Hello there, dear reader! You might be thinking you’ve stumbled upon another sentimental, feel-good piece about the past. But hold on—if you have a soft spot for the good old days, I challenge you to stick around until the end of this story. I promise, I won’t mislead you any more than I’d disappear into thin air!

Let me take you back to a time when Sunday dinners were a feast fit for royalty, Elvis ruled the airwaves, and gas prices wouldn’t make you wince. Sundays were sacred, not just because it was the Lord’s Day—though that was certainly important—but also because of what I fondly call “Screwball Sundays.”

A Sunday Like No Other

Picture this: the comforting aroma of my mother’s pot roast filling the kitchen, mingling with the crisp autumn air wafting through the open window. My siblings and I would run barefoot in the backyard, pretending to be everything from astronauts to cowboys. Meanwhile, Daddy hummed hymns while fixing whatever was broken around the house. It was simple, but it was home.

Now, you might be wondering, Mary, what on earth is a Screwball Sunday? Well, give it a moment. It’s a quirky little tradition my mama started—one that’s stuck with me like a brand on a calf.

After we had all attended church, Grandma would gather us kids together and hand each of us a screwball. Not a baseball, mind you, but an actual house key embedded in a wooden block. I’m serious—it was the strangest, most hilarious family activity you’ve ever heard of!

The goal? Unscrew the key from the block using nothing but our hands and our wits. No tools, no tricks—just determination. We would all sit together, each gripping our screwball, fidgeting and struggling to free the key. It was absurdly difficult but kept us occupied long enough to stay out of trouble for at least an hour.

And oh, how my mother would laugh—her joy was contagious, the kind of laughter that could lift any burden. My father, with his deep belly chuckle, joined in, his amusement rivaling Santa Claus himself.

The Challenge and the Lessons It Brought

At the time, it was downright frustrating. We’d resort to all kinds of tricks—using our teeth, sneaking in cooking utensils when Mama wasn’t looking. My brother once even tried smearing wood glue into my screwball to test my patience. I nearly lost a tooth trying to bite into that thing after the glue hardened! Mama was furious, but she couldn’t stop laughing while cleaning me up.

Looking back, those Sundays were more than just a silly game. They were lessons wrapped in laughter. Patience, perseverance, and the importance of family time—we learned them all without realizing it. If we managed to unscrew the key, we’d celebrate with hugs and kisses. If not, no big deal—we’d just try again next Sunday.

A Different Time, A Simpler Life

Those days were different. Life felt slower, richer. No doomscrolling through bad news, no mind-numbing distractions. Just good, honest people who loved their families, their faith, and the simple joys of life. There was no fancy technology interrupting family time, no cancel culture making kids afraid to speak their minds.

Of course, mischief was always a possibility. But it was harmless, the kind that added color to our days. We weren’t buried in screens or rushing through life like we had a million deadlines. Sundays weren’t about catching up on chores—they were about reconnecting, about truly being together.

More Than Just a Memory

So, before I drift too far down memory lane, let me get to the point. Those Sundays gave us something money can’t buy—experiences that made us feel truly wealthy inside. The screwballs weren’t just about the challenge; they were about gathering together, laughing, struggling, and sharing small triumphs.

You might chuckle at my old-fashioned ways, skeptical reader. But don’t dismiss the wisdom behind them too quickly. Sometimes, it’s not the grandeur of a moment that makes it unforgettable—it’s the love and simplicity wrapped around it. Long after career achievements and accolades fade, it’s the silly, heartfelt memories that stay with you, warming your soul like a well-loved quilt.

Here’s to remembering the good times—the Screwball Sundays—that keep us grounded, make us laugh, and remind us to be grateful for every memory etched in our hearts. And who knows? Maybe it’s time to start your own “screwball” tradition. Whatever it may be, may it fill your Sundays with laughter, love, and a heart brimming with gratitude. Cheers to that!