(Note: I originally put this up as a Facebook photo and post. Because of the reactions, I decided to expand it a bit and post here for those who don’t do social media.)

Monday being All Souls’ Day, my partner constructed his usual altar to the memory of dead relatives. It’s hard to make out the details in the picture above, but in addition to photographs, a rosary, Mass cards and newspaper obituaries, there’s also a shot glass of whiskey, a cup of coffee, a glass of water, a pipe full of tobacco and a candy bar.

(The framed photo at the top left is of my mother, at age 11 or 12.)

Shortly after I took this picture DF added a Mexican Coca-Cola for Great-Great Grandma Myrt, who hated coffee but adored Coke. It had to be a Mexican Coke because those are made with sugar rather than the high-fructose corn syrup that U.S. bottlers use.

His 4-year-old granddaughter, whom I’ll call “Daisy” to protect her privacy, visited for a short time that morning. A child prone to wild flights of fancy – mostly in a good way – she was immediately fascinated by the idea of “the ancestors.” Possibly that’s because she’s a big fan of the animated film, “Coco,” which features the Mexican celebration of El Día de los Muertos.

DF had prepared sugar cookie dough the night before, and the two of them scooped and decorated cookies during her visit. When they were cool enough he put some on the empty plate* in the picture.

He then offered Daisy a cookie but instead of eating it she said she wanted to “share this with the ancestors.” It wound up on the plate with the others. And, of course, another cookie from the cooling rack wound up in her mouth. No doubt the ancestors approved; after all, they were little once themselves.

 

A little voice

I pointed out some of the old-timey clothing in the photos, and expressed gratitude that I don’t have to wear floor-length skirts. Or that little girls no longer have to wear impossible-to-keep-clean white dresses, unless they really want to (and their parents are okay with using lots of bleach).

When I showed her the picture of her great-grandmother, whose given name is Daisy’s middle name, she claimed to remember Oma Mami. She probably doesn’t, since Oma Mami died (at age 102!) three years ago. At that point Daisy would have been all of 16 months old.

Like I said: flights of fancy.

No matter. DF mentioned that her great-grandmother was there with us. The dead, he said, “come to see us every year at this time.” Moments later, Daisy informed us that Oma Mami was, in fact there: “I heard her voice! A little voice that said, ‘Hi’.”

Then she was off to her child care center, where I fully expected her to tell her friends about all the dead people at her Opa’s house. And eventually to hear from the Anchorage Police Department: “Open up! We have a report of multiple homicides!”

Thankfully, that didn’t happen.

The Day of the Dead altar seemed more poignant this year, given the number of COVID fatalities around the world – and in my own family. As they say, in the midst of life we are in death. We don’t handle it as well in this country as they do in Mexico, where death is simply a part of life and All Souls’ Day a chance to feel a little closer to those who have gone before. Remembering can be painful, but it can also be joyous. Especially when cookies are involved.

*The two of them added toast made with DF’s rustic bread, and some freshly cooked bacon. At lunchtime he put out another plate with one-quarter of the pastrami sandwich he’d made; in early evening he added a soft taco from the batch he’d whipped up for our supper. And on his behalf, I apologized to the ancestors for the fact that there was a container of candy corn in the spread.