Altars of memory

I am writing this post on November 1, All Saints Day, a holiday observed by most Christian denominations, part of a multi-day celebration that includes All Hallows Eve, the previous day, and All Souls Day, the following day. For many sects, particularly Catholics, the holiday honors saints, living and dead, hence the name. Ways of observing the day include attending church services, praying for the dead, and remembering deceased friends and loved ones. In this country, the religious aspect of All Saints Day has been overshadowed by Halloween, a secularized version of All Hallows Eve, which originally was a time of prayer and fasting.

In Mexico, November 1 is known as El Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead. According to some scholars, like many other religious traditions in Latin America, El Dia de los Muertos reflects an adaptation of Catholic rituals that arrived with the Spanish in the 16^th century to local religious customs and practices. One of the traditions in Mexico connected with the holiday is to honor deceased loved ones by building home altars called ofrendas to welcome their spirits. The arrangement of the altar can be as simple or elaborate as the family chooses. It often contains personal items like photos, favorite foods and drinks, and mementos. Traditional elements sometimes include candles, salt, marigolds, pan de muerto (bread of the dead), and sugar skulls, both of which are foods that symbolize the cycle of life and death.

In writing in my journal earlier today as I do almost every morning, I was thinking about my dead parents and what I would put on an ofrenda for each in honor of their memory and to welcome their spirit. I know both altars would be simple and unadorned, reflecting and respecting their nature and their lives.

For my father, who died 33 years ago, I would put a photograph of him as a young man and another taken of him working on a car since he was a fine shade-tree mechanic. Because he was someone who worked with his hands, I would also include a wrench or pair of tin snips. Of course, there would be a pack of cigarettes, lighter, and ash tray. Finally, I would place his favorite coffee cup in the center, filled with black coffee. I have the cup. It is an unusual one that holds only a half cup, which he liked because he said the small size made it easy to drink the coffee before it got cold. For years, he placed that cup on a table next to where he was sitting, on top of an owner’s manual for a 1955 Ford. I also have that manual, and it would go under the cup, coffee-stain circles and all.

For my mother, I would have two photos of her, one as a high school student and another from the last time I saw her, three weeks before she died a year ago yesterday at age 99. The latter photo would capture the memory of her that is most clear in my mind now. She was a voracious reader, so I would stack a bunch of paperbacks on the altar, mostly historical romances, which were the fodder of her later years. On top of the books, I would put her glasses. She was an inveterate hat wearer, so her altar would have to have a beanie which she wore in winter and a ball cap with various pins and medallions, which she sported in summer.

Until today, I had wept only a couple of times about the death of my parents, but in thinking about what I would place on an altar for each of them, my eyes filled with tears in their memory. I realized what a powerful ritual creating an altar for a deceased loved one can be.

Writing about ofrendas for my parents is causing me to think about what would be on an altar my family might assemble for me. While I cannot know what they would choose, I have ideas about some things that I think or hope would reflect me and my life: one of my journals, which I have kept for years; a few of my favorite books, including one on learning Spanish; a pry bar I use in beekeeping; a bottle of India pale ale; a pair of my running shoes; and a nametag from one of the hospices for which I have volunteered. As far as photographs, I don’t have a strong opinion, other than they should be snapshots and not any sort of formal portrait—perhaps one from a backpacking trip or after a run, and one from near the end of my life. I hope that my ofrenda would be simple with no other adornments.

In thinking about what might go on my ofrenda, I began to wonder if my list was like a resume, a form of bragging with a bit of self-deception rather than what my family would choose, what they would think reflects who I am or was, what would be important in their eyes rather than just mine. Fortunately, the decision would be theirs.

What a contrast between the elegant altars of El Día de los Muertos and the cheap commercial way Halloween is celebrated here. Instead of honoring the memory of people in our lives who have died, we buy huge plastic skeletons and similar crap from Walmart and Costco to decorate our yards in a sort of orgy of bad taste, a preparatory ritual of irrelevance for an even worse onslaught of cheap schlock at Christmas. Just as we have adopted other traditions from Mexico, particularly food, I wish we would cast off the silliness of our commercialized Halloween and honor the dead in the graceful manner of traditional Mexican culture.

What would you place on an ofrenda for your deceased loved ones?