mirror ball 18: day of the dead

Who would I commemorate on a Day of the Dead altar? What would I put on the altar in their memory, or to please them in their afterlife?

John: The person who came immediately to mind when I saw this topic is my brother Andrew, who died as the result of a bad car accident when he was 25 years old. The only thing I own that at least partly belonged to Andrew is a beat-up old softball with our last name written all over it (to keep the enemy-neighbor-boys from stealing it), but that doesn't capture Andrew's spirit.

One thing I think he'd like on a memorial alter is a can of Van Kamp's Pork and Beans. When we lived in Grant Park, IL (farm town, population 800), the kids in school gave him the nickname "Beans," because our last name, Steinkamp, reminded them of Van Kamp. He was really popular in school and loved that part of Illinois. It's where he settled after his stint in the Army and it's where he was killed while hot-rodding around the backroads with his buddies.

I'd include some his school pictures that capture his sweet, tentative smile and the sparkle in his eyes.

And if you can keep a memory in one place, there would be thoughts of Andrew "popping wheelies" on his bike, like the daredevil he was; Andrew performing in an original Christmas skit with my sister Erika and me, in our living room; Andrew asleep in the room he and I shared as little boys, sucking on his lower lip; and Andrew playing on the other side of the bedroom while he thought I was asleep, pushing toy cars along the top of a dresser and talking quietly to himself.

Paula: On the Altar

A shaker of salt
and a sugar bowl (she held a bit of both).
An opened can of Orange Crush,
half full or half empty, depending on the day.
My suede boots (one can be generous with one's sister).

Can you tell me what a nineteen year old
might need in heaven?
Do not reply:
"all she needs is your memories"
for I knew her
so much better than this

Tanya: Two loved ones come to mind, my father (who I wrote about last month) and my dog Babaloo. I think my altar would include them both. In memory of my dad, I would place a Harmonica and a pocket knife on the altar. We used to tease that Dad could be left alone in the woods with nothing but a harmonica and a pocket knife. The harmonica he always had in his pocket, and would be company enough for a while. The knife he could use to whittle and sculpt, and to cut what he needed for food and shelter. He was a genius at using available resources to create something filled with wonder and delight. For my dear Babaloo the "terripoo" I would place his collar and ashes, and a stick. The red collar and ashes in the purple velvet bag which I have been meaning to bury in the garden. The stick because he always found one and carried it proudly on our walks. Oh, and I would include the little license plate from the doggie wheelchair that he needed at the end of his life when his back legs gave out. Funny thing is, both Dad and Babaloo were highly intelligent with hearts of gold and love and smiles at the ready. However Dad was wonderfully content alone with not a care in the world (just give him that knife and harmonica!), Babaloo on the other hand had the worst case of separation anxiety known to mankind and nearly lost his mind when left alone. I loved them both beyond words and their spirits are with me always.

Tim S: Autumn Altar

Her name was Patsy Ann Phillips. She grew up in Beattyville, Kentucky, the child of dirt farmers. As a young woman she met and married Edgar Freeman. They had a daughter named Della. At seventeen Della in turn met and married a coal miner. In the spring of 1949, Patsy became my grandmother.

Feisty, honest, hard working, kind, these were distinctive to her nature. The earth seemed to hum in her hands. Year after year, she grew the most remarkable garden. The vegetables were lush, and it was always immaculate, not a weed in sight, ever. I watched her, closely. The vision of her hoeing rows of potatoes wearing one of the many bonnets she made is forever etched in my mind's eye. I knew those character traits she seemed to so easily live by were genetically determined for me because her blood was coursing through my veins. So, I made a decision early on in my childhood that I would dig deep in myself, find those traits and nourish them. I hope I have made her proud.

Patsy lived to be 91. Each year when October arrives and the wind bites cold at my neck, I await the colour; the swirling leaves of confetti, the frost. Removing one of the many quilts she made for me from the blanket chest, I drape it over a table, gather an armload of leaves, scatter them, light candles and honor her. She rests. Peace like a river flows.

Valerie S: Dia de los Muertos

I thought for days I would leave an altar for my mother here. I was wrong.

I lost my friend Jer about six months ago to suicide.

Jer and I met at the ice cream parlor in Corvallis where I worked as a scoop. Friendship flourished and grew with music, a mutual fascination for rainbows, deserts and rocky hills.

I leave for him, then, a picture of us with our guitars, singing harmony- "...Someday, Mother Nature, I'll come home to you..."

A rainbow glimpsed over the canyon, redtail soaring across our vision.

A mask and snorkel for all the places he dived, all over the world, including in our home waters.

A picture of his beautiful children, and a sugarcone.

Steve: My grandparents Arleigh and Mabel would like to know that I think of them frequently and fondly but I don't think they'd like the idea of being memorialized on an altar of any sort (although they both had Fraternal affiliations that they didn't ever talk about, so they may both have had a bit of a mystic streak). In their later years they both liked to sit at the window by the breakfast table and watch the birds come to the feeder on their porch-- so maybe the best remembrance of them would be a well-stocked birdfeeder in my own backyard, in view of a couple of comfy chairs. I love you, Grandpa and Grandma.

Jacklyn: My altar would be to my three parents. My memories of my Dad are so few and so disconnected that it was easy to put him in the background. I recently found a photo of him and put it on my bureau. Then I put a photo of my Mom next to him. It felt like a kind of altar because I was making a very conscious choice to recognize him, them. Next I'll put my step-Dad on the bureau. They are all gone and have been for years. I'll put up photos of my dogs Pilot and Violet to keep them company. My step-Dad loved Pilot. It was a hard-won love since she got sick all over his white rugs and he couldn't get the stain out. Then she took to resting her head on his feet when he sat in his favorite chair... smart dog. My Dad loved dogs. He and my Mom had Rex and Boy and Smokey, so I know they need some canines on their altar. My Mom needs some jewels, her bath, Joy perfume, her hairdresser and Geraldo Rivera. My Dad needs a couple of poems I wrote for him and a letter I'll write to him. I'll put his bamboo fishing rod and the ties he tied by himself. And how about a trout? I'll write to my step-Dad too. I wonder if I ever just simply said thank you to him? I need to do that. He needs some roses because he used to raise them and the Friday Night Fights because he used to watch them. I'd shower the altar with flowers, spray of martini and a thousand kisses to hold them until the next Day of The Dead.

Garris: Interestingly enough I have just such a corner (well...not exactly a corner) in my house, although I didn't really intend to turn it into a shrine or anything, it just sort of evolved that way. I have an old antique radio cabinet that I inherited from my mother's mother. On the wall... above it... is my mother's wedding picture (it's maybe my favorite picture of her) and sitting on top of the radio cabinet is a photo of my entire family and my mother's father's gold pocket watch that hangs in a little glass case. Also on the cabinet is a box containing the last few remaining ashes that were once my mother... the rest have been spread around various plants and on the sands of a Carolina beach, but I just haven't been able to part with these last few remaining ones quite yet. There are also a few pressed rose petals in the box... yellow roses that were sent to me by a friend when he heard of her death. Besides the ashes, which I admit may seem a bit morbid and will eventually find their way to their very own spot, what I see when I look at that collection and what I think my Mother would LOVE seeing, is family. Her parents, her husband, her children and grandchildren.

Eve: I started writing on the altar prompt, but I don't really do altars, so the story quickly turned into a ghost story, also seasonal, because I most definitely do ghosts. The people I have lost that I keep closest right now are my mother, and her mother. I have especially missed them, (and been aware of their presence) since the birth of my own daughter 9 years ago.

So much about my current life would please my mother- Happy marriage, good cooking, satisfying work, creative witty children, my daughter"s rapid progress on the flute (purchased for me in the 70's, that I never really took to). I figure her for contentedly drifting around, keeping stews from scorching and assuring that Rebecca is not in the garden when a stray branch falls. I think of her when I look out the window at autumn leaves surrounding the house, and imagine she likes this part of the country, since she always said she wanted to move out of the city one day.

My grandmother, Yetta, on the other hand, is more critical. I think of her spirit, like my mothers, as having moved out west with me. She, however, is more perplexed. I'm not religious enough for her , nor do I keep the house tidy enough. My cooking is too spicy- it can't be good for the children. Still, she is our fiercest advocate in the spirit world and I know it. Though she doesn't completely approve, she adores these grandchildren, their healthy strength and good appetites and quick minds. She lived through wars and the depression and all manner of sorrows, and I know she is throwing all her strength into keeping this family well. It is she that I thank when some true disaster is averted; a car accident, an injury that could have been worse. It was she, I'm sure, that blew out the pilot light on our old furnace before the clogged part started a fire a few years ago. A portrait photo of her hangs on my daughters bedroom wall, where I know she whispers wisdom in the night to her daughter's daughter's daughter.

John M: We have a sort-of altar in our house with the ashes of our deceased cat companion and spiritual director, Spot. She sits in a beautiful distressed metal box with an icon of the Virgin Mary on the lid, a Mexican painting called "Our Lady of Abundance". This is appropriate to Spot in several ways because not only was she a big, voluptuous female, she was also extremely generous in spirit and taught us about the abundance of love through her unconditional acceptance of us.