The following people/creatures have died and had some direct input on my life. While others may have contributed to putting me where I am today, and those people having passed on, I hold no memory of them so obviously they will not be included.
My great-grandfather "Poppy," Jacob Wurtzel, died of a heart attack during Passover when I was one year old. I know this date because my family celebrates his "Yortsite" every year at that time. Maybe celebrate isn't the right word. We remember him. We don't really discuss him – I think because my little brother and I never really knew him so it wouldn't have much relevance to us, but sometimes I do wonder about him. The only times I hear about him are stories from my grandparents. I don't remember him at all, though I see him in pictures and can sense his warm personality through his smile. There is one picture in particular with my mom, my grandma, my great grandma (Bubby), and Poppy sitting next to each other on the couch with me being held affectionately in my mother's arms and the rest of them eagerly ogling me. Thinking about it now, just from the picture alone, I'm thankful I had such a loving family. I've been told he was a very charming, caring, and much-loved man. I think about him very occationally, always fleetingly and never dwelling on him for too long.
His wife, Lillian Wurtzel, a woman who everyone in my family calls Bubby, died several years ago from complications of Alzeimer's Disease. I think I was in 9th or 10th grade at the time. I don't think I cried at her funeral or when I heard the news. I attribute this to not knowing her that well – the affliction had begun to take its course shortly after I began forming real memories. (And by real memories I mean those that aren't constructed from pictures but that are actually remembered). I remember being at the funeral and seeing her lying in the casket. I had never seen a deceased person before. She looked frail and deteriorated. My mom was crying histerically. It was an amazing almost spontaneous break down right as she stepped into the room where the casket lay, as if on command. Supported by a vanguard of her two brothers, one on each side, she made her way through the room and came out the doors, trying in vain to cease her lamenting fit. I had never seen her cry before and didn't know what to make of it. My younger brother, ever sensitive to my mom's emotional state, adopted her conduct and began sobbing. On the way out of the room my uncle asked me if I would be alright. I said I would, but I didn't really know what to think. It almost didn't feel real. Though I think some emotion was present, there wasn't enough to cause any sort of advserse reaction. I was detached and calm. In a rather selfish way, it wouldn't really change much in my life, so that is probably why I responded the way I did.
I was told she was a beautiful woman. She loved as a religion and cooked as an art. Her family returned her love manifold. Sometimes when I really think about her, which is usually when she is brought up in conversation, I wish I knew her better, or really at all. My puerile demeanor of most of my younger years would have prevented this, even if give the opportunity. One thing I will never forget is the last time I saw her before she died. My family and grandparents visited the nursing home she lived at. Lived isn't really an adaquate term for it though. I would say she was attended to at the nursing home would be more fitting, but the lack of vigilance of the "caretakers" there prevents me from fully embacing this phrase. By this time, she was fully incapacitated in a wheel chair from a fall she had in which she broke her hip. She hardly talked and her memory had nearly completely dissipated. She had much trouble recognizing faces and people in her life. It got to the point where the only person she remembered was my grandmother, her daughter. Sadly but amazingly, when we were with her in that room, she moved my mom to tears. I had just been hanging back. I didn't know what to do or how to act, so I quietly followed the procession and tried not to get in the way. Bubby saw me and she uttered my name. It didn't strike me so much then, but when recalling it now my eyes well up with tears until I dismiss the memory to prevent the tears from coming. I hadn't spoken to her in years. I actually don't know if I ever spoke to her or had a real conversation with her. But she uttered my name and that was miraculous. To me, in retrospect, it shows how important I was to her, as was all her family. I was her first great-grandchild. It was a priceless moment and one that I will remember and cherish forever.
My mom's cousin Corey is someone I initially didn't call to mind when I first composed this list. This is because I never knew him and he had not so much as a cameo appearance in my life. He committed suicide a few years back. I think I was in high school. My mom flew out to represent the family, but the rest of us, not having known him, stayed home.
In 9th grade, shortly after I moved to Cleveland, I was on the phone from one of my friends when he told me some very shocking news. A teacher I had for shop, Mr. McConen, died in a motorvehicle accident. He wasn't wearing his seatbelt and when his car rolled over he was flung out the window and crushed by the wait of the car. It was shocking, but I didn't know how to take it. So I joked about it. Not in a condescending, disrespectful way, but in a fond manner. I remember wielding a blowtorch in his shop class and it practically exploded in my face due to misuse. That was pretty much it. I don't think about it so much.
That same friend and that same conversation informed me of another death. a classmate of mine, Carley Marcus, beautiful, gregarious and intelligent, died of some bizzare bacterial infection. I really didn't know how to take this. People my age didn't die. We were too young. I supppose we will always be too young. I findly recalled times we shared together. We weren't close, but just casual friends. She went to my Bar Mitzvah and I went to hers. At mine, she and two other girls did a special dance for me that they rehearsed beforehand. It was a nice gesture that I didn't appreciate nearly enough at the time. I don't think about her much nowadays, but after I heard about it the idea stayed with me for some time I think.
One warm June day – I was in 5th grade or so, I came back from a week-long overnight soccer camp. My family was seated at the table enjoying the customary Sunday lox and bagels. I got up for some reason, probably to get a drink, when passing by the tablet bridge between two cabinets where the birdcage always was I looked over and asked: "Where's Judah?" My mom without hesitation said he was right there. I glanced into the cage and said that he wasn't. The cage was closed and he never came out, so something was amiss. She got up and looked into the cage with me when I saw a shape lying underneath the papertowel carpet of the cage. This startled me tremendously. I was struck with sorrow and began lamenting the parakeet. I had had him since as far back as I could remember. He was a Channukah present when I was four or so. My mom felt sympathy for me while my dad was disinterested and apathetic toward the death. I placed Judah in a small box with cotton padding and buried him in the backyard toward the edge of the forest. Later I carved a headstone for him. Apparently we had been feeding it bird "candy" all his life, which probably contributed to his death. Who would have thought that millet seeds were unhealthy for birds? It was amazing how Judah new his death was imminent and crawled under the paper towel lining his cage. I wonder if death is like that for everyone – where it makes its presense known before it strikes? I don't remember how long I mourned, or if I even did really lament over Judah, but a few months later my dad and I went to the pet store and bought a parrot as a replacement.
The final death that I can think of is my brother's hamster, Peanut. My brother won him somehow, or maybe acquired him from a full litter. Anyway, when my family drove to our new house in Cleveland from Minneapolis, Peanut was in the back of the car in its cage. My dad was driving and he slammed on the breaks for whatever reason. Peanut flew back and hit the cage, probably breaking his back. Afterward he could hardly move. His food remained largely untouched. He progressively began to deteriorate and eventually died. We buried him in the backyard. My brother took the death a little harshly, but it didn't affect me so much.
