Author: Lynda Jones

I’ve always believed that Mexican prayers have super powers ~ especially prayers to Our Lady of Guadalupe. Mexican prayers need to be strong because Mexican luck is basically so bad. 

The festival of Our Lady of Guadalupe, December 12, is the most important religious holiday in Mexico. It is particularly important in rural areas where people have a special love of La Virgin. 

I witnessed the Our Lady of Guadalupe festival twice. Ernesto and I were in Puerto Vallarta in 2013 as thousands of peasants from the small towns and ranches marched for days to arrive at the Basilica in time for Mass. There were traditional Aztec dancers mixed with mariachi bands. Parents and grandparents carried tired children in their arms. People slept in fields and bought food along the way. By the time they arrived, they were exhausted but ecstatic. It was a Mexican celebration of hope and joy, like nothing I’ve ever seen before or since.

I was also with Ernesto in the village of Hacienda del Tamarindo in 2010 for the days leading up to the festival. Neto’s mother was born in La Hacienda and many of his relatives still live there. Those who live in the United States return every year for the feast day. We arrived on Neto’s birthday, December 5. The novena, nine days of prayer said  at the same time every day, began the day before, on December 4. At 4:30, the morning of December 6, we heard the loud boom of portable cannons, telling everyone to wake up and meet at the local church to walk through the streets and pray the rosary together before going to Mass at 5:30. The entire town was there. 

I loved meeting Neto’s family, especially his uncles Gero and Ramon, and his Aunt Valvina. Always a gentleman, Uncle Gero jumped up when I entered the room. Although he was almost completely blind, Gero held my hand as we circled the room and he introduced me to everyone there. Uncle Ramon invited us to come to his house to see an injured baby deer he rescued while he was out riding his horse. Ramon showed us how he carried the deer home in his arms. He explained that he would feed it with a bottle until it was old enough to take back to the woods where it belonged. Aunt Valvina proudly showed me her home. I saw the sewing room where she makes all her own quilts, curtains and tablecloths. I was fascinated as she demonstrated the barracho room ~ a special bedroom off the courtyard filled with bunks for people who are too drunk to be allowed into the house. The barrachos sleep together, away from rest of the family, until they stumble into the kitchen the next morning looking for fresh rolls and hot coffee.

Like most homes in rural Mexico, Valvina and Gero’s home has no heat and no hot water. It was my first experience taking a shower using only a bucket a cold water. 

Neto’s family is wonderful  to be around. Not only are they breathtakingly handsome, they are charming and full of joy. They tell the same stories and laugh every time they hear them again. When it was time to leave, Neto’s cousins wished us a safe trip home. They told Neto “We like Lynda a lot. How can we get you to bring her back here again.” Neto answered, “Hot water would help!”

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.