Jerry Horwitz was born in 1930 and died 14 March 1980. His aunt, Minnie Ladasky Levie was my great grandmother. I’m sure there is nomenclature to explain the family relationship; cousin seems to be the easiest. Jerry’s mother was Bertha ‘Birdie” Ladasky Horwitz, and Benjamin Horwitz rounds out the parents. He had two brothers and one sister.
Jerry is buried at Washington Park North Cemetery in Indianapolis, Glen Haven section, Block 15, Lot 317 and Grave 6. There is no marker. The file states he was buried by Aaron-Ruben-Nelson Mortuary, the funeral arranged by his brother Sam who was in a nursing home at the time and buried in a concrete container – Welfare.
I’ve been working on a genealogy project. Jerry and his branch of the family intrigued me. I really know very little about my great grandmother’s family. Jerry was different. In those days, the term was “simple” or “not right in the head.” His mental illness was explained away by the economic conditions of his family growing up; or that was the story. Today, there would be a much more politically correct term to be used. Unfortunately, the outcome would be no different.
Research indicates where the family home might have been; whatever is there today is a shadow of what the original abode was. The stories I heard was that he travelled the downtown streets of Indianapolis. Once I saw him in a stationary store. He entered the store and asked the clerk for a box. He proceeded to put a roll of pencils from is coat pocket into the box and proceeded to walk around the store asking customers if they would like to buy a pencil. I remember he had a broken English accent. My mother gave him money without taking a pencil. It was a grand gesture in my eyes; she explained I would do the same understanding he was our cousin. He would show up at my father’s business looking for “Cousin Eddie.”
These stories made the rounds for decades. Often in a humorous vein. Today, it makes me guilty as hell.
Tracking the family tree has become important to me. In some way, hoping it would make amends. Jerry had a sister who left the family dissolving any connection to them. One brother died young and is buried in a Jewish cemetery. His surviving brother must have remained in contact because he handled funeral arrangements from is nursing home. He would die about a year after his brother; he was buried in the same cemetery as the brother who died decades earlier.
Research indicated the Jewish mortuary handled arrangements at the death. The cemetery was located, and a visit found the specific grave. The staff seemed hesitant to provide me the information. The grave was in the welfare section. There is no marker. There is no evidence of his life. Records of his life indicate a small boy living in a house on the Southside of Indianapolis with a sister and two brothers. The story takes an abrupt end aside from the few stories and family lore.
Friends and family have been cremated leaving no marker behind. There are placeholders on the family tree with knowledge of a birth, an address, perhaps a spouse and still barren of a death date or location. There are markers and stones for family long forgotten. Graves standing the test of time are in some cases overgrown with weeds. Relationships have been forgotten, descendants could walk past the stone and never know they just walked over a great grandparent, great-great uncle, or cousin. Graves well attended are those recently occupied bearing names retained in my memory.
No one will remember Jerry. Nieces and nephews may have been unaware of him. Their children undoubtedly were never told. Siblings are gone. Extended family will not understand why or how he died and then buried in a welfare grave in a non-Jewish cemetery. In the larger picture, it is simply one story among many.
Life goes own. The proverb says, “The only truly dead are those who have been forgotten.”
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