Joseph Zitt's [as if in dreams] 2024-03-30
Hi. I'm Joseph Zitt. I moved from the US to Israel in 2017. This is my newsletter about more-or-less daily life in my city in the shadow of war. You can select these links to subscribe or unsubscribe. There are more links at the bottom. You can also read this email online here. Here we go...
A death notice appears on the bulletin board outside the House of a Hundred Grandmothers.
For a long time, no one has officially spread the word when residents have died. The staff had wanted to spare people from hearing of the deaths of others there.
This has led to other problems, though. People often drop out of sight for a while. They could be ill and staying in their rooms or in the continual care ward. They might be visiting relatives, or, for some, on vacations. If people who are used to seeing them don't, rumors can spread.
It's been said that you're a part of a solid community if people who are used to seeing you notice when you're not there. The House is such a community. As such, dubious information and rumors can swarm.
This week, the staff is creating a space for these announcements. I'm told that it will be very simple. Near one set of elevators, they will post the person's picture and the dates of their births and deaths. That should be enough to let others know.
The death notice on the board outside uses a standard form, seen around the country and in religious communities around the world. I recall seeing them in Brooklyn when I lived there in the Eighties. A thick black border is set about a centimeter in from the edges of a white page. Large letters in a distinctive typeface give the person's name. Smaller text tells of the person's relatives and when and where the funeral and shiva will be.
They tend to stay up for about a week, though a pair of signs on my way to work have been up for at least two. The community (possibly the city, possibly another organization) efficiently creates the signs and puts them up. I don't know who takes them down.
My family tells me that the woman who passed away used to run the library in the House. Her father had come here from Germany well before World War Two. When he saw that things were getting worse there, he had the rest of the immediate family join him.
I don't know if she had always lived in this town after coming here. Many of the residents have. Moving into the city-owned House is a reasonable next step for many people at the right point in their lives.
Some other facilities in other towns feel like walled fortresses divorced from their surroundings. I remember visiting a fancy castle a few towns over, in which a much-older relative lived. I had no idea how to get in or out.
The House welcomes the people living in it and around it to feel that it is a part of the community. Area teens come in to talk and work with the residents.
The small park outside of it, with its grass, benches, playground, and bulletin board, acts as a comfortable liminal space. Neighborhood children play at the feet, or by the wheelchair wheels, of residents who might be in their nineties and beyond. Cats patrol the grounds. Everything fits together.
As I walk past the bulletin board on my way out tonight, I have to maneuver around other people in the park. A young woman guides an older woman in a wheelchair. A man beside them guides a child in something like a carriage crossed with a tricycle.
We duck around one another and wish each other shavua tov, a good week. I don't know if they're headed into the House or out of it. In this in-between space, it doesn't matter.
Feel free to forward the newsletter to other people who might be interested.
Here’s an archive of past newsletters.
You can find me via email, Bluesky, Mastodon, Facebook, and, just out of inertia, X/Twitter. There's more about me and my books, music, and films at josephzitt.com.
The newsletter’s official mailing address is 304 S. Jones Blvd #3567, Las Vegas NV 89107. (I’m in Israel, but if physical mail comes to me at that Las Vegas address, it’ll get scanned and emailed. I don’t expect that to happen much. If you want to send me physical mail, ask me for a real address.)
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L'hitraot.