EXCUSE ME, WHAT'S A WEEKEND?


"So!  Whatcha got planned for the weekend?"


The question, posed in a chipper young voice and set between bits of soft, happy humming came from the other side of a computer monitor.  The voice's owner was waiting for her machine to do its thing and had some time for small talk.  My mind had been on all the other things I had to do while I was in town so it kind of surprised me to be asked about plans for further down the road. 


Besides, I'm retired.  I wasn't even sure of what day it was or that there was going to be a weekend anytime soon.


I did manage to come up with an answer for her.  I had a bunch of things planned over the next few days although only one of them was going to happen on the weekend.  My answer seemed to satisfy her though.  She went back to work - still humming - and I sat back and thought about how two people could use the same word but have such different perspectives on what it meant.  While we were both speaking English and we had both said "weekend" we weren't on the same page at all.


She was in her early to mid twenties.  She was thinking about fun stuff: maybe a hot date?  A sporting event?  A dance?  A concert in the city?  Or, being as she was a working girl, did she just want to sleep in and take it easy for a couple days?  I reached way way way back into my memory banks and recalled what that felt like.  Back then the word "weekend" had the ring of magic to it.  No wonder she was humming to herself.


Weekends are something that kind of fade in and out of significance as one goes through life.


When we are very young life is just a steady stream of days.  My dad was a farmer so every day was a work day; it wasn't like he went to town for a nine to five kind of job.  Besides, we had dairy cows - they had to be milked twice a day, every day.  They didn't take days off, and neither did we.  Sundays were the only day that stood out because we went to church and sometimes spent the afternoon at the lake.  But a weekend?  What was that?


School life answered that question.  We still had the cows that needed milking twice a day every day, but the understanding of five days of work and two days off took hold.  Along with all the other things you learn in those early years is the concept of days, weeks, months, and years, the rhythm of the classes, the power of the bell either calling you in or letting you go.  Five days of work, two days of play; the message is clear - play days are less frequent and therefore more precious.


Our teen years are spent trying to cram the most (usually the dumbest or most dangerous) stuff into those two days off.  Miraculously most of us survive.


The word 'weekend' takes on a whole new meaning when we reach adulthood.  The years of careers and kids means another adjustment.  There are so many bases to cover that free time becomes a most coveted resource.  Party time fades out and family time takes over.  The closely monitored calendar counts off the days to camping trips and sports tournaments, family reunions and weekend getaways.


Life continues to unfold.  Those busy years pass and you find your social calendar shrinking as the kids leave home.  I have even gone one step further and retired so that I could stay home and play in my gardens.  I work when the sun shines and stay in when it rains - Mother Nature cares not the least what day it is.  And, since she doesn't acknowledge weekends, and my husband's job has a similar attitude, I don't tend to pay much attention to them either.


There are weeks like this past one when I haven't been on the right day once.  The Monday holiday messed me up and threw off my planned trip to the city.  We had company on Wednesday so it felt like a Sunday.  I went to town on Friday but my brain kept thinking it was Monday.  Today is Saturday, but you couldn't tell by me.


I'm going to church tomorrow hoping that it will start me off on the right foot for this week - and it occurs to me that this is how it all started out.