Taylor Rocca, Copy Editor Ω
Wait a second, let me clarify by instructing you to click here to read what I am referring to.
Sounds like a load of garbage to me.
Let’s take a look way back through the looking-glass of time.
Let’s look all the way back to a long time ago, in a… white picket fenced, suburban neighborhood not too far away.
I’m talking about the generation before us. The generation that the baby boomers grew up in.
Now, I can’t speak first-hand about this generation and what things were like, but I know my mother and father have told me many a tale about how life was back then.
Remember the days when kids used to walk through blizzards, uphill in both directions to get to and from school?
Remember the days when kids used to get one pair of shoes a year and it was on $1.49-day at Woodward’s?
Remember the days when kids used to chase an old hoop, pushing it with a stick down the street?
Okay, maybe that hoop and stick game was a bit further back in time…
Regardless, what I am getting at here is that it wasn’t too long ago when we had a Placiday.
In fact, you might even recognize the name of this intriguing, long-desired but hard-to-get day.
Yes, you read that right.
“But Taylor! We still have Sunday! What could you possibly be talking about?”
I was raised in a Catholic home and while I don’t necessarily subscribe to the teachings of the Catholic church in the way I once did, according to documents from the Vatican, it is clearly defined within the 10 commandments that, “Six days you shall labour and do your work; but the seventh day is a sabbath to the Lord your God; in it you shall not do any work.”
SIX DAYS YOU SHALL LABOUR…THE SEVENTH DAY…YOU SHALL NOT DO ANY WORK.
As far as I have been told, that is pretty much how things went on Sundays when my parents were growing up. The most taxing thing that happened was getting the family up in the morning, out the door and into the pews to repent their sins. After that, everyone came home and relaxed.
My nonno didn’t go back to his regular gig at the railroad. My nonna didn’t stitch any of the tears in my father’s pants.
My grandfather didn’t make sales calls for International Harvester. My grandmother didn’t do any laundry.
My mother and father didn’t do any homework for school. Neither did my one lonely uncle or any of my aunts.
Sunday was a day for rest, relaxation and recharging the batteries. (They had batteries back then, right?)
With society advancing and communication evolving in the same way humanity has, attention spans have lessened and as a result, people have demanded there be more things to keep them occupied 24 hours a day, seven days a week.
Guess what that means?
Shops and stores are open on Sunday.
Guess what that means?
Shops and stores require people to work in order for them to be open on Sunday.
Society has changed and not necessarily for the better.
To bring this full circle, why is the Daviesian Calendar a load of garbage?
Because while it is a great sentiment (one that I fully endorse), humanity would find a way to ruin it just as we did with Sunday. We would get bored and eventually we would be unable to entertain ourselves for 21 short hours.
And very quickly, Placiday would turn into just another regular Sunday.