Riding with Uncle Morris

written by Dan Jackson January 2007 

At Kroger Food Stores, the Roma tomatoes are piled high in a large bin: there must be about a thousand of them. There are different sizes--from golf ball to large lemon--and their shape is never round. They started out spherical when finally ripe on the vine and then were packed for shipment, one right up against the other, so that the roundness was replaced by flat sides with soft corners, and the color, the wonderful red, became orange and shiny.

I could be led blindfolded to the display of Romas and without touching or handling or squeezing one, just stand there and inhale and, without fail, I would be transported back to about age 12 years and my time with Uncle Morris. Every time I smell tomatoes, especially the Romas where the pressure of so many piled high on each other squeezes a tiny amount of juice, I’m transported from Kroger’s to another time and place.

Each summer when I was on vacation from school, Uncle Morris would take me with him when he went on the road for that day’s business as a peddler. Before he moved to Aliquippa, he and his family lived in Carnegie. Weather permitting, he struck out each day to small towns in nearby coal mining and farming areas where he delivered previously ordered goods and took new orders. He prospered but must have felt the need for a change. That was emphasized when two of Carnegie's banks went under because of embezzlement by the banks' president. The depositors' money was returned to them, but Uncle Morris was uneasy about Carnegie's future. So in March 1927, on Mother and Dad’s 10th wedding anniversary, he visited Dad in the shoe store at 310 Franklin Avenue in Aliquippa and offered Dad a proposition: he would give Dad $5,000 cash to become a partner in the shoe business. Dad and Mother loved Uncle Morris and Aunt Mollie (Mother’s sister), and so it took only a handshake to seal the partnership.

It was easy for Dad and Mother to accept Uncle Morris's offer. For one thing, years before, Dad and Uncle Morris comsidered opening a furniture store in Aliquippa. That came about when Uncle Morris, who had done well in his business, had fears for Carnegie's future and wanted more security for his family that he believed Aliquippa, the furniture business, and a partnership with Dad would provide. Also, Uncle Morris and Aunt Mollie, of all the large Eger family, had found kindred spirits in Mother and Dad. When our family lived in Ford City and then Rosston, the Chamovitzes visited us and in turn, we visited Carnegie to share food, talk, and comfort. For me, it was a chance for me to play with the five Chamovitz boys. The warm relationship drew the families together; the consideration of a business deal followed.

High on the list of Uncle Morris's qualities, besides his business ability, his family connection, and his personal warmth that attracted Dad was his having been a yeshiva bocher (student at a school for Talmudic study) when growing up in Romania. Education ranked high in Dad's estimation: education in the Torah, the Talmud, and Jewish law had irresistable appeal. Also, in a family squabble over the will that Zayda (Mother’s father) left upon his death in October 1926, Dad and Mother were joined by Uncle Morris and Aunt Mollie in opposing the attempt by some members of the family to break the stated wishes of the will. As a matter of principle Dad could not condone that. The deeply-felt disagreement among the Egers embittered many members and led to long-standing acrimonious feelings that, to my knowledge, were never resolved.

After the partnership in the shoe business was agreed upon, Uncle Morris continued to pursue his peddling. He needed money for his family to live on and he needed money to build a home in Aliquippa. His customers owed him money so when he visited them to deliver past orders and take new ones, he would collect money owed him.

On days that I would accompany Uncle Morris, we left after lunch and got home before supper. That way Uncle Morris could be certain that he would not have to eat any meals in a restaurant that would conflict with his Orthodox beliefs. He picked me up in his big, black four-door touring sedan. It was roomy, of necessity, because of his large family (five sons), but also because it had to hold all the items he was going to pick up in Pittsburgh and deliver to his customers. I remember the seats were leather, black, of course. There were no glass windows as in modern cars. The space between doors and roof on the sides were completely open; if the weather turned bad, isinglass curtains could be fastened into place. On the trips that I made, we never had to use them.

We took the two-lane road along the Ohio River then passed through McKees Rocks, with its cobbled streets and railroad underpasses, to the Fort Pitt Bridge. We crossed the Ohio River and headed through Pittsburgh to Fifth Avenue. Most of the streets were paved with dark-gray, rounded bricks making traveling over them a rough experience, but we soon reached the smooth, paved streets of the commercial district. Now the streets were narrow and, when business was brisk and traffic heavy, cars were parked on both sides of the street. Result? A single lane thoroughfare with much blowing of horns, shouting, and slamming of car doors in disgust.

The business fronts seemed to be of a piece: The windows were dirty, and although the name of the business was usually done in gold leaf, the years of Pittsburgh’s polluted atmosphere darkened the glass and made it impossible to see what was inside. The display windows had a few items, hard to make out as if to emphasize that curious buyers would do well to come inside. The entryway was always small and paved with the ubiquitous, tiny, hexagonal-shaped, white tiles so characteristic of floors in vestibules, bathrooms, and barbershops of the time. The interiors of the stores varied only in size. The ceilings were high, about 25 feet, covered with decorative tin, every establishment the same. Lighting was poor. Shelves on both sides, sometimes to the ceiling, were filled with boxes. Few actual items were displayed. But Uncle Morris knew what he wanted and called each owner by his first name, often in Yiddish; after all, he was a landsman (a fellow-Jew from the same part of Europe). It was this encounter that brought out his warmth and gregariousness. Time spent with the businessmen was important. They supplied the goods and, when necessary, could give Uncle Morris time to pay, often 30 to 60 days. Friendship was vital for business as well as its social reasons and Uncle Morris could schmooz and deal with the best. He liked both social and business sides in places where he bought goods, and I would later see the same behavior when he delivered the orders to his customers.

Sometimes Uncle Morris left me in the car to watch over his purchases. I had not yet learned to take along something to read but was able to amuse myself by playing a form of baseball using the last number on the license plates of cars driving away from me. I chose two imaginary teams, usually the Pirates and the Giants. The Pirates were assigned even numbers: a zero was a strike; a two was a single, a four a double, a six a triple and an eight a home run. When the Pirates were at bat, an odd number meant the batter was out, three outs to a side. When the Giants were at bat, an even number meant the batter was out, but odd numbers were favorable: a one was a strike, a three a single, a five a double, a seven a triple and a nine a home run. I could put my favorite players at bat , pretend there were foul balls, stolen bases or broken bats, anything my imagination wished.

We visited a number of stores, and since Uncle Morris knew what his customers wanted, he made selections without hesitation. Employees took his purchases to the car. Soon the back of the car was filled with an assortment of items: shoes, dresses, shirts, pots, skillets, men’s suits, mops, lamps, pillows, linens, chairs and once, a roll of linoleum for a kitchen floor. It was too big to fit inside the car, so one end was lodged in the corner of the back seat, and the other end stuck rested on the back door, securely fastened by rope to prevent its rolling back and forth. If the roll was too long to safely stick out into traffic, then the front end would be tied on the front seat where it rested next to my head. It was mildly uncomfortable, and I was glad when the roll was untied and delivered and out of my way.

When Uncle Morris was sure that the items in the back of the car were anchored tightly, we started off, leaving Pittsburgh, heading for mining and farming country. I just sat back and watched the scenery change from buildings, mills, bridges, and stores to trees, hills, and open country. The roads were narrow and paved; when we turned on to a dirt road, I knew we were about to stop.

Our arrival at a house was announced by the car’s engine and by the slamming of the car’s doors. At that point the housewife, who was probably expecting “Mr. Morris,” would appear at the door of the house. The houses were always frame in construction, two-story. Most were painted a neutral gray or green. The front doors were always open; screen doors were in place in a vain attempt to keep out flying insects. Inside, the kitchen was large--the place for meals, family gatherings, and washing and ironing; also, a place to hang washed clothes in inclement weather. There were small windows on three walls with the usual white, pull-back curtains and pull-down cloth shades. In each house, the kitchen appeared the same: gas stove and oven, cabinets, a large table, and plenty of chairs. Sinks were large and cast-iron, used for washing dishes and clothes. The floors were usually covered with a flowery, patterned linoleum. And the walls reflected efforts by the housewives to decorate the room where the family spent most of its time: pictures of flowers, family, calendars with themes of animals and children. All the women we visited were busy at chores and were dressed in print cotton dresses and an apron. There were always children around, infants and toddlers; older ones were off fishing, swimming, and whatever kids in the country do when not in school.

After giving me instructions about going to the back for fruit and tomatoes, Uncle Morris headed to the house. He was a handsome guy: tall with wavy, dark hair, a straight back, and a way of walking, digging his heels into the soft dirt, that made him appear to know exactly where he was going. “Mr. Morris” was here. He was wonderfully gregarious, and by the time I was going along to keep him company, he knew everybody and everybody’s family. Not only did he deliver and take orders for furniture, clothing, and small household appliances, but he also offered advice for family and medical problems: his favorite prescription for pink eye was drops of fresh urine (from the victim) into the infected eye.

So, where does the aroma of tomatoes come in? Well, when he pulled up to the house he was visiting, he instructed me, “Go around the back, there are fruit trees. Get whatever you want; if there are tomato plants, eat the ripe ones, all you want." So, I’m transported 1500 miles and 75 years back to rides with my Uncle, back to warm, summer rides on narrow macadam roads, in an open car, and then being told, “Go to the back.” There were freshly ripened, juicy tomatoes, which I twisted off the vines and sank my teeth into. They might have been a bit dusty or, frankly, even dirty, but I’m not sure I even bothered to give them more of a swipe in deference to Mother’s concern that I might get sick if they were not washed. No matter, I ate them as I found them. Too, I helped myself to the fruit trees, mostly peaches, some apples of the crab variety, and occasionally pears. But it’s the tomatoes that hang in my memory.

Only one time do I remember a passenger, a lady from Aliquippa who needed a ride home from Pittsburgh. I did not know her, though her nephew was my age and a friend at public school and Sunday school. She sat in the front seat with me between her and Uncle Morris. She was dressed in a white, thin, cotton dress and chattered endlessly to which I paid no attention. Then she began to complain about the heat, meanwhile wiping her face with her hanky which soon became a soaking rag. She insisted we feel how wet her clothes were. She went on and on until Uncle Morris, obviously exasperated, reached across me to put his hand on her waist where it was "soaking." She asked me to do the same; I did. Soon we were back in Aliquippa and dropped off our passenger. Uncle Morris pulled us away in a rush and exploded, “She's a hoor (whore)!”

The ride home was without stops, maybe for gas, but I had the sensation of flying. The day’s work was done: now to get home as soon as possible. Uncle Morris sang melodious prayers of Shabbas and High Holidays. I now recognize he was using his wonderful, clear, sweet voice to say, “My work day is done, it’s been successful, invigorating, I’m ready to get back to my family.” In the car, his voice reverberated. Even though the car was “open,” no sound escaped: perhaps the space between the dashboard and the floorboard acted as an echo chamber; the songs stayed inside, ringing in our ears. In the car, it must have been like singing in the shower for Uncle Morris: his beautiful melodies rang over and over to his enjoyment. Time sped by. Uncle Morris was happy, bursting with the day’s success.

I made a lot of trips with Uncle Morris. Singing was his outlet. Not so with Dad: he liked to tell stories about life in Russia; I heard about his dogs, the family mill that ground grain for the peasants in the nearby villages. I heard about his breaking a prized chandelier, about his skinny-dipping in the Brushato. Just as I heard Uncle Morris’s songs over and over, so I heard Dad’s stories of his early life again and again. Now I realize both men were remembering happy times. Come to think of it, when I have breakfast with grandson Bryan, I tell him happy stories of my early years as I was growing up, about my life long ago.