IN MEMORIAM: GERALD WOLINSKY

 

In Memoriam: Gerald Wolinsky

November 9, 1924 – January 9, 2021

There were days when I could count on calling Dad and hearing him ask: “You know what that bastard Trump did?” He would continue to express his wrath at the president, regardless of why I called or what I said. I might have wanted to share something about one of his great grandchildren or a new job gotten by my daughter or her husband. But those days are over.

All that came to an end last summer when the folks running The Forest at Duke -- the assisted living facility in Durham, NC, where he and mom had lived since fleeing Greenwich Village in early 2000 -- had determined the two of them could no longer live in their own cottage. 

A lawyer with a degree in accounting from NYU – “That place is a factory; I would never let any of my kids go to NYU” – he punched below his weight with various government jobs ranging from Inspector General of the New York City Finance Commission to the IRS’s lead guy on the Cantor Fitzgerald audit. 

Like a Chatty Cathy Doll programmed to keep saying the same thing over and over again, Dad’s mantra was: “I think there’s going to be another Depression.” Dad lived through the Great Depression, but as the son of a physician, I can’t honestly say he or his parents suffered serious economic harm.

An only child who would have had a sister had my grandmother not suffered a stillbirth, Dad led a sheltered existence in the care of a housekeeper named Mabel. “My mother was never home,” he complained, because Grandma ran Grandpa’s office. 

“The problem with that house was that my father let my mother wear the pants,” Dad often ranted. His mom was a strong woman who held the pursestrings; she seemed to enjoy the fact that her son held civil service positions. Without the generosity of Dad’s parents, my parents would not have been able to afford a house in Forest Hills or enjoy access to a lovely summer home at Lake Mahopac.

Possessing keen parental instincts, Dad tried to be both mother and father, attempting to compensate for the fact that Mom was chronically depressed -- occupied with strumming her guitar, attempting to write what she called poetry, and visiting her Viennese therapist. I still have fond memories of him taking me to Lord & Taylor on my 8th birthday, and buying me a tangerine colored shirtwaist dress and black suede shoes with black and white laces. 

The cynicism and distrustfulness that made him so good at his job could make Dad a kill joy, especially when I wanted him to share my happiness. Senior year of B.U., when I called to tell him I’d met the really nice, good-looking, 31-year-old psychiatrist whom I ultimately married, my father posed just one question: “Is he divorced?”

Say what you will about him, Dad had the right values. “Don’t go out with someone just for the sake of having a date. It’s better to be alone than with the wrong person.” 

Dad’s body will be flown from North Carolina to New York to be buried at the Wolinsky family plot at Mount Carmel Cemetery in Queens, next to his parents. Because Mom wants to be cremated when her turn comes, he extracted from her a promise that she would agree to have her ashes buried next to his grave. 

My father asked that a rabbi say prayers over his casket at the cemetery. The burial will be conducted via Zoom. “Ask for documentation," I can imagine Dad saying, wanting to make sure the rabbi does what he’s paid for.