On December 16, Inez H. Mogul passed away, having just turned 96 years old. While on one hand we rejoice in her long life, her loss leaves the world a less kind, gracious, and interesting place. She was my mother, so you might expect me to speak of her in exalted terms, but those who knew her understand that my description is actually inadequate. She was a modest woman—more interested in others than herself—so perhaps she would be a bit astonished by such honorific words. But they are all true.
My mother was born in New York City to immigrant parents. Her childhood experiences included being witness to things that we now take for granted—she watched the building of the 8th Avenue subway, the Chrysler and Empire State buildings, Rudolph Valentino’s death, Jack Dempsey’s triumph, and the Hindenberg burning. She (along with everyone else) watched the Hindenburg fly over NY on its way to Lakewood, NJ, where the disaster occurred. Indeed, every time an aircraft flew over, it was an event that drew people to look up and marvel. When Charles Lindberg made his famous flight he returned to a hero’s welcome and my mother sat on her father’s shoulder’s to watch the parade and get a glimpse of Lindy. She was blessed with an extraordinary memory as well as parents who made her aware of the world around her.
Through a mutual friend she met my father, who was appearing at a cocktail lounge on West 58th Street (NYC) in July 1942. Their meeting was love at first sight—like a scene from a movie—as both were with other dates that night, but by the next day, my father had obtained her phone number along with assurance that she was not “taken.” They married the following May.
Inez Mogul was interested in everyone, regardless of their pedigree. She treated all with the same respect and thoughtfulness and made friends wherever she went in the world. Her interest in their lives was genuine; she found their experiences informative and unique. She enjoyed every interaction, appreciated every relationship. She adored children.
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