Give Thanks

Thanksgiving Day, 2019

The table is set.

Gourd Centerpiece. Crafted by
Second Granddaughter. 7 years old.

Delicious food awaits: 

     + Butternut squash soup
     + Slow-roasted turkey with pan gravy and
        stuffing
     + Cranberry sauce
     + Sweet creamed corn
     + Pumpkin cheesecake, etc.

... at Cooper's Hawk Winery and Restaurant.

All the flavor.

None of the work.

Thanksgiving.

When the people who are the most thankful are the ones who didn't have to cook.

Need I say more?

Actually, yes.

It's not the minutes spent at the table that put on weight, it's the seconds (LOL). 

Wishing you the gift of faith

 and the blessing of hope this Thanksgiving Day!

Recoleta

Day Of The Dead: Buenos Aires, Argentina

Don't cry for me, Argentina.
The truth is I never left you.

The hill in the lovely neighborhood of Recoleta was alive with the sound of Madonna... er... Eva Perón singing.

Same difference. 

That's American Queen of Pop Madonna rendering a soulful plaint in the film Evita where she played the role of the world-famous and controversial former first lady of Argentina.

Despite the lyrical claim, Madame Perón did leave (because she died) and was buried in the Recoleta Cemetery in Buenos Aires. Covering just under fourteen acres, the cemetery is a mini-village of tombs, tightly-packed and condensed. 

Like a field of deathbeds, stretching many blocks far and wide. 

With over 6,400 grandiose mausoleums resembling Gothic chapels, Greek temples, fairy-tale grottoes, and elegant little houses.

Argentina’s wealthy and powerful do know how to do it in style, even as they rest for eternity.

We went to see Madame Perón's tomb.

Its marble floor had a trapdoor. From there was a compartment containing two coffins. Under that compartment was a second trapdoor. Under that was a second compartment that was so heavily fortified to ensure that no one could disturb her remains.

 Huh? Who's going to bother?

And that was where she lay, in a crypt almost seventeen feet underground.

Whew! 

That was too much even for me who has been known to go overboard on anything. I'd no sooner claw my way out of there quicker than you can say Jack Robinson.

And on this note, the series on death ends.

See you later, alligator! 

Give a hug, ladybug!

Remembering Coco

November 20, 2019

He has left 

clawprints 

on our hearts.

Cities Of The Dead

Day Of The Dead: New Orleans, Louisiana

The wind whined through the cemetery, rounding out the sharp corners of the tombs. We were among the burial plots known as 'Cities of the Dead' at the Cementerio de San Luis (St. Louis Cemetery) in New Orleans.

Where rows and rows of sun-bleached tombs resemble streets.

Where rusty, decorative ironwork, crosses, and statues cast mysterious shadows.

And where the dead are buried above ground. 

Umm... Did you just ask what the deal was about being 'buried above ground?'

I'm glad you did.

And did you just say out loud that this was counter intuitive to the accepted practice of being 'six feet under'?

Good that you said that, too. I love questions. Like questions with more questions and commentaries sprinkled on top. 

Here's the thing.

Because of the extremely high water table in New Orleans, graves become soggy, easily filling with water. Frequent flooding once caused corpses to surface. Yikes! You just can't keep a good, dead person down, can you? LOL.

Early settlers tried placing stones in and on top of funerary boxes to weigh down and keep them underground. Unfortunately, after a rainstorm... Again - pop! they went out of the ground. Can you picture a casket sticking up out of the water or literally floating? Boring holes in the coffin didn't work either.

So, no more shallow plots. 

Above ground vaults are the answer. The dead are tucked away in economical chambers stacked on top of one another.

Or in larger, ornate catacombs with crypts.

Or even in family burial chambers that look like miniature houses, complete with iron fences.

As for me? My choice is none of the above. I'd much rather float through space and time like a speck.

Free.

And alone. 

Undas

Day Of The Dead: Manila, Philippines

Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them. - George Eliot

It was October 31.

With candles, shears, a bucket, and rags in tow, Mum and I were plowing through the crowd, walking the rest of the way to Cementerio del Norte (North Cemetery) from Bonifacio Avenue.

Our yearly pilgrimage.

We were visiting Lolo Gorio and Lola Maria's gravesite to pull perimeter weeds and get the tombs clean and ready for Undas (All Saints' Day). Celebrated on November 1, it was a day to remember and to pay respect to loved ones who had passed away. 

Truth.

I didn't enjoy yanking weeds. I used to dread it. There were times when I would mumble in secret protest. Until...

Until Mum promised that afterward, she was going to buy me a bag of boiled peanuts. Perhaps a bunch of lanzones? (Aside: I was easy. I'd do anything for food.) 

So from then on, I had looked forward to our visit. 

As I surveyed the scene, I mentally conjured a progress report and this was what it said.

Personality?  B.

Kind of pitiful.

And sad.

The colorful coleus shrub bordering the gravesite was lonely and looked like a teenager who needed a haircut.  

Behavior?  B.

It was a little sassy and I caught it inviting some rotting kalachuchi petals and random cobwebs to a sleepover. And partying with foot-high weeds of rice. The tombs were dirty and brown. They needed help. They needed a makeover. 

Potential?  A+.

The plot really wanted to get its grade up.

And that said, Mum and I joined the other folks around who were already in the midst of cleaning their respective site. We tugged and heaved. And clipped. And scrubbed. And polished.

It was already dark when we finished. As a farewell gesture, we set up and lit candles on each corner of the tombstones making them gleam like blanched, weathered bones.

As we trudged back between graves to the pedestrian lane, my feet crunched and crackled on a carpet of leaves and twigs. Voices of folks reciting novena prayers for the dead faded.

There was only stillness.

And the silence of death. 

Dia De Muertos

Day Of The Dead: Mexico

I’m never really sure about Halloween, death, and cemeteries. That's why for November blogs, I've skipped these topics and acted like we aren’t friends and moved right on to Thanksgiving, pumpkins, and desserts.

But sometimes?

When I feel like a spider web is in my future…

I break out a little orange and black and say, B-O-O!

Let me start by talking about Dia de Muertos (Day of the Dead).

I've never experienced the celebration but I have a sparkly Muertos baseball cap, a decorated skull, co-workers from Mexico who would talk to me about it, and I speak a little Spanish. That qualifies me, I suppose?

Instead of being 'day of the dead,' Muertos seems to me more as a three-day party extravaganza. 

The celebration starts at midnight on October 31. On November 1, it is believed that the souls of deceased children come down from heaven and reunite with their families. The souls of departed adults visit on November 2.

Would you believe that they arrange a pillow and blanket for each of these loved ones so they can rest after their journey? 

Sweetly spooky, don't you think?

Families dress up in macabre skeleton outfits and paint their faces white and decorate with mini papel picados (paper cutouts) and prepare flower-strewn and candle-lit altars. And food! - pan de muerto (a slightly sweet bread specifically made for this time) and skull-shaped candy known as calaveritas.

Festivities continue with a graveside picnic through the night. Folks drink tequila or mezcal, play music, and sometimes stay for a graveyard sleepover.

I like the concept. ¡Es hora de fiesta! It's party time!

No mourning.

No sadness.

Just a gala bash where the living celebrate with the dead.