A Bagel With a Schmear

It's never left me, my love of Sunday mornings.

It was my time with my father, just the two of us. In my mind it was always sunny, although, oddly, I can still hear the sound of the windshield wipers. We'd head off in his Cadillac -- always a two-door coupe, not a sedan, on the off chance my brother or I might lean against a door and fly out. We didn't wear seat belts back then, but flying through the windshield was never on my father's worry radar. Why would it be, as long as he was at the wheel?

I assumed my father would never let anything bad happen to me. I counted on it. In my mind I was always happy, although, oddly, I can still taste some tears. But Sunday mornings, I believe, were perfect. Off we went, in search of breakfast. My brother had no interest in going; he had his own special times with our father (or so he says), but Sunday mornings were mine. My father's comfort behind the wheel was contagious, and I'd settle in to the passenger seat beside him, content to go wherever he took me, content to listen to him talk.

The "appetizing store." I've tried, with little success, to explain what that is to my Midwestern friends, how "appetizing" was not really an adjective. Wikipedia has given it a stab: it is best understood as a store that sells "the foods one eats with bagels." That sounds about right, but it doesn't do it justice. For me, it is the claustrophobic shop on the corner of Avenue J and East 14th Street, where ornery men in stained white aprons tossed fish on wooden cutting boards and sliced them with delicate and painstaking precision, oblivious to the waiting mob of impatient customers while they catered to the whims of old ladies who ordered things like a half of a quarter of a pound of nova or demanded a redo when the slices were too thick. My father would steam, until it was his turn. He relished his turn, content to kick back into slow motion. All of a sudden, we needed boxes of "Tam Tams" and anything else that needed to be plucked off the packed ceiling-high shelves with a "grabber." I was happy just to have more time with him. This was before I could imagine that my time with him would end some day.

I thought about all of this, last Sunday morning, as I made my way through the crowds watching the Chicago Marathon, trying to catch a glimpse of the leaders as they rounded the final turn before the finish. The air was crisp and the sun was bright, and I felt almost the way I did back in those days, straining to see over the heads in front of me while everyone waited. I craved a bagel with a schmear. A ride with my father, the sound of his voice. The feeling of a perfect Sunday morning, rain or shine.

This coming weekend we will celebrate what would have been my father's 100th birthday. He has been gone for 21 years, but I remember everything about him, as if it were yesterday. Not just our Sunday mornings, but waiting for him to walk in the door every evening at six; doing the New York Times crossword puzzle with him; hearing him remind me I could do anything as long as I "applied myself;" reading obituaries with him so -- according to him -- he could make sure he was still alive. Our private jokes. The sweet smell of his cigars.

I will always love Sunday mornings, no matter how bittersweet. I still wish I could ask his advice -- even if I might ignore it. And, still, there is no better way to start a day than with a bagel with a schmear and a little bit of nova.