Well, hello there, dear reader! Now, I reckon you might think you’ve stumbled upon another one of them ‘feel good’ articles, full of mush and fluff. But you know what? I double-dog dare you to hang around until the end of this here piece, especially if you’ve got a soft spot for the good ol’ days. Trust me, I’m just as likely to dry up and blow away as to steer you wrong!

Let me take you back to when gas was cheap, Elvis was king, and Sunday dinners were a feast you’d write home about. If y’all are anything like me, Sundays were special and sacred. Not just because it was the Lord’s Day—though that’s mighty important—but because of something I like to call ‘Screwball Sundays.’

Picture it. The smell of my mama’s pot roast wafting from the kitchen, mingling with the crisp, clean air of a fall afternoon. Daddy would always fix something broken around the house while humming hymns, and my siblings and I would be running barefoot in the yard, pretending to be anything from cowboys to astronauts.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: ‘Mary, what in tarnation is a Screwball Sunday?’ Oh, just you wait. Mama had a tradition—a bit of creativity I guess you could say—that’s been burned into my mind like a brand on a calf. Y’see, once everything was set for the day and church was attended, she’d sit us down and hand each of us a screwball. Not the baseball pitch, mind you, but an actual house key screwed into a piece of wood. I kid you not. It was the most peculiar and hysterical family activity you’ve never heard of!

We’d gather, each with our screwball in hand, and the day’s task would be to unscrew the key from the wood using nothing but our wits and bare hands. Not only was it hilariously impossible, but it was also heaven-sent for keeping us out of trouble for at least an hour. Now, my mama had a laugh like a sunny day—just hearing it would make you forget your troubles. And believe me, the sight of us kids working those screwballs would get her chuckling something fierce. Daddy would join in with his warm belly-laugh that could rival Santa Claus himself.

It’s funny now, but back then, it was frustrating to no end. We’d try to use our hands, our teeth, even the kitchen utensils when mama wasn’t lookin’. And if we did manage to unscrew it, there’d be hugs and kisses all around. If we didn’t, no matter—we’d just have to wait for next Sunday’s chance at glory. It was good, wholesome fun, and the moral of it never clicked until years later: sometimes the journey is worth more than the prize.

Oh, the times were different then, weren’t they? None of this hullabaloo you see in the news nowadays. Just simple, God-fearin’ folks enjoying the small things in life. No cancel culture to ruin good fun and no fancy gadgets pulling kids away from under the table where their feet swing off the floor.

Of course, there was always room for some mischief. I remember vividly the time my brother decided he’d pour wood glue into my screwball just to see how I’d react. The glue dried, and I almost lost a tooth gnawing at that cursed thing! Mama had a fit about the glue, but couldn’t stop giggling as she cleaned me up.

Now, before I meander too far down memory lane, let get back to the point. Life back then was rich with experiences that didn’t cost a dime but left us richer in spirit. Sundays weren’t about rushing to get the week’s chores done—they were a sacred time to slow down and reconnect with family, faith, and the funny little traditions that make life sweet. Amid all the fun and laughter, those screwballs taught me about patience, persistence, and the value of family moments.

So go ahead, skeptical reader, laugh at my expense and these old-fashioned ways. But don’t be too quick to dismiss the wisdom in these tales. Sometimes it’s not the grandiosity of an event that makes it memorable, but the simplicity and steadfast love interwoven through it. Long after your job titles and accolades fade, you’ll find it’s the simple, often silly memories that stick with you, warming your heart more than gold ever could.

Here’s to never forgetting the simpler, happier times—the Screwball Sundays—that keep us grounded, keep us laughing, and, most importantly, keep us thanking the good Lord above for every memory etched in the annals of our hearts. So, next Sunday, go ahead, create your own ‘screwball’ tradition, whatever it may be. And may your heart be full, your laughter be loud, and your love for family be unshakeable.

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