Tag Archives: pan de muerto

That Time of Year Again

4 Nov

I have my husband to thank for bringing the celebration of “Day of the Dead” into my life. This is a tradition that he grew up with in Oaxaca and always brought a great deal of excitement into his family’s life. They are a family of bakers and during this time, they baked and sold many loaves of pan de muerto or “bread of death”  which people would place on their altars honoring their relatives and friends who had died.

The Day of the Dead altar has now become a tradition in our family. During the process of setting up the altar each year, our family takes the time to reflect on those we’ve loved and lost. It’s not our intention to forget our loved ones, but busy lives often keep our minds on other things. As my husband says, “Everyone dies twice. The first time is when you physically die. The second time is when people forget you.”

Celebrating Day of the Dead keeps those we love from dying twice.

Here are some photos of this year’s celebration.

 

Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead)

1 Nov

Today is the first day of November: All Saints Day or Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead). It’s the perfect opportunity to remember those who have left us and reflect upon how much they meant to us.  Just by thinking of them today, we can keep their memories alive in our minds and in our hearts.

Our Dia de los Muertos  Altar 2013

Our Dia de los Muertos Altar 2013

Colorful skulls and pan de muerto

Colorful skulls and pan de muerto

Flor de Muerto (Marigolds)

Flor de Muerto (Marigolds)

Making fun of death

Making fun of death

Cancer took them too soon...Rosie, Jessi, Jeffrey, T.T. and Lexi. R.I.P little ones

Cancer took them too soon…Rosie, Jessi, Jeffrey, T.T. and Lexi. R.I.P little ones

Resting in eternal matrimony; Hermelinda Chimil  and Elias Mireles

Resting in eternal matrimony; Hermelinda Chimil and Elias Mireles

Precious Gillian Winters

Precious Gillian Winters

Skeletons and more skeletons...

Skeletons and more skeletons…

Grandpa Joe

Grandpa Joe

Remembering Grandpa

20 Oct

muertos 4The other day, my eight year-old daughter, Isa said something that stuck with me: “Mommy,” she said, “Isn’t it sad that I’m not used to saying the word Grandpa?”

It’s very sad, indeed. Isa has never had a grandfather, as René’s father and my father both died before she was born. My father has been gone for almost thirty years now and it seems as if I think of him more often as I grow older myself. It’s become a regular occurrence that his memory comes to me when I’m reading or writing and I don’t know the meaning of a particular word. I think to myself, Oh, if only Dad were here—I could ask him—because when I was a young girl, every single time I needed to know what a word meant, he always knew.

My dad still shows up in my dreams sometimes. I’m the first to admit that because of his alcoholism, I’ve carried the weight of a heavy resentment toward him for many years. But now in my dreams, I’m no longer the victimized and martyred little girl as I used to be. I’m just a daughter who’s over the moon to see her daddy again. And as if I’m still half his height, I stretch my arms up high to hug him, the soft cotton material of his Brooks Brothers button up shirt brushing against my skin. I bury my face into his neck, the scent of nicotine and Old Spice coming off of him like a stale and comforting perfume. I always ask him the same question: “Where have you been all this time?”

Lately, I think of my dad every time I walk through the living room. It’s that time of year again when we set up our altar for Dia de los Muertos—Day of the Dead, and his photograph is the focal point of our altar. He’s surrounded by skulls, candles, marigolds, pan de muerto, and most importantly, by the smiling faces of other relatives and friends who have also left this earth.

muertos 1

I think he would be surprised by the number of faces placed next to his: his two younger brothers; his granddaughter, Gillian; the many faces of Isa’s young friends who’ve all died from cancer. He might be a little bit pleased that on this altar he’s still the patriarch—the grandpa watching over them all—a part of something that we who are still here on this earth have yet to understand.

It feels good to remember that in more ways than not, my dad was a decent man. He was flawed, as I am, but he did the best he knew how to do, just as I’m doing the best I know how to do. And despite his imperfections as a father, he must have done a few things right along the way.

After all, I turned out pretty good.

muertos 3