Día de Muertos Sun, 27th October, 2013
This morning I'm thinking of the dead. After all, it is the season. Ironically, the thoughts began with my daughter's 14th birthday party yesterday. See her growing up, becoming a beautiful young woman, exploring her personality and enjoying her friends, is the essence of what it means to be alive.
When coupled with the coming days of Hallowmas—All Hallows' Eve, All Saints' Day and All Souls' Day—I recall the connection with my daughter's ancestors, most of whom she'll never know.
In Mexico, as you may know, they build altars to the dearly departed to celebrate their lives, including objects, photographs and food offerings. Marigolds, curiously, are the preferred flowers that are used to decorate these highly personalized shrines.
You may have heard me speak fondly of my great grandmother and how I treasure the special connection she has with my daughter: My granny, Hetty Orpha Orem Tucker, an artist, teacher, parent and writer, was born in 1899 and my daughter was born almost exactly a century later in 1999.
If I were to build a shrine for my great grandmother, what would I put on it? It would certainly feature my most treasured possession from her, which is the portrait of me she painted when I was less than two years old. I would also put out a dish of butterscotch candies wrapped in translucent gold wrappers, the kind she always kept in her kitchen because they were my great grandfather's favorite.
I would buy a miniature shrub, like one of those appropriate for a bonsai sculpture, to stand in for the large yews that used to grow in front of her little white house on S. West Street in Shelbyville, Indiana. And I would trim it just so, so that it looked like it hadn't been trimmed at all, but was roundish, symmetrical and natural "just like God made it." For those were always my orders when I went to her house as a young man to do yard work. Never mind that the state in which I found the shrubs upon arrival were actually the wild and unruly way that God made them, bending towards the best light without regard for the artists' sense of symmetry and order.
I would put out some tubes of paint reminiscent of those I used in the 80s in Hetty's Art Studio in my great grandmother's basement: yellow ochre, reds and black. And maybe a tiny portion of turpentine, just to remember the smell of creation.
I would place another of my prized possessions in the center: the little cards she used to pass out with her untitled poem that began with the words "I am a common mustard seed." Her poetry was not Shakespeare but tidy and respectful, rather like the yews after I had reclaimed them for God.
And for the food offering, alongside the butterscotch candies, I would have to leave a plate of fish and chips from Long John Silver's, preferably purchased with a coupon clipped from the local newspaper. Oh, the memories.
So this is my virtual offering this day. What would yours be?
This morning I'm thinking of the dead. After all, it is the season. Ironically, the thoughts began with my daughter's 14th birthday party yesterday. See her growing up, becoming a beautiful young woman, exploring her personality and enjoying her friends, is the essence of what it means to be alive.
When coupled with the coming days of Hallowmas—All Hallows' Eve, All Saints' Day and All Souls' Day—I recall the connection with my daughter's ancestors, most of whom she'll never know.
In Mexico, as you may know, they build altars to the dearly departed to celebrate their lives, including objects, photographs and food offerings. Marigolds, curiously, are the preferred flowers that are used to decorate these highly personalized shrines.
You may have heard me speak fondly of my great grandmother and how I treasure the special connection she has with my daughter: My granny, Hetty Orpha Orem Tucker, an artist, teacher, parent and writer, was born in 1899 and my daughter was born almost exactly a century later in 1999.
If I were to build a shrine for my great grandmother, what would I put on it? It would certainly feature my most treasured possession from her, which is the portrait of me she painted when I was less than two years old. I would also put out a dish of butterscotch candies wrapped in translucent gold wrappers, the kind she always kept in her kitchen because they were my great grandfather's favorite.
I would buy a miniature shrub, like one of those appropriate for a bonsai sculpture, to stand in for the large yews that used to grow in front of her little white house on S. West Street in Shelbyville, Indiana. And I would trim it just so, so that it looked like it hadn't been trimmed at all, but was roundish, symmetrical and natural "just like God made it." For those were always my orders when I went to her house as a young man to do yard work. Never mind that the state in which I found the shrubs upon arrival were actually the wild and unruly way that God made them, bending towards the best light without regard for the artists' sense of symmetry and order.
I would put out some tubes of paint reminiscent of those I used in the 80s in Hetty's Art Studio in my great grandmother's basement: yellow ochre, reds and black. And maybe a tiny portion of turpentine, just to remember the smell of creation.
I would place another of my prized possessions in the center: the little cards she used to pass out with her untitled poem that began with the words "I am a common mustard seed." Her poetry was not Shakespeare but tidy and respectful, rather like the yews after I had reclaimed them for God.
And for the food offering, alongside the butterscotch candies, I would have to leave a plate of fish and chips from Long John Silver's, preferably purchased with a coupon clipped from the local newspaper. Oh, the memories.
So this is my virtual offering this day. What would yours be?
Image by Talia Felix
Image by Peter Griffin
