I woke up this Sunday morning with that good Sunday morning feeling of not having to get up and get going to get anywhere for anything. I glanced at the alarm clock for no real purpose other than I like to look at the alarm clock on mornings when it’s not demanding anything of me, when we’re both just minding time.

This Sunday morning wasn’t unlike many other such Sunday mornings I’ve had the privilege of listening to from the comfort of a warm bed drifting in and out of light a sleep as the household wakes up a little at a time. I hear the kitchen sounds from my wife baking this and that, the sound of my son doing anything but cleaning his room, and the occasional rattle of the dog collar coming and going hinting as subtly as a Labrador can that he would like to be fed.

Very rarely will I hear any Sunday morning scuttle I can attribute to my daughter as she is generally a shoo-in for the Sunday morning sleep in award. Twenty-five years ago I would have put up a formidable challenge but my bed sores don’t heal as fast as they used to and my bladder has become more persistent so I’m forced to let youth prevail. So it goes.

Back when my youth was prevailing my room was in the basement of a hundred year old house. They didn’t build basements for bedrooms, pool tables, romper rooms, and bean bags in 1900. They built them for coal furnaces, piles of coal, canned goods, and salamanders. They were only fit for occasional human occupancy to seek refuge from those angry North Dakota summer storms. Even then the men folk would rather stand out on the front step and face Mother Nature’s fury than chance a run in with a salamander while trying to choke down a twelve year old can of pickled muskrat.

Despite all that my Dad did a great job of turning that old dirt basement into my own little windowless cabin in the ground. Egress windows? My mom was thoughtful enough to hang an old window pane on the wall and there was a coal chute that I may have been able to tunnel out of in a pinch. Besides how often do 100 year old houses with 100 year old wiring really burn down?

I loved that room and I enjoyed lying down there listening to the Sunday morning sounds. The loud rhythmic thumping of Dad’s cowboy boots as he made his way across the kitchen, just above my cabin, to refill his coffee cup and stir in two teaspoons of sugar. The soft quick shuffle of Mom’s bare feet to the stove to try and get to the bacon before it burnt bad enough to even make bacon taste bad. The sound of Gabe running…always running…sometimes being chased by Amanda for good reason or by Jarvis for no reason.

There wasn’t much on our three television channels on Sunday mornings so the sounds of Faron Young, Elvis, Barbara Mandrell, and Charlie Pride would filter down the stairs from the hi-fi providing musical accompaniment to all the bumps, shuffles, and shouts. Some sounds you never forget. Sunday morning sounds, then, now, and always.

Happy 17th Birthday on November 5th to my daughter Sierra…enjoy the Sunday morning sounds from your basement bedroom.