When I was growing up, diving into the Sunday Newspaper was one of one of my favorite times of the week. In our house, the New York Times and its various sections was the feast. Not just when it came to content – the Sports and Book Review sections being the first I’d grab – but because of the very newspaper itself! 

I don’t know how to describe the amalgam of generous scent, authored by paper and ink. Nor do I know how to describe the sounds the newspaper made when it was being opened, folded, having its pages turned, a blend of soft-raspy percussion, and crackling fire come near to it, but do the sound no justice.

Sunday mornings we went to church. The “we” being me, my mother, and my sister, Rebecca. And, my father gone earlier that morning picked up the Sunday Times and there he sat on the couch, a coffee on the end table, opening up the brand new untouched Sunday New York Times. He had the paper all to himself! 

I couldn’t wait to grow up and be a father so I could stay home when the rest went to church and have the newspaper all to myself for a couple of hours. Now that’s heaven on earth.

I never questioned why my father didn’t go to church except for holiday time like Easter and Christmas and Thanksgiving. It never occurred to me to ask. I knew he’d been in the 20^th Armored Division during World War II. He’d been to war. He loved being the first to open and read the Sunday Times. I could see the happiness in his face when he picked up that main section and gave the front page his full attention. He was sitting down at a feast called, the Sunday paper.