A Traditional Sunday 1

December, 1941

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.