A Perfect Day for Nothing

By Rory McClannahan

It’s Sunday afternoon. It’s my favorite time of the week. Today is especially nice. The sun is shining and it’s just cool enough out where you have to wear a light jacket. Leaves are scattered all over and I really should be gathering them up and moving them elsewhere.

It’s Sunday, though, and Sunday is my day. It is the day of the week in which I have total control of my life. If I want to rake leaves, I rake leaves. Usually I don’t. Breakfast with a friend? Sign me up, or maybe not. If I choose to do nothing, I do nothing with no guilt. Anyone who knows me knows this about me. You can ask me if I want to do something on a Sunday, but it’s a good chance on the answer I’ll say I’m busy. I even explain that it is nothing personal and then explain about how I approach my Sunday every week.

It developed years ago when I was the Mountain View Telegraph, the small newspaper in which I was editor/reporter/photographer and the guy who turned on the lights in the morning and turned them off at night. And on weekends. I had a great staff, even the ones who didn’t work out. I respected and appreciated what they did for me, I would do all I could to assure that they could spend weekends with their families. So, I gave up a lot of Saturdays to work. When the kids were younger, they would come along with me because what we were covering was usually fun stuff. I rarely took with them with me on the serious stuff, but Connor did get to come with me to see Bill Clinton give a eulogy for Gov. Bruce King.

When I started as editor, I was working seven days a week, but I knew that had to stop. It was too much work and all work and no play makes Rory a dull boy. Grumpy, too. It was then that I decided that Sunday was a day in which I would refuse to work. Eventually, I had come to the determination that I was going to spend Sunday how I wanted to spend Sunday.

I highly recommend it as a lifestyle choice. It is nice to have at least one day of the week without any expectations, to just be. If you enjoy being with friends and family, by all means go be with your friends. Same goes for bike riding in the mountains, working in your garage on a killer home brew, shooting photographs for kicks, reading a book, rooting for your favorite team on the TV. Whatever floats your boat you should go ahead and do it and ignore anyone who might think that what you enjoy about life has no meaning.

One of my favorite kind of Sundays is to have a nice sunbeam coming in my office while I tap out words, hopefully in some sort of order that makes sense. Behind me, the TV has a football game on, San Francisco 20, Jacksonville, 3, if you care. I don’t care that much about the game, but I could change my mind. That sometimes happens when I’m tapping out words and get stuck. There’s no hurry. No deadlines.

Bonnie Riatt is playing through the speakers. Don’t get the wrong idea, I’d never been much of a fan of hers, but somehow ended up with Bonnie Raitt in my music folder, so I played it. It’s Sunday, I can do what I want. For the record, the album is pretty okay, a good kind of mellow for this afternoon.

I read for a little outside in the sunshine. The thermometer says it’s about 70 outside. I am never going to complain about 70-degree days in the middle of November. If the weather is gray, I’ll read in the ugly pink Lazy-Boy chair right next to my desk. Ask anyone who reads where their favorite place to read is. After they say “everywhere,” ask for their second favorite place. For me, it is an ugly, pink, 50-year old recliner. It was in pretty ratty shape when I bought it at a thrift store 10 years ago and it doesn’t look any better. My Christmas present to myself this year is to get it fixed up, maybe with upholstery that doesn’t look like the chair was stolen from some grandmother’s sitting room.

I have a newer recliner out in the living room that needs work as well, but I’m thinking about replacing it. The pink chair, though, I will probably die in and that would be just fine.

I didn’t read too much because I wanted to work on things that will not bring me fame and fortune. I write things because I enjoy it. I enjoy thinking about all the things that go into making a good story and I strive to do that in my own work. As such, I read a lot, and a lot of different things. A couple of weeks ago, I finished a two-book run by a Norwegian existentialist. They were both good, but I found myself without a “next book” to read. It happens sometimes when I just get into reading what I’m reading and forget to plan ahead. I’d been through all of my library holds.

I figured, what the hell, why not read my favorite author? Me. I’m not sure how often other writers go back a read their stuff. I’m not sure how many would admit it. Personally, I like re-reading the evidence of my genius. Seriously, though, the process of writing a book means repeated readings and living with that book for at least a year. Once done, I have a tendency to put the book away and not pick it up.

That said. It’s been some years since I’ve read my books, and I’ve never read them one after the other. The more time that has passed has given me a fresh perspective. There are passages and plot points I made that now make me cringe. I’ve been thinking of things I would do to the manuscripts now to make them better. That kind of contemplation only lasts a second or two, because I’m not really in the habit of going back since something has been released from its cage. Besides, there are other things I’d much rather be doing.

Like writing a new book. I’ve finished the first draft of the first book in a duology and I’m ¾ of the way through the second book. It’s been taking up a lot of my free time lately. I say that because to write two books, so far, it’s taken me way too long. Terry Pratchett would have written five or six books in the time I’ve spent on this. Thinking that I’m not as slow as George RR Martin is of little comfort – my completed product is not as anticipated by anyone than me.

I also like writing these little essays. Lately, I’ve been thinking of them as writing a memoir while the events are happening. That’s not necessarily true, though, because I don’t talk much about the kids or the love life. I didn’t always used to, but the kids are adults now and they deserve their privacy, and my love life is really none of your business. So, I write about what’s on my mind, which may be about dates I had 40 years ago, or an encounter at Walmart the other day.

So, at Walmart the other day, I was looking for a room humidifier – my sinuses get real dry in the middle of the night. Walmart, however, sells everything and Connor and I wondered and wandered where it was in the store where they might be located. The company website said they sold them, but didn’t give any information as to where they would be located in the Edgewood, NM Walmart.

We asked a guy who was wearing a blue vest. He pulled out his smart phone and said with utmost confidence, “Aisle M-19.” You may not know this, but there was no Aisle M-19 in the Walmart in Edgewood, NM, unless it is the tire department. We didn’t see any signs telling which aisle the tires were being sold in, so we don’t know for sure.

I decided to try the allergy aisle, which was right near where the blue vest guy had set us on a Where’s Waldo trip around the store. Yes. That’s where they were.

There isn’t really a whole essay in that story because everyone right now is saying, “Yep, that’s about right for Walmart.” It was still kind of funny though. At least with a trip to Walmart I get a little exercise. Looking at the regular Walmart shopper, maybe they should put their items further apart. At this point, you can insert your own Walmart joke.

The important thing to remember is that I did not go to Walmart today. Today is Sunday.

Sunday is my day.