Murray (a sort of eulogy)
Cupcakes. Chocolate cupcakes from Magnolia. I would've bought stock in the company had I known Murray would live this long. Two chocolate-on-chocolate cupcakes every week. He would eat one and I'd say, "Maybe you can save the other one for later," and about 45 seconds later he'd say, "Maybe I'll have that other cupcake now." Sometimes when I'd ask him what he was doing, he would tell me that he was waiting to die and I'd simply say, "Murray, maybe we can talk about it after cupcakes" and he'd perk right up. He ate the cupcakes like a raccoon eats rubbish and I think his various care givers grew to hate me for the trail of crumbs. But I brought them anyhow. They made him happy.
Cigarettes. PallMall tall. I used to be ashamed to buy them for him and mumble some explanation about my dad or my grandpa. Then I figured out that no one cared. Murray never taught me that lesson directly, but I'll give him credit for it. In case you are worried about what somewhat else thinks of you, give that up. You're not that important. They don't care that much whether or not you buy cigarettes. Or anything else. They just don't want you to blow smoke in their faces.
Cash. Every week I gave him a twenty. I could spare it and he felt deeply reassured to have some green in his pocket although there was no earthly reason he needed it (he eventually couldn't leave the house) and I'm not sure what he spent it on. He just liked money. In his day he was an accountant. That's how we met. A law professor friend of mine employed Murray as his tax guy and suggested that, even though Murray was retired, he might help me out with mine. He did my 1993, 1994 and 1995 tax returns. Murray and I met when he was 72 years old. He called my friend the next day to tell him that "Jeannie is magnificent, but a little ditzy." My friend was outraged on my behalf and attested to my wit and competence. Murray, a notorious misogynist — in spite of fathering two brilliant daughters — was abashed and often recounted the story of my friend's defense of me.
In Murray's later years he decided to squander his money. He spent about $680,000 on hookers and gambling and other shenanigans. That sounds like a lot of money for a man in his 80s to spend on sex and good times, but it was complicated and had more to do with mortality and power and masculinity than simple adventures. It led him into all kinds of interesting trouble and eventually to his last days where he was much more reliant on Uncle Sam and my weekly twenty than he had ever anticipated.
Cupcakes, coffin nails and cash. (We are developing an alliterative theme here, I see, especially if I call the cigarettes coffin nails.) A cornerstone of this bit is conversation. Cheeky, lively, irreverent conversation. No holds barred. He loved double entendres and spoonerisms, those ridiculous tangles and turns of speech. "It is customary to kiss the bride" turned neatly into "it is kisstomary to cuss the bride" (that one really made him laugh). He also loved "Is the dean busy?" and got a kick out of asking me if the "bean was dizzy." "Smart feller" turned into…well, you get the picture.
Part of our conversation was about testing our wits. I would ask him to name the Mets' starting line up (he's the one who turned me into a Mets fan) and was astonished at how many of the very old (long dead) players he began to recount. I couldn't keep up and had to resort to my smartphone. He developed a little crush on Siri. Ever susceptible to a smart woman, he said, "She is very knowledgeable! Is she a friend of yours?" As Murray aged, he became less and less intellectually agile. He called me "Jeannie Darling" until he started to forget my name and then he just called me "Darling." The official diagnosis was moderate dementia, but the truth is, he was smarter than most folks about most things even when he got pretty damn daft. I used to be able to quiz him on the Supreme Court justices and he would rattle them off in order of their year of appointment, along with the name of the president who appointed each of them. A few months ago he started to falter. When he told me Golda Meier was on the bench I knew we were in trouble. Even though he got the name wrong, he described Ruth Bader Ginsburg perfectly.
My beloved friend and son-in-law, Reginald, carries a little rock in his pocket named Murray. Here's why.
Murray, at some point a few years ago, started calling me in the middle of the night, "burning," to use his word, with remorse. He was regretful about decisions he made or actions failed to take. None of those things made particular sense to me, especially at 3 in the morning, but when I would wearily recount the tale of some dark-of-night call to my friends, they would scramble around to make better and more life-affirming choices for themselves. We were all terrified that we'd reach the end of our lives and wish we'd made braver choices. And Reginald made some radical ones. He has a partner and twin babies to show for it and carries a rock named Murray to remind him that life is short and that we should wring out every bit of joy that can ever be allotted to us in this life.
Murray loved life until he didn't. He went to my kids' graduations and countless winter and summer solstice parties where he squeezed the bottoms of pretty girls and held forth with dirty jokes. He loved a sharp rejoinder. He loved a good wet shave. He drank Coca Cola and hated to drink water. He loved sitting on a sunny bench near Strawberry Fields in Central Park. We moved his bed into his living room a few years back and when I'd visit, he would dish and gossip shrewdly about world politics. He would fall asleep with either NPR playing in his ear via transistor radio or a baseball game.
Don't be confused. Mine was not a pithy Tuesdays with Morrie kind of deal. Lots of what I've learned from Murray has to do with Reginald's rock. If you take anything away from my musings today it should be this: pick up a rock from somewhere and name it Murray. Put it in your pocket as your momento mori. Let it remind you to make wise choices, choices that load your life with joy, choices that privilege love.
May 13, 1922-April 27, 2015
