A Novella in installments, tracing the intermingling autobiographies of a boy and a violin, spanning over a century. The previous episode is right here. To find any episode, look here.

(The protagonist posing with some old friends: a Japanese shakuhachi, A Zimbabwean mbira, and a good ol’ American jaw harp.)

(12) – The Communion Breakfast, NJ, 1964

They had this peculiar occasional practice in our Catholic parish called ‘Communion Breakfasts’, which although less tedious for a 10 or 11 year old boy than actually enduring a Mass, still elicited groans bemoaning wasted morning hours whenever my mother decided out of either guilt or some strange sense of decorum that we’d be attending one. This happened maybe three times during my childhood. But one occasion I remember distinctly because of a mystery that unfurled near the end of it.

The format of the Communion Breakfast was something like this: Immediately after an earlier than usual Sunday Mass selected parishoners (chosen because they contributed funds towards the breakfast) would congregate in the school’s auditorium where officious yet pious appearing Knights of Columbus elders, clad in navy blue insignia-ed blazers, had organized round tables with pristeen white tablecloths all about the large room. Attendees, maybe a hundred or so, would flow in through the double open doorway and mingle a bit, not without some social awkwardness, before finding their way to one of the tables. Usually my mother did the selecting here. She was the Catholic in the household, my father being the mildly reluctant Protestant who demured on account of a love for pastry, and then there was myself. It was all about the pastry! What was called in our homestead “Sunday buns”. Sunday buns stood as one of the coolest inventions in America to my young eyes. No eggs or bacon or cereal, no oatmeal or even waffles. Just buns. Well, coffee for the adults but who cared about that?

These were major league buns. They were sourced from Labendz’s Bakery downtown, which created the world’s best brownies, incredible spice cakes, endlessly rising Brown Derby cakes with piles of fresh peaches and strawberries inside smothered in whipped cream, and tons of other long forgotten treasures. It was only when I got a good deal older that I realized not all bakeries in New Jersey or the U.S. reached up to the standard of Labendz’s. The place smelled amazing. I knew about Sunday buns because every month or two my father would quixotically decide to drive there on a Sunday morning and fetch a dozen of them in dazzling variety. They were only available on Sunday mornings until sold out. So I went into the Communion Breakfast already well informed about favorites and bun rankings. There was a protocol here as well, subtle but real. If you were a kid you could push the rules slightly. At a certain point, a Columbus Knight would approach the table and bring a silver tray with a good dozen stacked buns. Good news this because only eight people sat at a round table. And sometimes you got an older gentleman who politely refused and just drank coffee while chatting. But you had to wait! An official, something like a church deacon, would deliver holy community remarks for a couple of minutes and then declare the feast blessed signalling that buns could be chosen.

There was only one other kid at my table, Stoian Golumbeski, a year older than myself but shorter, and hailing from Czechoslovakian heritage as I later found out. He and this portly adult looked to be my only serious competition, as the ladies would inevitably concern themselves with pouring coffee first and foremost. I had the drop on Golumbeski, seated beside me on the right, because at the very moment the deacon was concluding his blah-blah his mother, to his right, had engaged him in some quick aside about something. Having already sized up the offering and my mood, I reached in for the often coveted crumb bun, using just the appropo degree of non-haste. It was between that and the apricot danish but my strategy was that maybe with luck I could circle back to it later on when it was socially acceptable to casually grab seconds. The cherry danish was also exceptional but I quite expected my father to go for that one, which I was totally cool with.

Completing his chat and temporary distraction, Stoian turned to the task at hand and assessed rapidly. “I see that you’ve gotten the crumb bun”, he nudged. A surprising stretch of decorum. I made him an offer while he scanned the remains to make sure there wasn’t a second crumb bun buried in the pile. Which there was not. “If you wanna, I could cut it in half and share provided you choose the apricot and do the same for me.” Uttered with a rising question tone. But I could right away tell by his wrinkled frown that he wasn’t into that and was eyeing instead the blueberry cruller as consolation prize. And so it went… I don’t think we spoke of too much else. Stoian lived in a distant part of town and we never ran into one another outside of school. Plus, Stoian was an altar boy, sometimes assisting the priest during masses and having to wear weird white altar boy pajamas and looking holy while doing so. It kind of grossed me out.

After a good half hour of meaningless adult conversation it was finally okay to get up and begin the departure ritual. I passed under the raised up basketball backboard and hoop on the way out and wondered if I would ever in life see it lowered and actually get to play. It was a three minute walk outside to the area where all the cars were parked, clusters of people politely chatting. Nearing our car I suddenly spied Johnny’s father, recognizable in his fancy Italian hat, accompanied by two ladies. The first I saw was Johnny’s mother. She stood out for her long dark Mediterranean hair — a novelty in psuedo-modern American housewife suburbia. They must have sat on the opposite end of the auditorium during the breakfast. Johnny wasn’t present. But then I recognized the other, older lady. It was none other than the rumored witch Mrs. Markey! Dressed in another of her snazzy plaid waistcoats. I was at enough distance that they didn’t notice me. But I heard Johnny’s mother refer to her as Jo-jo while the father was helping her into the seat of their car.

Something I never knew before! Mrs. Markey — Jojo Markey — was good friends with Johnny’s parents. She owned no car. In fact, her house was distinctive on our block as being the only house without a driveway, now that I thought about it. Just streetfront, grasses, bushes, pathways, and peculiar interesting things. This was a big reason why her house looked unusual. No driveway. Johnny’s father was Jo-jo’s transportation, whenever she had a need to go somewhere without her bicycle. The juxtaposition of these acquaintances baffled me.

_______RS

NOTE: The next episode, if it exists yet, is right here. To find any episode, look here.

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