You Are There

Every week day, like clock-work, at 6 P.M. sharp, my father flung open the front screen door. “Daddy’s home,” he announced. He put his trench coat and fedora hat in the entry closet. My two older brothers and I jumped up from the pea-green swirly carpet, where we were imitating the stupidity of The Three Stooges or scribbling our schoolwork or just tussling and teasing as kids do. We competed for Daddy’s hugs in the tiny hallway. He bent down for a pucker and barely pecked my lips in a loud smooch. I cooed like a pigeon in Market Square. Daddy mimicked back. I giggled with glee. Donnie taunted me, “You’re a Do-do bird.” Nelson made a nasty face like a fish. Mom screeched, “That’s enough.” Then she commanded, “Wash your hands for dinner, kids.” We vied to be first to the pink and silver, plume-patterned powder room.

Then we raced to be seated round the crowded, rectangular kitchen table. I was lucky and sat snuggled next to Daddy. Mom, with her apron wrapped around her waist, served us her usual fare. Our typical supper started with either Mom’s thick as porridge, mushroom-barley soup or ketchup-colored chunky vegetable soup or wedges of iceberg in her crystal etched bowl, always with sliced surprises and a sprinkling of paprika on top. Her salads were her masterpiece centerpieces, meticulously arranged in the precious bowl. We got to put on our own dressing. My favorite was Kraft’s Catalina. One time I shook it and the top was loose. Like a geyser, an oily mess splashed all the way up to the ceiling in splatters. We giggled with hysteria like hyenas. Mom placed the main course on a platter in the middle of the table. Her specialties were either: aluminum-foil baked, greasy chicken thighs, crispy, broiled lamb chops with the fat part salted and crunchy, foul-smelling, thin poached flounder scattered with dried parsley flakes and paprika again, or sliced cross-grain, melt in your mouth brisket with Mom’s famous mixture of gravy roasted in. The gravy was an orchestral blend of sweet carrot, onion, celery, and garlic goodies a la Grandma Soodik’s family recipe.

After clearing the supper table, Daddy ushered us back to the living room where we gathered to watch Walter Cronkite. His broadcast was a nightly ritual. My father resembled the TV newsman with their angled moustaches, light, bright blue-gray eyes, similar saggy-baggy under-eyes, and melodious, articulate, tenor voices. Daddy was soft-spoken though. Both wore starched shirts and ties under their suit jackets. Mr. Cronkite sold his audience the news live, between pre-recorded commercial breaks. Daddy’s business venture was selling televisions and furniture at his family stores. He was the anchor of our family, dependable, reliable. He said few words. When Daddy spoke, we listened intently, just like we did to the evening news flashes and current event topics. “And that’s the way it was…,” Mr. Cronkite concluded. Then Mom recalled us to the kitchen, “It’s time for dessert.”