During the long and pleasant days of summer, the chaos of our traditional Sunday family dinner is shuttled to the back yard. The shade of the 40-year-old cottonwood trees and a half acre of grass easily absorb the clamor of loud voices, the crush of 40 footprints and the scatter of a million toys. With the cooling temperatures of autumn, however, the pandemonium moves to the confines of our simple split-entry interior.
It’s Sunday night. The impending stress of a new workweek lurks around the corner a scant seven hours away. And, all around us, the aftermath of Hurricane Sarah and her seven cousins, 10 aunts and uncles and assorted extended family indicate that weekend decompression is still a serious cleanup away.
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