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.

October 9, 2017--Cousin Elaine

Cousin Elaine, who died peacefully on Saturday, became part of the family more than 70 years ago.

That family was my mother's--the Mooneys. 

My father's side, the Zwerlings, were not that family-minded but it included a wide range of characters from my chain-smoking, poker-playing grandmother who was the only elderly Jewish woman I knew who could not cook--actually, had no interest whatsoever in household matters--as well as a number of uncles and cousins who were mobbed-up. Uncle Herman, for example, owner of gin mills in New Jersey and Brownsville, always packed a pistol. Family lore has it that he not only carried one but on occasion was known to use it. And there was his brother Louie, who every summer went to Saratoga Springs to follow the ponies, always accompanied by a bottle-blonde or two. Needless to say, none of them his wife. 

As a kid, I loved that transgressive excitement.

But it was the Mooneys who made me feel secure and loved. Very much including Murray Dinerstein--the oldest of our generation of cousins--who was and is 15 years older than I--and who was Cousin Elaine's husband.

More than 70 years ago, Elaine Goldfarb was the first person I knew who married into the family. Others, of course, had done so previously and were assimilated Mooneys by the time I was aware enough to notice, but up to then all who had joined the Mooney clan were around when I was born and so Elaine was the first person I knew who was about to marry in.

I remember vividly the first time I met her. It was after the end of the Second World War, about 1945, shortly after Cousin Murray, resplendent in his uniform, was on leave from the Air Force and during that time brought Elaine around to meet the family which was gathered at my parents' apartment in East Flatbush. Actually, where my mother and her four sisters were gathered. The men took no part in these rituals. 

Though I was not included in the family chatter about the purpose of this encounter, I was aware enough to figure out that Elaine was Murray's potential fiancee. I say "potential" because there was a sense that he was seeking his aunts' approval before proceeding with nuptial plans.

They were seated around the kitchen table with one chair reserved for Elaine. I snuggled up close to my mother. Murray ushered her in and my mother, with a welcoming smile, motioned for her to sit. She did and Murray retreated to the living room sofa, where he waited to be summoned.

I do not remember all that was asked or said, but I do have a vivid recollection that the sisters were encouraging and that they were most interested in learning about Elaine's family. 

As she spoke about them in their own way they seemed as interesting as the Zwerlings in that they too appeared to lead unconventional lives, but on the right side of the law. Among other things it seemed that her two Goldfarb uncles were very successful businessmen, one of whom, Sid, was building a major art collection and lived in Malibu and the other, Phil (Fishel), had an expansive apartment in the Sherry Netherland Hotel in Manhattan and in his early years was teamed up with Danny Kaye who, at that time was a popular Borscht Belt entertainer. 

And, Elaine reported, her father was a dentist. A professional. Up to that time there were none of these in either the Mooney or Zwerling family.

My mother and aunts also were visibly impressed by the fact that Doc Goldfarb, Elaine's father and her mother, Ida, owned a one-family, house on the best stretch of Brooklyn's spacious Kings Highway. No one in the family up to that time owned much less lived in a one-family house. A brick one, no less!

Of course, later in life I was excited to learn that Doc Goldfarb had among his patients a few members of the Murder Incorporated gang. I became aware of this from Cousin Murray who one night told the story about how when Elaine's father's office was broken into by thieves who stole his dental gold, it took just a few days for it to be returned through the assistance of some of his, shall we say. "well-connected" patients.

Not surprisingly, Murray's aunts unanimously welcomed Elaine into their close-knit family. And soon Elaine and Murray expanded the family with their two sons, Harvey and Matthew.

Over the years I got to know Elaine as a talented artist who had excellent, very classy taste. The renovations of the house in Lawrence and the apartment in the Imperial House in Manhattan were both directed by her and were among the most beautiful of Mooney family environments and housed her collection of Chinese porcelains. Both included spacious dining rooms, which Elaine used liberally to host memorable family occasions. Including the after-burial gathering when my father died.

She also, with Murray, made the family feel welcome at their summer home in Bantam Lake, CT, where over the decades, as an annual summer treat, we indulged in dozens of ears of fresh corn from a local farm.

Also, as time went by, as the 15-year gap that separated Murray and me became less important, as we grew older together, Rona and I, frequently with cousins Chuck and Esther, the six Mooney descendants who still lived in New York City, in Manhattan, would meet for long dinners at a wide range of ethnic restaurants where we spent hours together talking about everything from family history, to politics, movies, books, plans for upcoming trips (Elaine and Murray especially were frequent global travelers), and just to bask in the feelings that only intimacy and love can bring.

As I think back now over Cousin Elaine's decades in our family, these are among the happiest memories of my lifetime, and I take pleasure in recalling how she played a never-to-be-forgotten part in them. 

September 11, 2017--Irma & Cousin Murray

I have about a dozen relatives who live all year round in south or southern Florida. Mainly cousins. 

Two live in Miami-Dade but almost all the cousins are in Palm Beach County, not far from the ocean. And so this past two weeks my thoughts and emotions have been there with them as Hurricane Irma approached and then made landfall.

I have been calling and emailing through the days to see where they are--a few evacuated--and how they are faring. And of course I have been glued to the Weather Channel both on TV and via the Internet.

The oldest cousin is 93. He has begun to show his years and so I have been focusing much of my attention on him, Cousin Murray. He can be a bit fragile and now, with his wife in rehab, happily recovering well from a recent stroke, under pressure to evacuate, he resisted, not wanting to leave her even though she was more secure and sheltered than he. 

A friend of the family convinced him to leave for his wife's sake, Cousin Elaine, to head for Tampa where it was thought to be safer than where they live in Delray Beach. 

Quoting Rona who drew an analogy to what they tell passengers on airplanes--"In case of an emergency and oxygen is needed, put your mask on first before attempting to help others."

In other words, you're not much good to others if you yourself are in danger.

So they drove to Tampa ahead of the storm and then when Irma drifted west, returned to Ft. Lauderdale, where Cousin Murray's friend has a solidly constructed house. Another advantage--this allowed him to be closer to his wife of more than 70 years.

I have been blessed with many wonderful cousins. A number of them are among my best friends. Cousin Chuck, four years older, was like a big brother. We essentially grew up as if in one household, living just two blocks apart in East Flatbush. We did everything together from playing street games, to taking marathon bike rides, to me "managing" and "training" him when he became obsessed with boxing, working out relentlessly so as to get good enough to become the next Jewish world middleweight champion.

I put manage and training in quotes because I knew as little about what they meant as he knew about boxing. Needless to say, Chuck never made it even to the Golden Gloves. But everyday was a sweet adventure following in his footsteps.

Unfortunately, he died suddenly more than 10 years ago and as a result forever there will be a vacancy in my heart.

Cousin Murray was an idol to me. He was a GI during the Second World War and when he came home on leave I huddled close to him so I could hear every word of his stories about his training and wartime assignments. Fortunately, he was not sent overseas but in his crisp uniform and spit-polished shoes, was a hero to me.

After the War, the extended family together rented a small house in the Catskill Mountain village of Tannersville. Murray worked in the city in a family business and commuted to the country on weekends. More than anyone else I looked forward to his arrival. Among the many big-cousin activities he included me in was golf (he taught me to play and let me use his clubs) and the exploration of the local countryside. He was the first and only family member to have a convertible. A green Plymouth with a black rag top.

With me in the passenger seat he loved finding open roads to run it at full speed. At that time, the New York State Thruway was being built in sections. He would learn about a completed five to 10 mile stretch before anyone else knew about it and we would head for it. 

It was the most beautiful road I had ever seen and much of it, straight as an arrow. It was irresistible to floor the accelerator pedal and get the car ripping along at more than 100 miles per hour. The first time I had experienced that velocity. Among other things, though the car's buffeting made me feel at risk, sensing this, he would turn to me and simply wink. That wink settled me and made me feel I was safe no matter what in his protective presence.

He still makes me feel that way, so many years later, in spite of his inevitable physical weakening.

And so when I finally managed to reach him again Saturday night, I could hear the roaring wind, not unlike the way the wind sounded and felt as we raced along the Thruway, eliciting in me some of the same fears, hearing that in my voice, my 94-year-old cousin, still unhappily separated from his wife, likely feeling vulnerable himself, in a south Florida bungalow that had already lost power, to calm me he said, "I don't want you to worry about me. I'm fine," he chuckled, "We're as snug as a bug in a rug."  

June 24, 2014--Cousin Henry-Hank-Henri

Cousin Hank ran out of lives on Sunday and his funeral is this morning.

He faced death so many times, including over the years being placed in hospice care but then reviving, that we came to take for granted every time he was sent to the ICU that this was just another example of Hank being Henry.

When he first joined the family, marrying Cousin Nina, he was introduced to us as Hank, a familiar form of his real name, Henry. But years later, when I came to know he was in fact Henri, these name variations made perfect sense. They were just another iteration of Jewish immigrant life--get anglicized so one could try to "pass," avoid quotas, maybe get into college, attempt to slip through life unscathed, and, if possible, eek out some measure of happiness.

Henry-Hank-Henri managed to achieve all of this while growing more in love with Nina over nearly 65 years.

To me, coming of age in post-World War Two Brooklyn, he was the only family exotic.

There were members of the family who came from Europe--my mother included--but they were Middle-European shtetl Jews, and we lived in a neighborhood among so many others that neither their Yiddishkeit, foods, customs, nor consciousness seemed out of the ordinary. Indeed, they and the lives they led were the ordinary.

Henry-Hank-Henri was to me anything but ordinary.

His English was German inflected, not Polish-Russian-polyglot English. He was from Austria, not an obliterated village "near Warsaw." He drank espresso black, smoked unfiltered French cigarettes, and during the din of family gatherings remained non-judgementally detached, puffing and sipping, taking it all in as if we were the exotics.

For a kid dreaming of getting away, of making something different of my life, I was not thinking about wandering around in the Pale of Settlement searching for my Polish-village roots but wanted something cosmopolitan. Not that I at the time knew what cosmopolitan was, but Henry-Hank-Henri had the aura of that difference and I spent a lot of time studying him.

Secretly, I tried black coffee (hated it) and, with candy cigarettes, practiced holding them between my second and third fingers as Henri did. I also took to ordering Compari and Soda--or as he would ask for it, "Compari-Soda," as an homage to him.

Sad to say, the last time we were together, for the first time I asked him questions about his earlier life, a life up to then I had only imagined and shaped for my own transgressive purposes.

What he shared did not diminish my own version of his life and genealogy.

He indeed was Henri.