Saturday morning, before the weekday alarm usually goes off, we magically wake to watch morning cartoons. Not once during the school week do we possess the skill of self-awaking, and neither do we for Sunday morning church. But on Saturday, the internal clock rings so we can watch our cartoons.
Bowls of cereal surround us, bells, whistles, and silly sounds. Duck Tales, Scooby Doo, and Smurfs, just to name some classics. Blankets everywhere, roll in the pillows. Milk spilled on pajamas and Mom’s carpet. Hide the spot, don’t let Mom know.
Fights over the remote, crying, tears. A punch to the arm. Bigger brother always wins. Desire and lust fill us as we watch toy commercial after commercial making us despise our toys and wish for new ones. Eat another bowl of soggy cereal to make up for the happy meal we do not have.
Just one more, bargain with mom, then I’ll do my chores. Watch two more cartoons before Mom shuts the TV off and stashes the remote high on the shelf. Rush to scrub the toilets, skip the sink and tub. Sprawl back in front of the TV, just to have it turned off and dragged back to do the bathrooms right.
Soon, the cartoons are replaced by dull, dragged-out golf tournaments. And yet, we do not leave—not until Mom stashes the remote for the fifth time of the day.
The crunch of Velcro straps, pull up the one-piece jumper. Armbands, sweatbands, and three layers of socks. Into the garage to find a flat on the bike. Pump. Pump. Pump. And we are off to spend the day roaming the neighborhood on our bikes, explorers searching for buried treasure and embracing the freedom from home.
There is nothing like Saturday mornings in the 80’s.
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Saturday Morning
by Stephanie Daich
