What We Do

What We Do

My earliest memories of dad sharing his wisdom revolved around the three things that mattered most to him: God, friendship, and a cheap three-meat breakfast.

Mickey Mantle, Duke Snyder, and Willie Mays were his heroes. Sandy Koufax was just his friend, then. President Eisenhower was in the White House and for those, who grew up in the Pelham Parkway section of the Bronx, the neighborhood had it all: Gods, friendships, and cheap three-meat breakfasts.

He didn't know it then, but the old neighborhood was a unique place; if you lived on Wallace Avenue or Holland you went to P.S. 105 and Columbus High School. The school where the action was. As a kid, he played basketball on weeknights until 10 o'clock and stickball on the weekends. His whole life centered around the schoolyard.
He loved playing stickball in the street, but the cops didn't, so when they came around, he'd hide the stick and Spalding in the sewer drain until they left. When you did something wrong, you didn't want the cops to take you home, because even before you got there your mother knew all about it and you were in for it! There was always someone watching out the window. The street was a second home.

Everyone was friends with everyone else. Dad's apartment door was never locked, open for kids going in and out; for the summer breeze to blow through. "Deuce, how ya doin'?" That kid was always hanging in front of the building. Sitting on the stoop, with his bottle caps waiting for Whitey or Skip to play Skelly. Dad wasn't any good at Skelly, but no kid could beat him at boxball. Dad taught me all the games he learned from Grandpa Yakov.

Grandpa and Nana Mollie lived in a third-floor walkup right across the street from the Bronx Zoo. On hot summer days, they'd open the windows facing the park, Dad could hear the elephants honking and smell the smells only wild animals can make. Sometimes, he could see tall peacock feathers running around on the other side of the fence.

Grandpa was plumb, bald, and partially deaf. He spent most of his day planted in his overstuffed chair in the foyer, reading the Yiddish newspaper. He never said much. Like most Jewish immigrants of his generation, he did not say much. Once in a while, he'd sit Dad on his knee, for a minute, and read to me from the newspaper. He was a heavy kid, so he called me Chub. Not in a mean way, it's just a name that fits. Nobody knew if Grandpa had a job or went anywhere. Every Sunday morning Nana made breakfast with eggs and matzoh. Grandpa never ate it. There'd always be a single hard knock at the door, somebody leaned in and yelled," Yakov, ma ko-re?" Grandpa would get up and leave, without saying a word. Once Nana asked where he was going. He'd say, "to breakfast." But we have breakfast here, she'd say, stating the obvious. "This is a meal for misspoke, for us"; she'd say, "you eat here because that is what family must do".
Grandpa chose to go to breakfast with his friends because it was his tradition."

Grandpa Yakov died young. I was eight and a half years old. We sat shiva with my nana. I sat on the floor, right next to grandpa's overstuffed chair. People brought food from the kosher delicatessen on Jerome Avenue. Nana said, "Eh, Yakov loved their corned beef and pickles." In our Jewish neighborhood, everyone spoke in Yiddish. I didn't know anyone who wasn't Jewish. I didn't learn to speak Yiddish, but I heard it enough to understand most what t of people were saying to each other.

The alta cockers gossiped about what killed my grandpa. "He worked himself to death" one would say, "it's this damn city" offered another. Maybe it was the corned beef, another chided. "God only knows."

Nana's friends surrounded her, offering condolences like, "he's with God now." Each time, nana would cry a little harder. I too was sad grandpa was dead. Whitey, Skip, and Deuce came with their parents to make a shiva call. They were dressed in ties and jackets. We talked every day in the schoolyard about things that didn't matter. That day, grandpa died, we did and 't say a word. Skip said he was sorry. Whitey gave me a new pack of baseball cards, with gum still in it, and told me the cops took our stickball bats. Deuce hugged me. He whispered, "I won't call your dad Chubb's, today."

Nana died at home when I was in college. I thought her death would be the end of my life in the Bronx. And in a way, it was. We moved to Rockland County, a toll bridge and endless traffic from Pelham Parkway, the kosher deli, and the Bronx Zoo.

The Jewish neighborhood unraveled making space for other close-knit families, from other poor countries, looking for a better life in New York City. Columbus High School closed. The schoolyard was fenced with barbed wire. Skip and Whitey live in Cincinnati and Boston, respectively. Deuce died from prostate cancer. When I read Deuce's obituary in the Pelham Parkway newsletter, I called Skip and Whitey. They get together every year. One year in Ohio, and one in Massachusetts. When they met in New York, they never forgot to visit the old neighborhood.

Dad said that Jews don't believe in heaven. I don't think Judaism cares what we believe, but rather what we do. I try to visit my parents or at least speak on the phone, every week. I don't take for granted the importance of things a family must do. We don't belong to a synagogue or practice any Jewish rituals. But no matter how busy or complicated life gets, I go to breakfast with my sons on Sunday, because it's what we do that matters most.








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