Waking early and hungry, he leaves the warmth and comfort of his suburban bi-level house on Sunday mornings. My father drives, not to the closest bakery, but to one he deems the best in the art of bagel boiling and baking, and carefully chooses a variety of the classics- plain, onion, sesame, poppy, rye and pumpernickel. Several dozens, along with packages of cream cheese, are placed into multiple bags and deposited semi- anonymously on friends and neighbors doorsteps. As the sun continues to rise, and he is confident that others will be awake, he begins to receive something in return for his gift, a cup of coffee, glass of juice or a morning schmooze. The phone at our home where my sister, mother and I are still asleep starts ringing providing an audible trail of his visits.