To the Bakery and Back 

It was not a direct path from my house to the bakery. It was a journey. One with deep colors, ancient music, rich tapestry, intrigue, and exotic ceremony. A social smorgasbord  for a twelve year old girl hungry for entertainment, the freedom to make her own choices and forge her own path. 

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On the wooden table in the kitchen sat a small manilla envelope with a quarter tucked inside. I put it in my front pocket where it was safe. My mother set it out for me each week knowing I’d be up early, dressed and out of the house on my way to meet my girlfriends at church. She encouraged independence with the understanding that you suffered your own consequences. Leading was more admired than following. It  was also understood that I was to put the envelope in the donation basket as the elders stood in the aisle and passed the long handled basket across the width of each pew.

I let the wooden screen door slam behind me as I ran down the front steps on my way to the Belmar Presbyterian Church. The imposing brick building topped with a sturdy steeple stood on the corner of 9th and E Streets  as a bastion of family values. It was  painted white inside, shutters on the windows, no adornment but a deep crimson curtain hanging behind the small altar with unlit candles on either side of the  brass cross as a subtle reminder to a common belief. The rows of dark wooden pews were filled  with so many devoted parishioners that the community required two services be held each Sunday. A simple service of a few songs led by the choir and a few prayers along with a thought provoking or inspiring sermon by the minister in black robes.

On Sunday mornings I could hear the chatter the minute I opened the back door. It was the sound of twenty preteens and teenagers finding the right size robe, fixing hair, and giggling before we sang at the 9 o’clock service.

Mr O’Day, the sweet eighty-five year old man who played the organ for the choir called over the din, “Let’s settle down girls, now come on, let’s have a quick practice. Open your song books to How Great Thou Art, ” The music began and we sang. 

I was twelve with no sisters, so my friends meant everything to me. Susie, my best friend, was black and her mom was the school librarian; Jeannie was Irish with red hair and freckles, her dad was a lifeguard. We not only went to the same church and sang in the choir together but  we were in the same grade at the public school and the same Girl Scout troop. I belonged here.       

We’d sing in the choir for one service and either attend the next or work in the nursery and take care of the  babies. We would sometimes stay right through the afternoon playing  basketball in the gym.

One day in spring  I left early and ran down the back stairs to meet Cindy at the corner. She lived across the street from me but attended the Catholic school and church. She waited for me to come out and we ran the two blocks to St Rose’s to make the eleven o’clock mass. She didn’t want to be late and get scolded by the nuns. As we slowed down, I checked to make sure the small manilla envelope was still safe in my front pocket. We had a plan.

Cindy hated to go to mass every Sunday but had no choice; both her mother and her religion required it. No one required me to go anywhere, but I chose to go to church every week. I’d often find myself attending two churches in one day. But I was well aware I did not belong in St. Rose’s Roman Catholic Church.

Walking into the ornate stone chapel was like visiting an exotic country.  The heavy incense, the procession, the statues, flickering candles, the ceremony in Latin all satisfied each of my senses. Touching the holy water to my forehead, I’d cross myself and bow, holding my palms together, bowing again before sitting in a pew, just the way Cindy did it. 

Jewel toned stained glass windows surrounded us, cushioned kneeling benches tucked under rows of dark wooden pews. The Nuns in long black habits, keeping an eagle eye on their wards. When it was our turn I’d follow Cindy to the altar to take communion. I’d kneel, clasp my hands together and bow my head like a good little Catholic girl.  The priest would place a wafer in my outstretched hands and offer me a bit of a prayer. I’d place the tasteless wafer on my tongue and let it melt along with any guilt I was supposed to have harbored. 

We made sure to stop and light a candle, saying a short prayer, before we left the rectory and again, I checked for that quarter in my pocket, making sure it was still there. 

I’m not a religious person, I attended the Presbyterian Church for the social outlet and attended the Catholic Church for pure exotic entertainment. 

After Mass we’d walk up to Main Street together to the Jewish Bakery with our quarters in  our pockets. The heavy smell of yeast, powered sugar and vanilla hit you as you walked in. It always seemed to be a loud and busy place. You had to be assertive to get your order heard. Standing at the glass display cabinet we ogled over the onion bagels, the Kaiser rolls, the rye breads, the cakes and all the pastries, but it was Sunday and therefore special.  I chose a chocolate eclair, my favorite treat.  They were bigger than my hand, dipped in good dark chocolate with  the sweet cream filling about to escape. Now, all my senses were satiated. 

Back home the screen door slammed behind me again. I ran into the house to find my mom. She looked up from her  book and asked, “Hi, honey, where’ve you been all day?”

As I plopped down on the couch I said, “Where do I start?” Admitting everything, I described in detail my journey to the bakery and back.