Every Sunday my father would send us to our rooms to “study.”

This began sometime around first grade and continued with remarkable discipline until eighth grade. The only small logistical issue with this plan was that none of us actually knew what we were supposed to study.

There were no assignments. No worksheets. No oversight. Just a vague directive and a closed bedroom door.

Naturally, we improvised.

Our academic resources consisted of exactly two things:
an old world history book and a stack of Scholastic readers that had clearly survived our weekly tears.

The first chapter of the history book was about Amerigo Vespucci and his exploration of the West. I must have read that chapter so many times that I could probably still recite half of it today if someone held a flashlight to my face and demanded it under interrogation.

My brother had his own literary obsession: This Is the House That Jack Built. He read that book so often that the pages developed holes that looked like they had been quietly munched on by moths. Either that or the Scholastic printing budget was extremely experimental in the 1970s.

But reading was only a small part of our “studies.”

Most of the time, we played Office Manager.

My brother, naturally, was the manager.
My sister and I were secretaries.

We had important duties.

We typed imaginary memos.
We carried urgent paperwork.
We tiptoed back and forth across the hallway, delivering documents that required signatures.

The entire operation was highly professional until something, and to this day I still don’t know what, would shift in the atmosphere. Perhaps the wind changed direction. Perhaps my brother simply grew bored.

Whatever the cause, the turning point was always the same.

He would blow his nose into a Kleenex, wad it up into a small, dense projectile, wait for my sister to exit our room…

…and then whip it down the hallway at her like a major league fastball.

That was generally the end of the Office Manager’s day.

Sometimes we would pivot to playing school.

Our classroom featured beautiful oak bifold closet doors, the kind that never failed to pinch either your fingers or the fleshy part of your forearm if you moved too slowly. Those doors served as our chalkboard.

My sister, who I am beginning to realize may have been the common denominator in several of our classroom disruptions, would eventually lose interest.

At that point, the school day would abruptly end.

Around late afternoon, the atmosphere in the house would begin to shift. Pots clanged. Something simmered. The smell of Sunday dinner drifted through the hallway.

That meant we were officially released from our studies.

We washed up, dressed properly, and set the table.

My brother had the permanent job of making sure all the drinks were ready.

Sunday dinner came with one very special privilege:
We were allowed to have wine and 7-Up.

Relax, Karen.

The wine portion was administered with what could only be described as an eyedropper. The 7-Up was barely tinged pink. But to us, it felt wildly sophisticated.

After dinner, I cleared the table and did the dishes while the adults finished talking.

Then, like clockwork, as if we were operating on some international broadcast schedule, my father would summon us to the family room.

It was time for 60 Minutes.

And not just any version.

The golden lineup:
Mike Wallace.
Morley Safer.
Ed Bradley.
Harry Reasoner.
Diane Sawyer.

We sat there and endured it.

Watching 60 Minutes as a child was a strange form of punishment. It was technically better than being sent back to our rooms, but only slightly more exciting than watching wallpaper age.

I did not pay attention to a single segment.

Not one.

Until the very end.

Because that’s when Andy Rooney appeared.

“A Few Minutes with Andy Rooney.”

That man complaining about everyday life somehow made perfect sense to my young brain.

Sometimes during the program, my dad would cut slices of salami and cheese and set out crackers.

Looking back, I realize we were eating charcuterie before charcuterie was cool.

Once our stomachs were full, our taste buds pleasantly assaulted by home-cured salami and sharp cheese, and our minds theoretically broadened by investigative journalism, though that part is still debatable, the evening came to its quiet conclusion.

It was time for bed.

And that was Sunday in our house, a small collection of rituals, mischief, and family rules that somehow managed to hold the whole week together.