It used to be a family tradition. On Sunday afternoons each summer Mom and Dad would drive into the country searching for antique stores along the Hudson River north of the city, my brother and me complaining in the back seat about the long intervals between rest stops.
They sat side-by-side—Dad steering, Mom in the passenger seat—each speaking Yiddish so my brother and I wouldn’t know what they were saying or where we were going next.
I can still hear them laughing at the way the other pronounced a word (or mispronounced it), saying it was the way they had learned it. Galitzianer, Dad would say, and Mom would counter with Litvak, and they’d laugh
while in the backseat our ears ached to know what they were saying catching only a few phrases whose meaning remained a mystery.