Sweet Sunday

A sweet reminiscence of the highly sacred “Sunday” on a small island in the 1980s.

Cat Island, home of rake n’ scrape music in The Bahamas, was full of people with rhythm in their hips and colorful folklore on their tongues. Cat Island was sweet in beauty and people, like seagrapes and soursop found all around the island. The people worked hard in the field picking from the earth, and at home, they were strong disciplinarians, rearing their children in religion, trades, and a simple way of life.

They were sharp-thinking and kindhearted, but don’t be fooled by their good nature. Cat Island people didn’t mess around. They didn’t mess ‘bout their family, and they didn’t mess ‘bout their money. But most of all, if you ever met a true-true native, you would know, they didn’t mess ‘bout their Sundays.

Saturdays were for cleaning house, washing clothes, relaxing, and preparing for Sunday. Papa would go fishing, and Junior would go with him. My sisters and I stayed home with Mama. The house had to be spotless. We got on our knees to scrub the floor and stood on stools to clean every pane of the windows. Mama’s eyes were sharp. We knew better than to let her see a speck of dust in her house. It was a simple two-bedroom home with an outside toilet and kitchen in the yard. The house wasn’t grand, but it was common for the time, and most of all, it was home.

“House cleaned? Good.”

A clean house was only the beginning. 

"Little girls, start ironing Papa and Junior’s clothes for tomorrow," Mama would recite.

When we were finished, we would squash out our school uniforms, along with Mama and Papa’s work clothes by hand.

“Catch the sun while it’s high!” Mama called out.

High sun was the best time to hang the clothes on the line to dry.

“Pick the peas, girls.”

We would grab a bowl or bucket and head to the backyard to pick peas.

“You done? Hurry, wash up. It’s market time.”

Mama would leave with the youngest girl to buy things for the house, while my next sister and I shelled peas and started boiling them for tomorrow’s dinner.

Then came my favorite part of Saturday—lunch. Mama would let us play outside while she cooked fire engine: white rice and corned beef. We ate until we were full and sipped on homemade lemonade until we belched.

“Go walk ‘round with your cousins and neighbors in the big yard across the way, but don’t go near the sea.”

We ran around and raced, made up games, and played pretend. It was our treat as long as we hadn’t made trouble during the week. If we had, we’d be stuck in the yard, or Mama would find something for us to do.

Still, the afternoon always came quickly. The women gathered on the porch, talking and plaiting straw for bags, fans, or hats to sell at the market. When night fell, the men returned, reeking of fish and saltwater. They cleaned up and headed to the bar or someone’s house to smoke pipe and crack jokes.

Uncle came over after work to play rake n’ scrape with his small band. He worked that saw, bending and flexing it on his thigh, dancing and sculling it with a small knife. Then one of his friends would beat an ol’ goatskin drum with a BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Ma’s yard drew a crowd. Eleven children, twenty-four grandchildren, cousins, neighbors, and everybody in the settlement would come down to dance in the cool of the evening.

Mama’s Mama, Ma—she didn’t play with them, though. She watched the time closely. The music had to stop by 9 p.m. sharp. All the children better be bathed, in bed, and snoring by 8:45 p.m. If an adult had to come look for you, that would be two sets of cut-hip: one from the person who found you and the other from your Mama or Papa. We knew better. Once the sun started lowering, we made sure to be in the house.

Everybody else who hadn’t gone home yet, Ma told, “Go home and settle y’all spirits! Church tomorrow. I better see all of yinna who was wining up ya’ self tonight at Sunday school in the morning!”

On Sunday mornings, Mama was in the kitchen by 6 a.m. cooking stew fish to go with the potato bread she baked the day before, while the oldest girl started on dinner. My favorite Sunday spread was steamed crawfish, peas n’ rice, potato salad, and corn. On Sundays, whatever was cooked was done in large pots bigger than what our family of six needed. Sunday was sweet for everybody. Mama cooked, and everybody ate. When everybody came over... well, you’d see.

First came church. Papa sat outside, smoking his pipe and shining his shoes. Junior would be out there with him, learning how to shine shoes clean-clean.Papa puffed smoke from one side of his mouth while the pipe rested on the other. He taught Junior many life lessons about what it meant to be a man right there on that porch. When Papa sniffed out his smoke, he'd called for us to come. Back then, we didn’t lock doors and Papa didn’t own a car to take us down to church.

We would step down the stairs dressed in our Sunday best. Us girls in shiny shoes, frill socks, puffy dresses, and hair done-up with ribbons longer than our ponytails. Junior’s suit matched Papa’s, and Mama and Papa both wore hats. Mama and one of us girls took Junior’s hands, and we all walked through the graveyard, crossed Ms. Mava’s yard, and down the long winding road. When in season, we picked cocoplums and almond nuts along the way.

Days like those were a treat because Mama and Papa came with us to morning Sunday school. Though we sat on opposite sides in church, I liked walking with them. Several times during those walks, Junior would drag his feet and dirty-up his shoes. He got tapped-up for that from Papa. Everytime, Mama wiped his tears with her lace handkerchief.

“Mornin’, mornin’,” we said to everyone we passed, and they said it back.

Church was hot, the benches were hard, and we had better sit still. Pastor’s wife taught the children’s lesson, and one of Mama’s sisters taught the adults. After Sunday school, church began. Pastor’s wife led worship, Pastor’s daughter gave the prayer, Pastor’s son-in-law collected the offering, and Pastor preached the sermon. Church ended a little after two hours. After church, Mama always would be catching herself, taking deep breaths to calm down.

Papa went out front to get his asue draw—his turn for the money pot. All his back teeth showed when he got his turn. Oh, Papa would be in a sweet mood for the rest of the day.

“Get your Mama,” Papa would say, ready to go home.

He wasn’t into no long-talking or hanging-up after church. My big sister left earlier to finish dinner. The rest of us walked home, but sometimes we got picked up by a wealthy islander in their fancy car. 

When we reached home, everybody hurried — taking off their clothes and shoes then putting on regular clothes. The oldest helped Mama with the food. The second oldest mixed lemonade with the sour oranges in Ma’s yard. The third oldest set the table, and it wasn’t long before we finally got to the table, said grace and ate dinner.

Not long after, we heard the first squeaks from the steps. It was time to feed five thousand: people we liked and people we didn’t, family, friends, church members, and the wayward.

Mama said she couldn’t withhold food from sinners. 

“Jesus wants everybody to eat,” she always reminded me. “Ya never turn away from someone who’s hungry. That’s a sin. I feed them, and God’ll make sure y’all never lack for nothin’.”

That was Mama. She was the ‘sweet’ on Sundays.

On Sunday afternoons, Mama’s uncles and aunties came with their children to hail before heading over to see Ma’s Mama—Mammy, who lived with Ma. If you were a child, you better hush and leave before the grown folks start talking. Boy, we heard everything by eavesdropping, from who didn’t give an offering to what Pastor’s girlfriend was up to. We and our cousins used to press our ears to the door and listen, until Junior squealed on us. We tote cut-up and were sent outside. But we didn’t go too far. Afternoon Sunday school was next.

“Put back on y’all clothes, and don’t let me see yuh hair root-up,” Mama said.

All the cousins and neighbors’ children walked together. This time, Mama and Papa stayed home. We would listen to a simpler message from the pastor’s wife than the one we heard that morning.

On the way back, we talked about school and who was with who. A lot of us passed our own houses just to walk with the person who lived the furthest away. Then we would walk back up to our home. The gossip was too sweet to cut it short. Back at home, Mama let us grab another plate of food. We ate and played till 6:30 p.m.

On Sunday evenings, we washed the dishes before evening church. Mama and Papa are dressed again. Some of us children changed, too. We took the same walk back to church, but now with a lot of other families. Evening service would be like we hadn’t already been to church twice. The choir had everybody bouncing, and Pastor preached a word to carry us through the week.

The walk home was quiet. The roads were scarce. Everything had shut down. People headed home to get ready for school or work. Our parents didn’t have to say a word, but they still reminded us to bathe and make sure our homework was finished. Mama boiled water for bitters. We drank cerasee and aloe, then made our way to bed.

Junior slept between Mama and Papa some nights. Those nights were the best. Us girls talked until we fell asleep while Papa snored through the thin wall between our rooms. 

If you had asked me back then if Sundays were a day to remember, I would have said, what was there to remember?

Nowadays, all grown up, Papa and Mama are gone. My siblings are scattered— either on Cat Island island or far out on the other side of New Providence, the capital island, where I also live. We have our own families, traditions, careers, and lives. None of us go to the same church, and Junior doesn’t go to church at all.

Things are different now. It’s bittersweet. We are not the same, yet somehow, we are exactly who Mama and Papa raised us to be. We are strong-willed, resilient and walking in opportunities they never had. But it came at a price.

To grow up and choose growth means making new memories and starting new traditions with a new family. I mourn the ol’ times I didn’t know to cherish—like the smell of Papa’s burning cigar and fishy clothes, or the sound of Mama’s voice calling for me. What I would give to hear her voice again.

Their memory, and the others from my childhood, rests more heavily on my heart on Sundays. I never thought I’d miss those times walking down the long winding roads, picking nuts, and hearing Mama and Papa talk. I didn’t know that on silent nights, when my husband and children are sound asleep, I would roll over and long for Papa’s snoring or whispering with my sisters until we fall asleep.

There’s an emptiness, a sadness, I feel within me as memories roll through my mind. I think of my children and how they don’t live near most of their cousins, or know what it is like to explore the island for hours without fear of predators, kidnappers and plain weirdos. 

Yet, at the beginning of every Sunday, I open my eyes and go on my knees to pray like I was taught. For just a few seconds, I rest in the silence that will soon fade. I remember the people, their teachings, their laughter, and their wisdom. I honor them by getting up, loving my husband and children the way I was loved, fixing a hot breakfast like I remember, and being a woman of hard work, strength, and kindness that they grew me up to be - not just Mama and Papa – but everyone within my small settlement in Cat Island.