November 2nd, Dia de Los Muertos, Day of the Dead, is a major national holiday in Mexico. It incorporates Aztec traditions and coincides with All Souls Day in the Catholic religion.
Unlike people in the United States who avoid talking about death, Mexicans often joke about dying to demonstrate that they are not afraid. They are determined not to let death stand in the way of their joy of living.
In the days leading up to November 2, bakeries (panaderias) prepare bread in the shape of skulls. In Mazatlán, people put together elaborate skeleton costumes and participate in a raucous nighttime parade throughout downtown.
In small towns, families decorate their homes with altars covered in marigolds, photographs, and articles that remind them of family members who have died. It is a day to remember and celebrate loved ones, to share joy and tears, laughter, stories and plenty of cerveza and tequilla.
In recognition of Dia de Los Muertos, I share this tribute to my father, Robert Jones, who died in 1996.
My earliest memory of my father happened when I was about four years old. My family lived upstairs, above my grandparents, in a small home across from the local Catholic church. I sat on the floor, watching my father sleep on the sofa next to me. My brother and I were eating an orange and we methodically put the orange seeds in my father’s ear.
By the time he woke up, my father’s ear was over-flowing with discarded orange seeds. That event is significant for two reasons. It established that my father could sleep through anything and that he allowed us children tremendous leeway.
Adults in my family have always claimed that the ability to sleep anywhere is the sign of a clear conscience. In my father’s case, that was certainly true.
I miss my father tremendously. He taught me to fully appreciate comic books, holidays, gardening, Alfred E. Newman, horse-racing and music. He was the only father I knew who could click his heels and wiggle his ears. Who would play Sousa marches on his trumpet on the Fourth of July and Taps at night.
The last piece of music I heard him play was Somewhere Over the Rainbow. I never heard him play so well, or so sweetly. He died four months later. He was the most honorable, kind, gentle man I’ve ever know.
Adios, Papí.
What sweet memories to share. The playing the trumpet makes me think of my Swiss grandmother who wanted the Stars and Stripes to be played at the end of her memorial. And sure nuff…..my aunt got that organized. I think people were a bit surprised. But it seemed a fitting finale.
How lucky you were to have a dad like that! Day of the Dead sounds like a meaningful and colorful celebration indeed!
I remember your father also. I am thinking that he may have been a pharmacist ? I picture a rather thin frame . So long ago though. I also had a special bond with my father, and much difficulty in dealing with his death. I ended up taking a writing class to help me grieve . I wrote a story about a visit with him in his garage, in his later years working with wood. My memories of him are still many and vivid.
Thank you, Lynda. I needed this today — and I copied the Snoopy meme to post on my Facebook page.
What a wonderful tribute to your father. Your love shines through in every word and makes me miss him too!