of all these foods would fill the entire house, telling me it was time to get up.
After a brief visit to the bathroom, I would wander down the hall and through the saloon-style doors of our kitchen. The plastic feet bottoms of my uni-pajamas scraping across the linoleum floor as I walked. My dad hearing the sound of me walking would turn around, “Hey there Natty-bumpo!” he would say. “Hey,” I would say still partially asleep.
Exiting the kitchen to the living room, I would catch my mom walking down the hall. “Good morning!” she would say, almost surprised to see me up that early. I was the first up, which also meant the first crack at the TV for Saturday morning cartoons!
With a brief, low “Thum” followed by a short and almost inaudible high squeak, the TV would come on. Slowly, the picture would fade into the weekly parade of adventures; Thundercats, He-Man, Transformers, Ghostbusters! Each one an epic journey of suspense and laughter, occasionally mixed with clever advertising that made so many toys look like playing with them was so much cooler than it probably was. There I would sit on the carpet, captivated and content, in a spot the sun had warmed just for me.
Soon my brother and sisters were up, each of us in our PJ’s wandering around the house waiting for breakfast. It wasn’t long before the deep, powerful voice of my dad would fill the house, “Alright everyone, time to eat!”
Gathered around the table, my dad would ask one of us kids to say the blessing on the food, the smells of the food during the prayer making my mouth water in anticipation. Cracking my eyes open just a touch, I would survey the food and make sure none of my brothers or sisters had their eyes open during the prayer.
Now the time to eat was at hand! Bacon came first and then a tall stack of pancakes. I would try and wait patiently as the pot of home made syrup was being passed around with a big silver ladle in it for dipping and pouring. Meanwhile, my mom was busy walking around the table filling each of our glasses with the orange juice she had just finished making after the prayer. Soon, everything on my plate would be covered in syrup and that was just the way I liked it.
The rest of the morning my parents went about the usual activities of taking care of things that we kids knew little about – house, laundry, cars, lawn – and yet felt a part of. I followed right behind, the sticky taste of syrup still around my mouth and the smell of pancakes still on my hands. The house always seemed warmer on Saturdays, and now, as I look back, I know why.