CREEK ROAD GANG
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Our Tuesday Bread
Jackie Kearinscopyright 2010
Isn’t it amazing that, with time and care, we can forgive ourselves our greatest failures, and yet, the slightest little event can trigger the memory of our smaller faults? For me, that nasty pang of guilt frequently comes on a Wednesday in a grocery store in the bread aisle, as I survey the nearly empty shelves. In my head, I hear my Mother’s voice saying, “They don’t deliver bread on Wednesdays, remember?” And I feel ashamed as I recall the “bread” wars that I had with my mother.
My parents followed a strict routine with everything, from meals to mealtimes, bedtimes and social activities, and rarely ever varied their habits at all. For example, we always had supper at four-thirty p.m. as my Dad generally worked from seven in the morning until three p.m. and would be hungry when he got home from work. I understood this part of our schedule. Even though it interfered with playtime with my friends, it was perfectly reasonable. However, almost everything else in our lives was so planned out that it was beyond monotonous, and as I grew up, our schedule seemed perfectly unreasonable to me.
Take our weekly menu. On Sundays, we would have a big dinner at twelve thirty p.m., usually a charred roast beef, boiled potatoes and a vegetable of some kind. On Mondays, we would have leftovers from Sunday. On Tuesdays, it would be a “wild” night and we could have macaroni and cheese with sausages or maybe American chop suey. On Wednesday night it was hamburg, on Thursday cube steak, Friday, eggs or spaghetti and on Saturday, always frankfurters and beans. The dishes were always washed and hand dried immediately after we ate. By six p.m., it was as if we hadn’t eaten at all.
On Fridays, my mother would go grocery shopping to buy the food that we’d overcook and eat for the next week. She always bought the same stuff, for the same meals, with maybe chicken instead of charred beef for Sundays, or my least favorite, corn beef and cabbage. And potatoes, always boiled, always-ghastly white boiled blobs.
“I hate potatoes, Ma,” I’d say, “Can’t we at least cook them another way?”
“It’s not in your nature to hate potatoes, Jackie, you’re Irish aren’t you? Stop complaining, there are children starving in China.”
“Then send them my potatoes! I don’t want them!”
WHACK. I’d get a sharp slap on the ass for that remark.
On Sundays, my parents and I would usually go to visit family members, often showing up at their homes around two p.m., in the middle of their family dinners, and we would sit alone in the living room while they finished eating. The same thing would happen if we went out visiting during the week. We’d go to my sister’s or aunt’s house arriving at six o’clock when they would be sitting down to supper. Mom and Dad and I would wait in their living rooms while they ate. When I became old enough to realize this I’d say, “Maybe we should go visiting a little later than we do? Why do we always interrupt other people?”
My father would shrug and my mother would say, “Because this is the way we do things, that’s why!”
“But it’s rude, Ma!”
“You’re rude! Now shush up, children should be seen and not heard.”
I would shut up, but was embarrassed enough for all three of us, as I imagined people hurrying through their suppers wondering why the hell, Clara, Jack and Jackie were sitting in their living room while they were having dinner. Again.
To make matters worse, if we were out on a Tuesday night, my parents would stop at the grocery store to buy bread on the way home. You see, since my mother would shop on Friday, we would run out of bread for my Dad’s work sandwiches, and to burn for toast, on Wednesdays. We couldn’t wait to buy the bread on Wednesday, when we were actually out of bread, because the local bakeries didn’t deliver bread on Wednesdays. When I became old enough, we’d stop at the grocery and they would send me into the store alone. By my early adolescent years, this became a chore to beat all chores, as a bunch of older guys from school would hang around in front of the store and tease me about being with Mommy and Daddy, or about my breasts, as I went in and out. I’d get back into the car and Ma would ask, “What did those boys say to you, Jackie?”
“They didn’t say anything, Ma. Let’s just goooooo……”
“Well, I don’t like the way they were looking at you.”
And I’d bite my tongue, as I’d want to scream, “Well, why do we have to come to this particular store every week? And maybe if we could buy me some new shirts even though it’s not back-to school time, or Christmas, or Easter, maybe they wouldn’t stare at me because I’m a midget with tits that have inconveniently popped out in May!”
It wasn’t until I started growing up that I realized how bizarre it was to live a life that was so planned and regimented, with parents who would go for long periods of time without speaking to each other. I would love to visit my friends’ houses, where dinner would be served when it was ready, and not at a certain time, where dishes would sit dirty for hours, where the dust would build up on furniture and not be removed every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, like at my house. I loved visiting homes that were messy and where people talked and laughed and even fought with each other. It wasn’t the black and white world that I was used to. I began to see shades of gray in life and when I became a teenager, life’s many colors. My awakening became a source of great tension between my parent’s and me. “Why?” and “Why not?” became my two favorite words as I challenged their rules. What was worse was that I rebelled against their lifestyle. I know that a lot of kids did and do this, but I think that it was worse between my parents and me because their lives were so planned and executed in such a painfully, regimented way.
My grandfather had given me his old 1961, Chevrolet Corvair to drive, and once I turned sixteen, and got my driver’s license, I had some of the freedom that I craved. I was independent and happy until my mother decided that I should now be in charge of buying the “Tuesday Bread.”
Okay. After school, I worked in a department store called Zayre’s, which was much like today’s Target or Wal-Mart stores. Every Tuesday, my mother would call me at work and ask me to bring home a loaf of bread. Simple, right? Except that it had to be a small loaf of Nissen white bread. Not a large loaf of Nissen, not a sandwich loaf of Nissen, but a perfect damn loaf of white Nissen bread. I was usually successful with this chore as Zayre’s was located next to a grocery store and I could run over and purchase the perfect loaf before going home for dinner. The only problem was that, since Mom called only and every Tuesday, my co-workers started asking why. Then one Tuesday, Mom called and left a message about the bread at the front desk. The next Tuesday, she did the same thing. Then the next Tuesday, my work friends announced the message over the loudspeaker system.
“Jackie, your mother called. Don’t forget to buy the Nissen bread, not Wonder bread like you did last week, but the small size Nissen white bread.” I was mortified and this led to another fight with my mother.
“Why don’t you buys two loaves of bread on Fridays?” I’d yell. “Why can’t I get the bread on Wednesday when it’s the same bread that’s in the stores on Tuesday?”
She’d yell back, “That’s just not how we do things at our home, that’s why!”
Ugh……
After college, I obtained a position as a Medical Assistant in a busy doctor’s office in Boston. I hoped that I would be able to earn and save enough money to get my own apartment and live in the multicolored real world, instead of the black and white one where I dwelled. It wasn’t long before my mother started calling the office to remind me about picking up the “Tuesday Bread.” I was always busy when she called, doing blood work or taking X-Rays on a patient, and so Ma began to chat with and know both of the secretaries in the office. Soon, the doctors found out, and I had to explain to every one, again, the whole bread issue. And, since my Mom always called around the same time every Tuesday (of course) the phone would ring and everyone who was around would say, “Hey Jackie, I bet that’s your mother calling about the bread.” And they would laugh.
Procuring the most perfect loaf of Nissen bread became even more problematic since I was commuting fifteen miles from Boston to home, was often late finishing work and did not feel like going into a huge grocery store to buy one stinking loaf of bread. So, I would stop at a convenience store and sometimes would have to choose between a large loaf of Nissen bread or, God forbid, another brand entirely. I’d bring the loaf into the house without a bag or receipt, and my mother would just look at me like I’d put a bowl of crap on the counter, and start questioning.
“Where did you buy the bread, where’s the bag, where’s the receipt, why didn’t you get the right kind….”
I’d sit down to eat supper, alone of course, as my parent’s wouldn’t wait for me, and my mother would sit across from me working on a crossword puzzle. She would look at me occasionally and roll her eyes and then she would sigh. Now, for a relatively heavy smoker who often got out of breath when she walked, she could sigh, one long sigh, for a very long time. She could sigh longer than Barbara Streisand can hold a note. I would seethe and say calmly, “You’re not going to make me feel bad about the Nissen sandwich loaf, Ma. You’re just not. Bread is bread. Do you know there are other kinds of bread besides white bread? There’s wheat bread, cinnamon bread. Pumpernickel bread…”
“We only eat the Nissen, regular loaf in this house.” she’d say, and go back to her crossword puzzle.
Now, decades later, after filling my life with many colors and experiencing different kinds of people, food and places, the half-empty shelves of bread on Wednesdays always mock me and cause an ache in my breast. My parents are both gone now, but if it were possible, I would get them the best loaf of Nissen bread that was ever baked.
But never on a Wednesday, of course.
My parents followed a strict routine with everything, from meals to mealtimes, bedtimes and social activities, and rarely ever varied their habits at all. For example, we always had supper at four-thirty p.m. as my Dad generally worked from seven in the morning until three p.m. and would be hungry when he got home from work. I understood this part of our schedule. Even though it interfered with playtime with my friends, it was perfectly reasonable. However, almost everything else in our lives was so planned out that it was beyond monotonous, and as I grew up, our schedule seemed perfectly unreasonable to me.
Take our weekly menu. On Sundays, we would have a big dinner at twelve thirty p.m., usually a charred roast beef, boiled potatoes and a vegetable of some kind. On Mondays, we would have leftovers from Sunday. On Tuesdays, it would be a “wild” night and we could have macaroni and cheese with sausages or maybe American chop suey. On Wednesday night it was hamburg, on Thursday cube steak, Friday, eggs or spaghetti and on Saturday, always frankfurters and beans. The dishes were always washed and hand dried immediately after we ate. By six p.m., it was as if we hadn’t eaten at all.
On Fridays, my mother would go grocery shopping to buy the food that we’d overcook and eat for the next week. She always bought the same stuff, for the same meals, with maybe chicken instead of charred beef for Sundays, or my least favorite, corn beef and cabbage. And potatoes, always boiled, always-ghastly white boiled blobs.
“I hate potatoes, Ma,” I’d say, “Can’t we at least cook them another way?”
“It’s not in your nature to hate potatoes, Jackie, you’re Irish aren’t you? Stop complaining, there are children starving in China.”
“Then send them my potatoes! I don’t want them!”
WHACK. I’d get a sharp slap on the ass for that remark.
On Sundays, my parents and I would usually go to visit family members, often showing up at their homes around two p.m., in the middle of their family dinners, and we would sit alone in the living room while they finished eating. The same thing would happen if we went out visiting during the week. We’d go to my sister’s or aunt’s house arriving at six o’clock when they would be sitting down to supper. Mom and Dad and I would wait in their living rooms while they ate. When I became old enough to realize this I’d say, “Maybe we should go visiting a little later than we do? Why do we always interrupt other people?”
My father would shrug and my mother would say, “Because this is the way we do things, that’s why!”
“But it’s rude, Ma!”
“You’re rude! Now shush up, children should be seen and not heard.”
I would shut up, but was embarrassed enough for all three of us, as I imagined people hurrying through their suppers wondering why the hell, Clara, Jack and Jackie were sitting in their living room while they were having dinner. Again.
To make matters worse, if we were out on a Tuesday night, my parents would stop at the grocery store to buy bread on the way home. You see, since my mother would shop on Friday, we would run out of bread for my Dad’s work sandwiches, and to burn for toast, on Wednesdays. We couldn’t wait to buy the bread on Wednesday, when we were actually out of bread, because the local bakeries didn’t deliver bread on Wednesdays. When I became old enough, we’d stop at the grocery and they would send me into the store alone. By my early adolescent years, this became a chore to beat all chores, as a bunch of older guys from school would hang around in front of the store and tease me about being with Mommy and Daddy, or about my breasts, as I went in and out. I’d get back into the car and Ma would ask, “What did those boys say to you, Jackie?”
“They didn’t say anything, Ma. Let’s just goooooo……”
“Well, I don’t like the way they were looking at you.”
And I’d bite my tongue, as I’d want to scream, “Well, why do we have to come to this particular store every week? And maybe if we could buy me some new shirts even though it’s not back-to school time, or Christmas, or Easter, maybe they wouldn’t stare at me because I’m a midget with tits that have inconveniently popped out in May!”
It wasn’t until I started growing up that I realized how bizarre it was to live a life that was so planned and regimented, with parents who would go for long periods of time without speaking to each other. I would love to visit my friends’ houses, where dinner would be served when it was ready, and not at a certain time, where dishes would sit dirty for hours, where the dust would build up on furniture and not be removed every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, like at my house. I loved visiting homes that were messy and where people talked and laughed and even fought with each other. It wasn’t the black and white world that I was used to. I began to see shades of gray in life and when I became a teenager, life’s many colors. My awakening became a source of great tension between my parent’s and me. “Why?” and “Why not?” became my two favorite words as I challenged their rules. What was worse was that I rebelled against their lifestyle. I know that a lot of kids did and do this, but I think that it was worse between my parents and me because their lives were so planned and executed in such a painfully, regimented way.
My grandfather had given me his old 1961, Chevrolet Corvair to drive, and once I turned sixteen, and got my driver’s license, I had some of the freedom that I craved. I was independent and happy until my mother decided that I should now be in charge of buying the “Tuesday Bread.”
Okay. After school, I worked in a department store called Zayre’s, which was much like today’s Target or Wal-Mart stores. Every Tuesday, my mother would call me at work and ask me to bring home a loaf of bread. Simple, right? Except that it had to be a small loaf of Nissen white bread. Not a large loaf of Nissen, not a sandwich loaf of Nissen, but a perfect damn loaf of white Nissen bread. I was usually successful with this chore as Zayre’s was located next to a grocery store and I could run over and purchase the perfect loaf before going home for dinner. The only problem was that, since Mom called only and every Tuesday, my co-workers started asking why. Then one Tuesday, Mom called and left a message about the bread at the front desk. The next Tuesday, she did the same thing. Then the next Tuesday, my work friends announced the message over the loudspeaker system.
“Jackie, your mother called. Don’t forget to buy the Nissen bread, not Wonder bread like you did last week, but the small size Nissen white bread.” I was mortified and this led to another fight with my mother.
“Why don’t you buys two loaves of bread on Fridays?” I’d yell. “Why can’t I get the bread on Wednesday when it’s the same bread that’s in the stores on Tuesday?”
She’d yell back, “That’s just not how we do things at our home, that’s why!”
Ugh……
After college, I obtained a position as a Medical Assistant in a busy doctor’s office in Boston. I hoped that I would be able to earn and save enough money to get my own apartment and live in the multicolored real world, instead of the black and white one where I dwelled. It wasn’t long before my mother started calling the office to remind me about picking up the “Tuesday Bread.” I was always busy when she called, doing blood work or taking X-Rays on a patient, and so Ma began to chat with and know both of the secretaries in the office. Soon, the doctors found out, and I had to explain to every one, again, the whole bread issue. And, since my Mom always called around the same time every Tuesday (of course) the phone would ring and everyone who was around would say, “Hey Jackie, I bet that’s your mother calling about the bread.” And they would laugh.
Procuring the most perfect loaf of Nissen bread became even more problematic since I was commuting fifteen miles from Boston to home, was often late finishing work and did not feel like going into a huge grocery store to buy one stinking loaf of bread. So, I would stop at a convenience store and sometimes would have to choose between a large loaf of Nissen bread or, God forbid, another brand entirely. I’d bring the loaf into the house without a bag or receipt, and my mother would just look at me like I’d put a bowl of crap on the counter, and start questioning.
“Where did you buy the bread, where’s the bag, where’s the receipt, why didn’t you get the right kind….”
I’d sit down to eat supper, alone of course, as my parent’s wouldn’t wait for me, and my mother would sit across from me working on a crossword puzzle. She would look at me occasionally and roll her eyes and then she would sigh. Now, for a relatively heavy smoker who often got out of breath when she walked, she could sigh, one long sigh, for a very long time. She could sigh longer than Barbara Streisand can hold a note. I would seethe and say calmly, “You’re not going to make me feel bad about the Nissen sandwich loaf, Ma. You’re just not. Bread is bread. Do you know there are other kinds of bread besides white bread? There’s wheat bread, cinnamon bread. Pumpernickel bread…”
“We only eat the Nissen, regular loaf in this house.” she’d say, and go back to her crossword puzzle.
Now, decades later, after filling my life with many colors and experiencing different kinds of people, food and places, the half-empty shelves of bread on Wednesdays always mock me and cause an ache in my breast. My parents are both gone now, but if it were possible, I would get them the best loaf of Nissen bread that was ever baked.
But never on a Wednesday, of course.
* * *
