Murray
Kimler owned the beauty parlor next to my father's tailor shop in the
Bronx. He was a very nice man and very accommodating.
In
the summer of 1948 our two families rented houses in Long Beach, Long
Island. I was too young to drive then and once in a while Murray gave
me a lift to the beach. It was nice of him but torture for me because
Murray drove in the right lane of the Grand Central Parkway at
exactly 35 miles an hour. That was the the speed limit, of course,
and, just as now no one drove at the speed limit, except Murray.
Back
then my father cruised that highway at about 50 miles an hour along
with the other traffic. So sitting alongside Murray driving to Long
Beach was gut-wrenching. I still remember those drives when today 65
is the new 35. (Today's drivers would thank heaven if they could go
35 mph on the Grand Central.)
I'm
telling you this because recently my wife and I were driving locally
when she asked me if I was doing a “Murray.” She was right. I
was dawdling along in the right lane as traffic zipped by.
Jolted
to the present, I started driving normally while giving a mental
shout out to the late, if not very late, Murray Kimler.
