DIANE MAKAR MURPHY A day of rest? That's an ideal found only in museums

Remember when you were a kid and everything was closed on Sundays? Maybe you do, and maybe you don't. It just depends on how old you are.
My son and daughter have never known a Sunday that wasn't busy. It was the day we caught up on grocery shopping, or ran to have the oil changed on the car, or sneaked in some Christmas or clothes shopping.
Not so when I was young.
Sunday was, by Catholic design, to be a day of rest. The stores were closed, it's true. But we were basically "closed" too. Lawn mowing, grocery shopping, home repairs, dusting and vacuuming all occurred on Saturday. And while my mother certainly often worked in the kitchen, creating the best meal of the week, for the most part, it was a day of un-work.
Going out
Living in Cleveland lent a magical aura to the day because we sometimes went to one of the amazing museums there.
The Cleveland Museum of Art, while not my favorite, did have its high points. The Rembrandts, Van Goghs, Matisses and Monets did not impress me, but the hall of knights armor laid me out. The high ceiling and the glass cases, the suits of armor standing as if filled with small medieval men, the sheer size of the display -- all these enraptured my youthful mind.
What's more, across from this magnificent room was a courtyard with greenery, and, in its midst, a wishing well. We always dropped our pennies into the well, crossed our fingers, and made silent wishes -- secret because it was the only way they would come true.
The other thing about the Art Museum was a particular painting that seemed to follow you as you walked. Of course, I had had eyes follow me from an artwork, but this painting was different. A guard once saw me standing, apparently bored by what my childish mind perceived as the sheer redundancy of masterpieces. He gently placed his hand on my shoulder, pointed at an enormous oil painting and said, "See the feet in that painting? They will point at you no matter where you stand in this room."
And he was right. I tested it. From then on, I looked forward to seeing that painting again.
We also visited the history museum and, far and away my favorite, the natural history museum. Skeletal dinosaurs stretched to the ceiling. Need I say more?
Restaurant
Those Sundays we spent touring a museum were also spent at my parents' "Sunday" restaurant -- Chin's. It didn't matter that I hated Chinese food, not coming to like it until my teen years; I still loved going to Chin's.
The restaurant owner called my father "Sarge," though, at the time, he was still a patrolman on the Cleveland police force. We sat in a booth with red vinyl seats, below painted dragons.
Chin's was special on so many levels. First, it was the only place I ever drank tea. I didn't like it, but it came with a teapot and little tiny, handle-less cups. Secondly, I could always count on the Blue Willow plates to inspire the story of two lovers meeting on a bridge. Third, there was one waiter there who would remember everything we ordered, flawlessly, without writing it down. It didn't matter if there were four of us or if our extended family joined us. I once saw him remember an order for eight.
Also, Chin's had the best Italian bread. Honestly. I don't know where they got it, or why they included it with chop suey and chow mein, but it came to the table on a saucer -- big, thick, crusty Italian bread with ice cold butter pats. In fact, there ever after, my parents thought Chinese restaurants remiss when they didn't serve fresh-baked Italian bread (which, of course, was every time they went).
After the museum and Chin's, we headed home. No one washed clothes, or cleaned the house, or even, I think, did homework. We watched Disney and went to bed. The times began to change, even while I was young. Now, I look back on it nostalgically thinking it was nice to have permission to take a day off.
murphy@vindy.com