___________________________________________________________________

“ ‘Lipensky’?”

Uh-oh.

Looking from Mitchell to Libby Leibowitz, the attending funeral director at Piser said, “ ‘Lipensky’? There’s no Lipensky internment here today. You must want ‘Weinstein’.”

Uh-oh!

Rushing— by this time—more than just a muttering Libby Leibowitz, a sheepish Larry and a more than slightly smug Marsha back to the car. Leaving the mortuary on Peterson Avenue, thinking,  A cop—‘Where ya goin’ buddy, to a funeral?’—Yeah, maybe! If they got stopped by a cop, maybe they could get an escort.

But as the Ford convertible sped the few miles from Piser to Weinstein…

Where’s a cop when you need one?

Bk2#9: A New Life

“There’s Weinstein!” Turning a sharp left into the parking lot, the Ford squealed to a stop… in the, “Uh-oh,” all-but-empty parking lot.

“Wait here!” Running into the mortuary, “ ‘Lipensky’!” Mitchell called to the man in the black suit. “When’d the Lipensky funeral leave here?”

The man, in an appropriately somber voice said, “The Lipensky procession left for ‘Waldheim’, oh, maybe, ten minutes ago.”

“Where do we catch them?” In near panic. “How they going?”

“Well, if you rush…”

Sure, pal, Mitchell thought, what the hell you think I’ve been doing?

“If you rush, maybe you can catch them somewhere on ‘Peterson’.”

“ ‘Peterson’? We just came from Peterson.”

“Or,” the funeral director went on, “on ‘Cicero’. They’re taking Peterson to Cicero, Cicero south to ‘Roosevelt’, then west on Roosevelt to ‘Waldheim’.”

The Jewish cemetery is located southwest of Chicago, between the cities of ‘Forest Park’ and ‘Berwyn’. Mitchell had always thought—because of the distance from wherever he’d ever lived—that Waldheim Cemetery was at the end of the earth—which, for those buried there,  in a way it was.

“Peterson to Cicero, Cicero to Roosevelt,” Mitchell repeated as he turned away. “Yeah, thanks.”

Grabbing his elbow, “Hold on!”

“Yeah?”

“When you catch up, if you catch up, if you don’t want to be stopped by the police for following the procession through lights…”

Who would, Mitchell thought sarcastically, want to get stopped by a cop?

“… you’ll need a tag.”

Following the man into an office, Mitchell was handed a 9x12 white paper placard with a Star of David and the word ‘FUNERAL’ printed in dark blue ink, with sticky strips along the top and bottom.

“So?” Marsha asked as he got into the car.

“Nu?” Libby asked as he got into the car.

“ ‘Peterson’,” he said, sticking the placard onto the windshield. “The guy there said we should be able to catch up with them on Peterson or Cicero,” adding an unheard, “Maybe.”

Speeding west on Peterson—and still no cop—breathing a sigh of relief because, sure enough, about two blocks ahead, “There they are!” he saw a long, unbroken line of cars making a left turn onto Cicero Avenue without stopping for the red light. Speeding up, pushing harder on the accelerator, scooting through the amber light as it once again turned to red, the mud-splattered, dark blue convertible became the last car in the procession.

Relaxing for the first time in well over an hour, “Good!” Libby said. “It’s good I’ll be at the funeral of my oldest and dearest friend, Emma.”

“Yeah! We’re glad we’re here, too! Ain’t we, you two?”

Enjoying the drama, “Yeah!” Larry said.

“Oh, yeah!” Marsha said.

As always, the ride from the far north side of Chicago through the southwest side and the cities of Cicero and Berwyn confirmed Mitchell’s opinion that, ‘Yes, Waldheim Cemetery definitely is at the end of the earth’.

Finally! Approaching the cemetery, the procession turned right onto ‘Deplanes’ and, taking a left, the line of cars slowed then stopped altogether as the hearse and lead cars funneled through the gate into the cemetery complex.

On the south side of the roadway, to the left was a long, eight-foot-high concrete wall. On the right side of the roadway, to the north, a black, seven-foot-high wrought-iron fence.

Now, because the cars were stopped… “Uh-oh!”

“ ‘Uh-oh’, Mitchell? What’s with the ‘uh-oh’?” Libby asked.

Quiet, staring to be sure what he saw was what he was really seeing. “Uh-oh!”

The placards stuck onto the windshields of the cars before him were not white with the Star of David, but rather dark blue with the white emblem of a Cross.

“Uh-oh”, indeed!

Because rather than turning to the left, passing beneath the entrance with the Star of David, the procession of cars were passing through the entrance with the sign of a Cross going into, “Uh-oh!”  ‘Concordia Cemetery’.

Waldheim being huge, with at least six entrances, Mitchell did not find the funeral of his grandmother so Libby Leibowitz did not attend the funeral of her oldest and dearest friend, Emma. And because of this, not caring why the car wouldn’t start, nor understanding how anyone with any intelligence could possibly fall in line and follow the wrong funeral procession…

“A goyish (gentile) funeral procession, yet!” Libby thought Mitchell Lipensky an idiot.

True, Mitchell did feel bad about it, but also knew he’d done everything possible to get to the funeral on time. However, he thought, that rushing to, then following the wrong procession was kind of funny, in a macabre way.

As for the two in back: thinking this was just about the funniest thing that had happened to Mitchell since he’d accidentally stepped into the bucket of water at Polk Brothers, grasping each other’s knee with one hand, trying to hold it down for Libby’s sake but not doing a really great job of it, Larry and Marsha had their other hands clamped across their mouths to keep from laughing hysterically.

A New Life: April 25, 1960; Peoria, Illinois

So hot!

So unseasonably hot that the next day.

“TOO HOT, EVEN FOR BABIES!”

It was even too hot to have babies Sunday.

Peoria hospitals reported only four babies born here in a 48-hour period ending at 9 p.m. Sunday.

Normally six to seven times that number are born over the weekend.

ST. FRANCIS HOSPITAL reported not a single birth; Methodist just one, and Proctor hit the jackpot with three.  

METHODIST HOSPITAL: A daughter was born to Mrs. Mitchell Lipensky 6820 S. Wisconsin, Sunday a.m.  

PROCTOR HOSPITAL: A daughter was born to….

So continued the article in the ‘Peoria Journal Star’.

Named for, and ‘giving a name’ to Eli Goldman; weighing in at six pounds, twelve ounces, the little girl was named ‘Ellie Jan Lipensky’.

June, 1960: Peoria, Illinois

Having a new baby to care for—weariness and irritability having returned— declaring that running the stairs was exhausting, Marsha strongly suggested looking for a one-story house to rent.

Besides, having his new daughter sleep in the same room—although, until moving to this place his son had always slept in their room—however by this time having become used to privacy of sorts, Mitchell found that he would rather share a bedroom with only his wife.

Willing to pay extra, within limits, with the Peoria Journal Star’s classified section in hand, on the very next Sunday, for $85 a month—$10 more than they were presently paying—Marsha and Mitchell Lipensky rented a ‘cute’ three-bedroom, one-and-a-half bath, one-story house situated on a long, narrow, corner lot.

July, 1960

Bong! Bong! Bongbongbong!

Sleeping in a corner of and, with the help of a folding gate, kept within the kitchen at night, better than an alarm clock…

Bong! Bong! Bong! Mercy’s tail striking the metal cabinet door making a hollow Bong! Bong! Bong! that reverberated throughout the small house signaling the fact that near three-and-a-half-year-old Michael had awoken, had gone into the living room and turned the television on.

It also told Mitchell that he’d better get into the kitchen, if it wasn’t too late already—and it usually was—to get Mercy outside.

Stopping a moment,  “Hi, Mikey,” Mitchell said sweetly as he headed to the kitchen. Opening the gate, “Hi, Mercy,” he said in the exact same sweet tone of voice. Then, “Down, Mercy!” he said in a tone not quite as sweetly as, stepping into the kitchen he found that, oh, yeah, it was too late… by a few times, and if for nothing more than to get the licking, jumping, bundle of early morning energy out of his hair while cleaning the pile’a’poop and the three—well, to be fair, because one-and-a-half puddles’a’pee were on the newspaper that was spread near the back door—before cleaning the pile’a’poop and the one-and-a-half puddles’a’pee off the linoleum-covered floor, opening the screen door, Mitchell attached the six-month-old Dalmatian to the lead.

As there was no fence to separate this narrow, rectangular shaped lot and the side yard of the O’Connor’s, the neighbors to the rear, Mitchell clipped Mercy’s collar onto a lead that was attached to a pulley that ran along a seven-foot-high, fifteen-foot-long line that was fastened on one end by an eye-bolt that was screwed into the wood frame of the back door and, running at a sharp angle, to the trunk of a tree on the other end.

Given two pure bred Dalmatian puppies from Cricket’s—his parent’s Dalmatian’s—litter of nine shortly after moving into their new home as a gift from Walter and Myra for the birth of their granddaughter, keeping the female, Marsha and Mitchell were told to sell the other and keep whatever money the pup brought. Which in itself was a nice gesture because the male sold after only two days for $125.00.

However, having a child in his ‘terrible threes’, a newborn and two puppies to care for—even if for only two days while Mitchell was at work—was just a bit too much for Marsha and what under other circumstances would have been considered a nice gesture, as most often happened between Marsha and her in-laws, this nice gesture soured rather quickly.

Though she did love animals and dogs in particular, because of her newborn, Marsha hadn’t been too excited about having even one puppy… Not too excited at all.

Besides, as she’d said on more than one occasion, ‘If your parents wanted to give us a gift of a puppy and money, if that’s what they wanted to do, then why didn’t they sell the other dog and just give us the money?’

But—excluding Walter, because she didn’t think he was all that devious—Marsha really didn’t know if her mother-in-law did it the way she did it knowing it would cause a problem, or if Myra, or Myra and Walter together, did it stupidly, without thinking.

Nonetheless, Mercy was now one of and loved by all the family.

August 10, 1960: A Face For The Future:

Coming from the air-cooled lobby, My God, he thought as the heat hit him, it’s got to be a million degrees out here today! Standing within the miniscule shade in the lee side of the building, loosening his tie and removing his seersucker jacket he draped it over the sample case.

Walking north on Main Street, glancing at his watch, It’s only 11:17, I can make another call before lunch, he thought, then either grab lunch here or go on home.

Knowing he usually had an hour to kill when eating downtown, he’d taken to bringing whatever book he was presently reading along with him.

Just about anywhere he worked in the city of Peoria it was never much further than twelve or so minutes from home. But Mitchell knew if he went home for lunch, especially on a day as hot and muggy as this day, most likely he’d remain home.

Rationalizing, But I’ve had a pretty good day so far. As a matter of fact, for only working eight days this month, I’ve sold—calculating—better than four hundred thousand envelopes. And besides—rationalizing—I promised Mikey I’d take him fishing.

Never expecting to, surprising both his wife and himself, Mitchell found that he enjoyed the relaxation fishing gave him.

But tiring of the racial barbs and ethnic jokes of Hugh Ivy and Bobby-Joe Klee, in the early days of that summer he had taken to going fishing by himself and—although still ambivalent about actually catching fish—he had found a small, shade-stippled clearing on the western bank of the Illinois River where, depending on his mood and the day, sitting either in sun or shade, Mitchell would bait the hooks on the two poles he then owned, cast the lines, eat the lunch he or Marsha had made then, again depending on his mood—keeping an eye out for the bobbing of the tips of the poles—he would sit leaning on a nearby bolder reading a book or laying on a blanket watching the clouds and letting his mind drift.

If indeed he did catch a fish, other than baiting the hooks and casting the lines, catching  it was purely coincidental and, still not too keen about beheading and gutting it—also considering the fact that his wife refused to even look at his catch, to say nothing about cooking it—the lucky fish always got tossed back.

                                                    **** 

Truly enjoying small-town living… Well, in comparison to Chicago or New York City, even with a population of two million people, Peoria, Illinois could definitely be defined as a ‘small town’.

“Hi!” Nodding his head, “How you doing?” Speaking to someone he thought he’d recognized as either a customer or a prospective customer, or someone that just looked familiar.

Being of a friendly nature and not wanting to slight anyone—customer, prospective customer or someone that just looked familiar—approaching, nodding his head, Mitchell said “Hi!” to anyone that looked remotely familiar. And sometimes, if she was pretty enough, he’d add, “How you doing this morning?”

Not sure if she knew this good-looking, friendly young man, slowing slightly, “Okay!” the attractive, middle-aged business woman might say in passing. “How are you?”

“Fine,” he’d answer back. “A little hot today, but just fine!”

                                                   **** 

Okay, his thoughts coming back to his quandary, so do I want to go home and take the rest of the day off and take Mikey fishing. Or do I want to eat here and spend some  time this afternoon working? Well, Mikey is three, after all and he’ll probably get bored real fast. But it’s so hot…

Rationalizing whatever his decision might be, turning the corner onto Adams Street, he saw a grandstand swathed in red, white and blue bunting and a crowd of people that overflowed the grassy lawn in front of the county courthouse.

Approaching the crowd. “What’s going on?” Mitchell asked an older man dressed in bib-overalls passing in his direction.

“Ah, it’s, uh… It’s one ‘a them guys what’s runnin’ for president there.”

“Yeah? Who?”

Walking on. “ Some politician,” the bib-overall man said over his shoulder. “Don’t know his name.”

“Thanks anyway.”

Deciding. heading to where he’d parked the car, not taking the time to stop to listen, or to see John F. Kennedy, Mitchell Lipensky went home.

Retrospective: Chicago, Illinois;  July 13, 1959; Irving Glassman

Eli left the grill at his usual time, about 5:10 p.m..  Arriving home—unless running into unusual traffic—Eli usually arrived home at approximately 6:05.

Having given up wondering where his wife was years ago, not the least bit surprised at not finding her home, as was his habit, Eli stripped off the clothing he’d worn throughout that hot, humid day, taken a shower, shaved, put on a fresh undershirt and boxer shorts, then went into the kitchen.

Sitting at the table opposite the open window, though never caring for this apartment, on hot days such as this day, Eli always appreciated the cooling closeness of Lake Michigan and the ninth-floor breeze.

Glancing at the clock on the shelf above the stove, wondering where his wife might be—because this was all Eli Goldman would allow himself to conclude—concluding that his wife was where she usually was… Telling himself that Rhea was probably with one or both of her sisters, flapping it open, Eli began to read the evening newspaper.

To be continued