Many people dread Monday mornings. Monday is the beginning of the work week for many, after at least a partial weekend rest from the duties of the previous week.
This past Monday began in the early hours of the morning at my house with a terrific and frightening wind and rain storm. The storm was all the more interesting as it occurred after a few days of warm, unseasonably early spring weather. The storm not only made Monday more challenging, it also ushered in an unpleasant cold spell.
Isn’t it fascinating to live in a place where you can mow your yard on Saturday and see snowfall on the following Monday?
Sometimes what causes the “Monday moans” begins on the previous weekend.
Both Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson sang a song “Sunday Morning Comin’ Down”. A Google search, perhaps with the seemingly unescapable aid of AI, will inform that the song was written by Kris Kristofferson. It was recorded not only by Kristofferson, but also by Ray Stevens, Waylon Jennings, Gretchen Wilson, and Johnny Cash, who also sang it in an oft televised episode of Columbo titled “Swan Song”. Others perhaps less well known who also had notable versions of the song are Louis Neefs and Vickie Carr (Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sunday_Mornin%27_Comin%27_Down Retrieved March 17, 2026). This source included the monologue with which Cash introduced the song on his television show.

You know, not everyone who has been on 'the bum' wanted it that way. The Great Depression of the 30s set the feet of thousands of people—farmers, city workers—it set 'em to ridin' the rails. My Daddy was one of those who hopped a freight train a couple of times to go and look for work. He wasn't a bum. He was a hobo but he wasn't a bum. I suppose we've all . . . all of us 'been at one time or another 'drifter at heart', and today like yesterday there's many that are on that road headin' out. Not searchin' maybe for work, as much as for self-fulfillment, or understanding of their life...trying to find a ‘meaning’ for their life. And they're not hoppin' freights much anymore. Instead they're thumbin' cars and diesel trucks along the highways from Maine to Mexico. And many who have drifted...including myself...have found themselves no closer to peace of mind than a dingy backroom, on some lonely Sunday morning, with it comin' down all around you.

The song was also recorded by Willie Nelson on a March 1971 album (Source: https://secondhandsongs.com/performance/190252/all Retrieved March 17, 2026).
The song’s lyrics paint a sordid picture of loneliness and despair. (Source: https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/kriskristofferson/sundaymorningcomingdo… Retrieved March 17, 2026)

Well I woke up Sunday mornin', with no way to hold my head that didn't hurt
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad, so I had one more, for dessert
Then I fumbled through my closet, for my clothes and found my cleanest dirty shirt
And I shaved my face and combed my hair and, stumbled down the stairs to meet the day

I'd smoked my brain the night before on, cigarettes and songs that I'd been pickin'
But I lit my first and watched a small kid cussin' at a can, that he was kickin'
Then I crossed the empty street and caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin' chicken
And it took me back to somethin', that I'd lost somehow somewhere along the way

CHORUS:
On the Sunday morning sidewalks, wishin' Lord, that I was stoned
'Cause there's something in a Sunday, makes a body feel alone
And there's nothin' short of dyin', half as lonesome as the sound
On the sleepin' city side walks, Sunday mornin' comin' down

In the park I saw a daddy, with a laughing little girl who he was swingin'
And I stopped beside a Sunday school and listened to the song that they were singin'
Then I headed back for home and somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin'
And it echoed through the canyons like the disappearing dreams of yesterday

REPEAT CHORUS

When I hear this song I recall a gentleman I once knew and admired. He was a brilliant college instructor and athletic coach. He was also an alcoholic. He never taught any class on Monday before noon, as he would most likely be “hung over” from the weekend before.
Even when he appeared in a Monday afternoon class, his eyes would often be bloodshot. Nevertheless, he was respectful of his students, and his students respected him. He accepted his students as they were, and they returned in kind.
I sometimes speculate as to why this man seemed a tortured soul. Perhaps he drank so much because he was divorced. Having no children, he might have been lonely. Sadly, this very capable individual died at a young age.
Like so many alcoholics, the bottle controlled him to a point; however, unlike some alcoholics, he never let it adversely affect his professional relationship with his students and colleagues. His obituary reflected the esteem with which his academic community regarded him.
Thankfully, I’m not any man’s judge. Like everyone, I have challenges and weaknesses. Even some things not seen as wrong by the mainstream can be addictive and harmful if taken to extremes. I’ve heard of people who have so many books in their houses that they are in danger from being crushed by falling stacks or shelves.
All we can do is try to be kind to others, as hopefully they are to us, in spite of our (un)healthy addictions.
May your Mondays, Dear Reader, have few moans. They only constitute one fifty-second of our lives!

ANSWER TO QUESTION OF THE WEEK # 85
Why should a photographer always use a wide lens when taking pictures of horses? (ANSWER: They don’t like being cropped.)

QUESTION OF THE WEEK # 86
What was wrong with the joke about paper? (See the next “Mincey’s Musings” in historicunioncounty.com for the answer.)

A STORY TO HONOR ST. PATRICK’S DAY
Patton staggered home very late after another evening with his drinking buddy, Paddy. He took off his shoes to avoid waking his wife, Kathleen.
He tiptoed as quietly as he could toward the stairs leading to their upstairs bedroom, but misjudged the bottom step. As he caught himself by grabbing the banister, his body swung around and he slammed his chest into a mirror. A whiskey bottle in each of his shirt pockets broke and made the landing especially painful.
Managing not to yell, Patton sprung up, tore off his shirt, and looked in the hall mirror to see that his chest was cut and bleeding. He managed to quietly find a full box of Band-Aids and began putting a Band-Aid as best he could on each place he saw blood.
He then hid the now almost empty Band-Aid box and shuffled and stumbled his way to bed.
In the morning, Patton woke up with searing pain in both his head and chest and Kathleen staring at him from across the room.
She said, "You were drunk again last night, weren't you?"
Patton said, "Why you say such a mean thing?"
"Well," Kathleen said, "it could be the open front door, it could be the broken glass at the bottom of the stairs, it could be the drops of blood trailing through the house, it could be your bloodshot eyes, but mostly . . . it's all those Band-Aids stuck on the hall mirror.