We gather this afternoon to remember Gary Morgenstern, a man who lived with conviction, humor, and an unwavering loyalty to those he loved. Gary was born in Brooklyn in 1943 to Israel and Hannah Bella Morgenstern. Gary was the younger of two children; his older sister Sybil preceded him in death just two years ago. Growing up, Gary was not Sybil’s partner so much as her scapegoat in crime — leading him in escapades such as pouring out all the contents of the family medicine cabinet while making sure he took the blame.
Gary grew up in an Orthodox household and celebrated his bar mitzvah. His family wasn’t particularly observant, but was deeply Jewish in ways that mattered—in the gathering of family, in the sharing of meals, in the values that were lived rather than merely spoken. He was part of a large extended family with aunts, uncles, and cousins in Brooklyn and Florida who came together for the holidays.
Gary remained close to his cousin Bruce, his childhood companion in sports and life. He also maintained his life long friendship with Steven Katz until Steven’s death two years ago. These relationships, sustained over decades, tell us something essential about who Gary was: loyal, constant, someone who understood the importance of friendship and family.
Those who knew Gary understood immediately that he was his own man. He didn’t apologize for his opinions, didn’t defer to authority simply because it was there, and didn’t spend much time wondering what others thought he should do. This quality served him well in many ways. It made him a man of genuine integrity—the kind of person who did the right thing even when it cost him something. But it also meant that Gary sometimes navigated life with more confidence than the situation warranted, particularly when behind the wheel of a car. His daughters, Pam and Sandra, and grandson, Joey, can attest that riding with Gary was less a journey and more an adventure—one that occasionally involved four lanes of highway traffic and at least one memorable moment when the car achieved a somewhat precarious two-wheel stance.
Gary’s career took him across the country and up through the ranks. He started in supplies, working his way into food and beverage management, accounting, and eventually into regional and corporate leadership. But his professional accomplishments tell only part of the story. What mattered more was how he did it—with a work ethic he modeled for his daughters, with an refusal to cut corners, and with the kind of integrity that sometimes made business easier and sometimes made it harder. Gary understood that
how you did things was as important as what you accomplished.
In 1960, Gary met Robin Heinold at a party in Rochester. She had come with a friend named Rusty, and Gary wanted to know exactly what their relationship was. When he learned they were just friends, he had the courtesy—or perhaps the audacity—to check with Rusty before asking Robin out. Their courtship had the spirit of people who were going to have fun together. Robin remembers early on walking with Gary in a snowstorm. She had a sudden impulse to push him into a snowbank but Gary, apparently reading her mind was ahead of her, and she was down before he was. A snowball fight ensued. During another snowstorm, she managed to get his beloved MG towed from the Kodak parking lot. Gary, being Gary, forgave her. They married and built a life together that spanned the country—Rochester, Arlington, New Jersey, Kentucky, Houston, Chicago, New Orleans, and back to Rochester again. Wherever they went, Gary and Robin created homes that were genuinely welcoming, spaces where family and friends gathered and felt they belonged.
Pam and Sandra arrived during these travels, born into a father who worked hard, taught by example, and—if we’re being honest about it—occasionally proved that being in charge of children required skills that didn’t come naturally to him. There were incidents. A winter day at a duck pond that ended with Sandra in freezing water. A hockey game outing that somehow resulted in two girls being trapped in adjacent lockers, forced to call out their locker numbers so their father could find them. “There was lots of trouble when dad was in charge.” his daughters would later say, and they meant it with a deep affection.
Gary was also a man who loved deeply and gave generously. He was a Yankees fan—the kind who didn’t waver—and an active hockey player well into middle age. A rough player, too, spending enough time in the penalty box that his daughters had to be bribed into silence about it. Robin, of course, found out immediately. Gary enjoyed provoking people, saying things designed to get a reaction, displaying a sense of humor that was entirely his own. He didn’t perform for approval. He was authentically, unselfconsciously himself.
There could be something almost defiant about Gary’s self-reliance, his willingness to trust his own judgment over maps or advice. It was a quality born of a generation and a personality, and it could be frustrating. But it was also the flip side of his integrity—that same refusal to simply go along, to defer to what others expected. After college he had been drafted into the Army. His boot camp superiors recognizing his intelligence and capabilities, stationed him in Mannheim, Germany rather than sending him to Vietnam. Nevertheless, his independent spirit led him to work with others to undermine the war effort itself, guided by a conscience that had to take action.
When Gary and Robin returned Rochester for the final time, they became part of our Temple Emanu-El family. Here, in our community, Gary found a Jewish home., not because he suddenly became observant in the conventional sense, but because he found a place where his values were recognized and where he was appreciated for being entirely himself.
We remember Gary as a man who followed his conscience while caring for those around him. He enjoyed the genuine pleasures of life—a good game, good food, good company, the satisfaction of work well done. He took profound pride in his family, in the accomplishments of the daughters he raised and the grandchildren he loved. He leaves behind a legacy of someone who showed up, who cared deeply, who refused to pretend to be anyone other than who he was.
His memory is a blessing to us all.