December 12, 2018--Murray Dinerstein 1923-2018

Friday evenings in Tannersville the women and children of the Mooney extended family would gather on the front porch that faced Route 23A to log in the arriving husbands who, after a scorching week of work in the city, dodging miles of stop-and-go traffic, would finally made it to the modest country summer house in the Catskills all members of the family chipped in to pay for in order to secure a refuge for the children from the scourge of Polio, thought to be extra contagious in steaming, densely populated Brooklyn, and for the adults a place to breathe dry air.

Uncle Bob would be first--he owned his own business, a gas station, and could arrange to get away early--bearing shopping bags full of the sugary foods and drinks we were normally not allowed to eat the rest of the year. He would unload boxes of donuts and quart after quart of Hoffman's cherry soda and ginger ale, Dr, Brown's Cel Ray Tonic, and most weeks sweating bottles of Coca Cola, while the women looked on, sensing the suspension of the state of healthy discipline they had imposed during the week on my cousins and me. I suspected that Uncle Bob's wife, Aunt Gussie, believed that drinking carbonated soda made one vulnerable to Scarlet Fever if not Polio itself.

Typically, Uncle Eli was next. Back in the city he was in the meat processing business and thus had access to prime cuts of veal, lamb, and beef and so out of his car's trunk came steaks and chops and mounds of ground meat and sausages that he, on Saturday afternoons, would sear on the backyard charcoal grill.

And then there was my father whose place of business, a parking garage in Park Slope, co-owned with his Uncle Louis, who, we would say today, was "mobbed up," was close to an Ebingers bakery and so from my father's Lincoln Continental would emerge a stack of memorable cakes. My favorite, the coffee cake pecan ring. He always remembered to bring at least one of those and made sure, in the rush to eat, that a bi slice of one was secured for me.

Finally came Cousin Murray. Fifteen years my senior, World War II veteran, and thus because of his age, military service (he was the only member of the family to have been in the army), and stature--he was the first born of my cousins--was a looming presence among the younger, especially male cousins, who idolized his can-do energy, athletic prowess, and raw, self-confident maleness. He was aware of this and made successful efforts to carry this responsibility off with graceful aplomb.

Rather than food treats he typically brought records, books, and magazines which he passed around to the eager younger cousins, winking and whispering one memorable Friday to Cousin Chuck (next in line in male seniority) when he gave him a tattered copy of Irving Shulman's Amboy Dukes, "Make sure you look at page 44," he said privately to Chuck. And when later I had my turn with it, skipping the rest, prompted by Chuck, I went right to the steamy chapter. No book, I confess after having read thousands, including everything by Philip Roth, ever thrilled me more. 

Savoring its boldness, I also couldn't help but notice that the novel had been written by a Jew. To this day I think that was one reason Cousin Murray gave us a copy--to demonstrate that even over-pampered and inhibited Jewish mamas' boys could learn to transgress.

Then on another memorable Friday, Murray arrived in a brand new car--a kelly green Plymouth . . . convertible. Transfixed, Chuck and I especially couldn't take out eyes or hands off it.

The next morning Cousin Murray asked if we wanted to join him in taking it out for a spin. Eagerly, nearly trampling each other, we piled in. 

Murray said, "Let's head down the Rip Van Winkle Drive toward Palenville. I read in the News that they're opening a new section of the Thruway. There's a stretch of about ten miles that I think they are allowing people to drive on. Straight as an arrow, let's see how fast we can get this baby to go." Tenderly, he patted the wooden steering wheel.

There was an entrance to the gleaming highway and remarkably we were the only car in sight. "Let's floor it!" Murray said. Which he proceeded to do. I was seated in the passenger seat and watched the speedometer dial quiver as the car leapt ahead.

50, 60, 70 miles an hour. The top was down and the wind ripped through our hair. I had never been in a convertible before and was as exhilarated. We were flying! It felt as if the car was about to take off, lift itself from the road. Literally fly.

80, 90. The entire car began to vibrate violently as we approached 90 mph. I feared it was in danger of coming apart. That the hood and fenders would fly off.

"Let's see if she can make it to 100," Murray shouted as the end of the newly-paved section about a mile north came into view.

The speedometer needle now appeared to be stalled on about 95. "Come on baby," Murray said softly, seductively, and she responded. 

"One hundred!" he shouted and simultaneously began to let up on the gas pedal and feather the breaks so we wouldn't crash into the barrier at the end of the run. My heart was thumping and I thought I was about to pass out from excitement or a heart attack.

When we were safely back on 23A, Cousin Murray said, "Let's stop for a soda. There's a nice place in Saugerties. We can unwind from all the excitement."

There was a roadside ice-cream stand with picnic benches. "Order anything you like," he said. "On me. It's not every day one gets to go 100 on a regular road and not in a race car." His hands too were trembling with excitement. 

All along, Cousin Chuck, who usually bubbled with stories and anecdotes, had been uncharacteristically quiet.

He finally said, as if a non sequitur, "I've always dreamed about becoming a bull fighter."

"A bull fighter?" I shrieked, "You a bull fighter? That's the craziest thing I ever heard."

Murray touched my arm and said, "No, no. Let him talk about this. Life is not only about doing the safe thing. The point about life is to figure out who you are and what you want to do with yourself." 

Chuck nodded, smiling knowingly.

"What about you?" Cousin Murray turned to me, "Who are you and what do you want to do with yourself?"

"I don't know," I said shyly. "No one very asked me that. Not that way."

"Well, the point is not to wait for people to ask you but to figure out what to ask yourself." He looked as me as if giving me sanction to dream about the person I wanted to become.

Four years later Cousin Chuck left his parents and their safe and comfortable Brooklyn life and spent a year in Mexico where he went to bullfighting school.

About me? That's another story for another time. Suffice it to say, that whoever I have become, whatever I am owes a great debt to Cousin Murray who died Monday night, with his sons nearby, a few months past his 95th birthday.