A Traditional Sunday
December Seven
Tradition: A belief or custom passed from generation to generation.
How does a tradition begin? Probably when someone does something that other people like to do.
The tradition in Mitchell’s family was to have lox and bagels for breakfast on Sunday morning.
Morris, Mitchell’s grandfather, once said, “If Jesus Christ Himself were to come to my house looking for lox and bagels on Saturday night, he’d have to wait until Sunday morning.”
The locations would alternate from week to week. One Sunday it would be at Walter and Myra’s, the next at Al and Bea’s, and the next at Morris and Jenny’s.
The first Sunday in December dawned beautifully. The sky was a deep, winter blue and the temperature hovered around a balmy thirty‑eight degrees.
“Walt, it’s so beautiful out. Why don’t you call Al and tell him we’re walking and not to pick us up. You don’t mind do you?”
He put the paper down. “No, that’s fine with me, Myra.”
Walking along Nineteenth Street, Mitchell was between his mother and father. Whenever they’d cross a street, though he was getting just a little too big for this, much to his delight, taking his hands they would swing him over the curb.
Jennie and Morris lived in a choice, second-floor, three-bedroom apartment in a smaller, well‑maintained building that overlooked Sawyer Avenue to the west and a beautiful, flowered garden to the east.
When eating at the Barrishes’, Morris would sit at the head of the dining room table and, after everyone else had been served, Jennie would sit to his right—not to his right around the corner of the table, but directly next to him.
In their home, or any they visited, Jennie always waited until all the food had been served before she’d take any for herself, and then she would take minute portions, seeming well‑contented with whatever was left over after all the others had taken their pick. But Morris, who always had first choice no matter which of their children’s homes they were visiting, always took the choice morsels of food from his dish and put them onto his wife’s dish.
In all the years the family had been eating together, no one knew if Jennie was really all that self‑ sacrificing, and if she really thought that as the “Mamma” she should take what was left after the others had taken their pick, or if that was but a ploy between Jennie and Morris for her to be the self‑sacrificing Mamma and still have some choice morsels, but no one had ever had the nerve to ask.
Jennie and Morris Barrish were absolute opposites. Jennie was small and frail, a woman who, so it seemed, was always overcoming an existing illness or was on the verge of a new illness, so as one ailment ended, another began, and no one knew if she was getting better or becoming worse. Morris, on the other hand, was a big, robust man with a full head of black‑streaked gray hair. His complexion was ruddy from working outside as a master carpenter. His face was gentle and warm, with deep set, gray eyes. As a young man, so the story went, Morris had escaped Czarist Russia in the dead of winter by swimming a freezing river.
Mitchell hadn’t the slightest doubt that this story was anything but true because love and strength emanated from Morris and the boy loved his grandfather dearly.
Mitchell’s uncles Jerry and Sheldon sat to the right of Jennie. Marvin, Mitchell’s ten-year-old cousin, sat next to Sheldon. Sandra, Marvin’s sister, who was Mitchell’s age, sat next to her brother. Al Marcus, Sandra, and Marvin’s father sat at the far end of the table and his wife, Beatrice, sat to his right. Myra sat next to Bea, then Walter, with Mitchell between his father and grandfather.
Within every group of ethnic people there is always one person that has the knack of telling funny stories; in this group that was Al Marcus. Al was always the first to tell a joke, and always laughed the hardest when someone else told one. Al made his living as an outside salesman selling sporting goods. He had light brown, wavy hair and, as though he’d been in the sun too long, a bright red complexion. A big man in his late thirties, Al had an extremely pleasing personality, and he always smelled of his favorite cologne: Canadian Club.
All the children loved Al, and not only because he was their father and uncle and told the funniest stories, at least the stories they were allowed to hear, but also because he was the one adult that would get down on his hands to knees to shoot marbles with them, and spend the longest time helping them get a kite up, and because he was the one that usually said, “Hey, how’d you kids like some ice cream?”
The brothers‑in‑law, Walter and Al, had played gin rummy with each other for years. Walter always thought it took skill to win at cards, or any game. Al, on the other hand, not only played skillfully, but was also lucky… and, oh yes, he did cheat; not only at cards, but also at golf, bowling—when no one was looking—and at any game that he and Walter participated in together.
Whenever the two become penny‑ante competitors, Al continually won and Walter invariably lost.
“Al,” Walter slammed his cards down, “you’re cheating! God-damnit! How in the hell can you win game after game? Always!”
“Walt,” he said, smiling benignly, “how can I be cheating?”
“I don’t know. But if I knock you’re always holding cards lower than mine! Why don’t you ever knock when I’m holding cards lower’n’yours? There’s no other answer. You’ve got to be cheating, Al!”
“Okay, Walt, so tell me. How in the hell am I cheating?”
“I don’t know.” He looked down. “Yeah, I do!”
Sipping Canadian Club, “Yeah? So tell me already.”
Grinning, “You’re looking at my cards, that’s how!”
“I’m looking at your cards! How in the hell am I looking at your cards?”
Holding back laughter, “My suspenders!” Walter hooked his thumbs in the wide straps on either side of his chest.
“Your suspenders?” Laughing, Al’s face became even redder. “Schmuck! [has many meanings, but in this context it means the male sex organ] What in the hell’s your suspenders got to do with me beating you at Gin Rummy?”
“The reflection!” Walter said smugly. “You can see my cards in the reflection!” Walter was fond of wearing shiny, patent leather suspenders.
And bowling…
“Walt, how’s about you’n’me going bowling tomorrow night?”
“No, Al! I told you, I’m not bowling with you again, ever!”
“Come on, Walt! Tell you what, I’ll spot you fifteen pins.”
Holding back growing laughter, “Nope!”
“How’s ’bout, say… thirty pins?”
“No, Al! Al, I wouldn’t go bowling with you again if you tied your right arm behind your back.”
“Walt, you putz! [about the same as “schmuck”] Tell you what I’m gonna do! I’ll spot you thirty pins, tie both arms behind my back and wear a blindfold, and you know what? I’ll still beat your sorry ass!”
Holding his right arm stiffly forward, Walter hit the crook of his inner elbow with his left fist, causing his forearm to spring up in the “Italian salute.”
“Walt,” Myra scolded her husband good‑naturedly, “in front of the kids?”
“Al,” Bea scolded her husband good‑naturedly, “you stop picking on Walter that way! For goodness sake, it wouldn’t hurt you to let the poor man win once in a while!”
And golf…
One of the companies Al represented had a close‑out on golf clubs, and he’d talked Walter into buying a set at “below cost.”
Walter bought a book.
Al taught Walter the basics.
Walter had beaten Al once in three years, and that was only because, due to an auto accident, one of Al’s legs was in a cast and whenever he took a full swing he would fall over backwards and ultimately had to forfeit the game.
Eventually Walter sold the clubs to his brother Frank.
Sunday morning breakfast consisted of lox, smoked fish, slices of tomato, sweet onion, cucumber, bagels, Kaiser and onion rolls, corn rye, butter, cream cheese, and a multitude of jams and jellies.
Above all else, Mitchell loved being with his mother’s family on Sunday mornings, and was always able to eat two bagel sandwiches consisting of a thin spread of lox, an extra thick spread of cream cheese, and cucumber, tomato and onion. When he’d bite into it, the pressure of his teeth would cause the assorted contents to ooze out the back. Somehow he would also be able to manage at least two slices of rye bread with cream cheese and jelly.
“My God! Where’s the kid put it?” Walter would always ask in feigned amazement. Mitchell would giggle and Al Marcus would look under the table. “Nope,” he’d say. “I don’t see a hollow leg.”
After breakfast, Marvin, Sandra, and Mitchell would shoot marbles on the living room rug.
On this Sunday, Marvin, the eldest and most proficient at marbles, was on his knees on the right‑hand corner, taking aim at Mitchell’s prize silver and black aggie.
“Hey!” Leaving the table, Al came into the living room. “How’d you guys like to go to Brown’s for some winners?”
Distracted, much to Mitchell’s relief, Marvin missed.
“Good idea, Al!” Jerry pushed away from the table.
“Yeah,” all three kids shouted simultaneously, and began to gather their marbles, putting them into drawstring canvas bags, as Marvin smirked because his stupid sister and dumb cousin had added to his already large collection.
“After such a meal, some fresh air couldn’t hurt.” Morris stood, followed by Sheldon.
“You’re not going with them, Walt?”
“Nah, Myra. I’d just as soon have another cup of coffee.”
“Walt, the coffee’ll be here when you get back!” Myra felt that he didn’t spend enough time with his son. “You go with them!”
“Okay,” sighing, “if it’s that important to you, I’ll go.”
There was a gumball machine on the counter of every delicatessen, grocery, and candy store in the city of Chicago. In the glass‑domed machine there were six-hundred gumballs of assorted colors, and maybe fifty or sixty “winners”: an orange gumball with red spirals. A winner gave its owner the choice of any nickel candy bar on the rack.
After a half hour and a hundred pennies, the group had 94 gumballs, along with six winners for the children.
On their way back to the apartment, “Mitchie, Sandy, you want to race?” Al challenged, “I’ll race you guys to the corner!”
“Hey, Pop, how’s ’bout me?”
“You, Marvin? I could never beat you. You want to give your old man a heart attack? Tell you what! Why don’t you run ahead and be the judge.” He pointed to the corner, a half‑block away. “Just wave your hanky whenever you’re ready. Okay?”
“Yeah! Okay!” Running to the corner, Marvin stood on the joining angle of the pipe fence with his handkerchief in his hand. “You guys ready?” he called through cupped hands.
Giggling, following Al’s example, Sandra and Mitchell took their runner’s stance, with their rumps in the air and their fingertips touching the expansion seam of the sidewalk.
“Okay, you guys!” Waving the handkerchief over his head, “Ready… Set…” Marvin dropped his arm. “Go!”
The runners start. It’s Mitchell in the lead with Sandra close behind with Al taking exaggerated, high-kneed strides. At the halfway point it was still Mitchell and Sandra, with Al taking short, flouncing steps with undulating hips and fluttering hands.
“Ohh! Ohh, my dearth,” lisping in a high‑pitched, falsetto voice, “you’re all juthst too fatht for lil’ ol’ me.”
Following a few steps behind, the four men were laughing.
Crossing the finish line, Mitchell and Sandra looked at Al, who stood with arched hips, with his elbow bent and his hand turned outward. “You thweet children, you.” Speaking in the same lisping, falsetto voice, moving only his wrist and hand, “Oh, my goodneth…” Turning to the four men, who were sitting on the fence and a door stoop, holding their stomachs, laughing hysterically, “Honethtly, have you ever theen thuch thweet children?” Stamping his foot, “Honethtly, they are tho thweet!”
Sitting on the fence with Morris, Walter was laughing so hard that he fell over backwards landing on the hard ground. On the stoop, Sheldon threw his head back, cracking it on the plate‑glass door. “Oh, my God!” Jerry cried. “I’m gonna pee in my pants.”
At the corner, knowing Al was doing something funny, but having no idea why their uncles, father and grandfather were laughing that hard, looking at Al, who was still standing with his face pointed skyward and his hands akimbo, the children walked back to the adults.
“Daddy?” Going to Walter, Mitchell pulled on his sleeve, “Why are you guys laughing, and what’s wrong with Uncle Al?”
Fluttering his eyelashes, Al walked to Mitchell. “Thethh big ol’ men!” Looking from man to man, pausing, licking his lips seductively, “They laugh at justh any ol’ thing!”
Attempting to answer his son, “Mitchie, you wouldn’t under…” but unable to hold it back, Walter’s laughter erupted.
Usually showing a dour countenance, Mitchell did not see his father laugh very often, but his father’s laughter was infectious and Mitchell began to laugh, too, and so did Marvin and Sandra.
Catching their breath, the eight began to walk again.
Walter walked with his hand on his son’s shoulder, and the weight of his father’s hand on Mitchell’s shoulder felt wonderful.
“You look so nice and healthy,” Bea commented when the red‑cheeked group came into the apartment. “Looks like you had a real good time.”
“Yeah,” Al said. “We did, didn’t we, kids?”
Sandra was coloring in a coloring book at one end of the kitchen table while Marvin and Mitchell played checkers at the other end. The adults were in the dining room with the radio droning in the background. Absorbed with checkers and the coloring book, the children did not notice, but all sound, except for the radio, had ceased.
“Mitchell,” Myra had come into the kitchen, “put your coat on,” she said softly. “We’re going home.”
Following behind her sister, her eyes glassy as though she’d been crying, “Sandra, Marvin,” Bea said. “We’re going home, too.”
Mitchell looked questioningly at Marvin, who shrugged his shoulders.
Tearfully hugging Jennie and Morris, Sheldon and Jerry, they said their good-byes at the front door.
Walter held the back door open for Myra, Mitchell and Marvin. He sat next to Bea, with Sandra on her lap, in the front seat. The short ride home was in total silence.
Slamming the door shut, “Thanks, Al. I’ll give you a call later.”
Putting the Buick into gear, Al drove away.
The walk up the three flights of stairs seemed to be hard. Walter, who usually took the steps two or three at a time, held onto the banister, pulling himself, almost wearily, upward. Walking behind, as if having to catch her breath, Myra stopped every few steps.
“Mommy, Daddy,” looking from one to the other, “what’s wrong?”
This typical Sunday was December 7, 1941.
The Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor.
