The Kids’ Table

During Rosh Hashanah dinner (Jewish New Year in the fall), I felt specially chosen when my Aunt Jean, a lawyer, looked directly at twelve year old me and asked, “Barrie, how do you plan to vote?” as if I actually could. I was torn between the heroic General Eisenhower and the Democratic Governor Adlai Stevenson. My family politics bent to the left, thanks to the radical leanings of the Yiddish newspaper, The Daily Forward, and my grandparents’ membership in the Workmen’s Circle, a progressive benevolent organization founded by Eastern European immigrants.

I was a political junkie even at eight or twelve, learning about the ’52 and ‘56 presidential campaigns from our weekly issue of LIFE Magazine, the Weekly Reader handed out at school, and television network news in glorious fuzzy black and white, anchored by the gravitas of Edward R. Murrow, John Cameron Swayze, and Walter Cronkite.

Aunt Jean’s questions generated heated discussions that continued well after the table was cleared—especially so with her socialist friends Mac and Alice who stopped by for dessert. I felt like a grownup and that my opinion was important in this circle of intelligent and worldly adults.

I don’t remember my aunt ever wearing an apron or spending much time in the kitchen. Instead, she chain-smoked as debates continued in earnest, flicking ashes into her empty soup bowl until my mother slid the heavy cut-glass ashtray towards her across the pressed tablecloth.

After dinner, we were entranced when Uncle Harry brought out the mysterious mustard seed encased in a glass ball on his key chain, followed by stories of his naval service in the Pacific.

Every few years, my Aunt Elsie and Uncle Sid from Boston made the trek to Elizabeth with our younger cousins Bob and Sherry. This was a big deal, as it took a full day to travel on Route One before the interstate highways were built.

THANKSGIVING IN LINDEN: My grandparents hosted the religious-oriented holidays with your basic roast chicken or beef brisket, but my mother made Thanksgiving at our house, the once-a-year turkey on the table carved by my dad, a machinist expert with sharp tools. She baked her signature blueberry sheet cake and an offbeat recipe for curried peaches that I didn’t much like, except for the maraschino cherries. She recruited me for the messy job of rolling pounds of ground beef into Swedish meatballs for her popular appetizer.

BREAKING THE MOLD: I was in the older tier of cousins on my mom’s side and outgrew not only the kids’ table but my willingness to attend family holiday events altogether. I found myself in Glen Cove reluctantly, and so I played a weird prank that revealed the state of my teen-aged brain. My parents had forbidden me to see my boyfriend. We were fifteen and sixteen respectively, and according to them, unhealthily obsessed with each other. Yes, that was true, but these emotions need to fizzle out naturally—or they explode.

The boyfriend and I conspired for him to drive his big white tank of an Oldsmobile from New Jersey to Long Island and intermittently rendezvous with me during the weekend. I wandered outside throughout the evening and found him down the block, as arranged. Every so often, I’d disappear for a half hour and then slip back into the house.

My uncle noticed my frequent absences and decided to investigate. He went outside himself, turned on all the exterior lights, looked around the yard, then up and down the street. He never found us together or the car in question.

If he had, there would have been an incident for all to remember. I knew he wouldn’t hesitate to call the police to report a trespasser or an underage liaison. He was well-connected in town and served as the family fixer, solving everyone’s legal and financial problems but also keeping the young folks firmly in line . . . except for the two unruly, sneaky, hormonal teenagers. He was no match for us!

Upcoming Thanksgiving 2019 reminds me of those sweet and secure times with family, before I went rogue and flouted the rules. My cousin Bob Margolin has referred to me as “the white sheep of the family,” but he may decide to rescind that honorary title after reading this.

Even so, long live the kids’ table, my rowdy cousins, and grownups who weave tales and welcome the children to be seen AND heard.