Sunday. 5'o'clock.

Five'o'clock on Sunday is the most depressing hour of the week, if you ask me. All of your daytime friends have gone home. The sky is still full of sun, but you know the day is winding down, and the work week awaits.

This feeling hit me especially hard yesterday. It seems like it had been forever since I had a beautiful Sunday off. I spent it mostly in the backyard, working on the Wagoneer and listening to "A Prairie Home Companion" on Georgia Public Radio. I did not want it to end.

I remember as a kid getting the same feeling.

Sunday was my uncle Walter's and my day. We would adventure all over rural Georgia, seeking out small towns and fried chicken. When Walter would drive up I would always ask,

"Where are we going?"

He would instantly reply, "I don't know!"

Wow! What adventure! I looked forward to this exchange every Sunday. We would just drive with no particular direction and get lost - maybe find something no one else ever had before. 

And I still clearly remember the lonesome feeling of 5'o'clock Sunday as I would ride in Walter's Saturn and we would turn up the road back to Grandma's house from some adventure. I knew before long he would be heading back to his apartment in the city and I would be left reliving our adventure as the day wore down and dreading the six day wait before we could do it all over again.