Celebrating the Dead

Death clouded my periphery towards the end of 2006. People close to me were losing loved ones quite unexpectedly, without warning.

I particularly feel their loss since my father died the same way. It is both shocking and painful when death hits so swift, blindsiding you. The luncheon date doesn’t show up, you don’t hear from your brother that night, your father stares at you blankly while the dentures fall out of his mouth just minutes after he was whistling “Can’t Take That Away From Me” on West Broadway.

Filling the hole left behinds seems impossible. Last week on Gray’s Anatomy, after George’s dad dies, he tells Christina that he doesn’t know how to live in this life without him. Life will never be the same. As we move forward, get back to our jobs, medicate, go away from the scene of the crime as far as we can, we believe that the hole will fill itself. But it remains there, your soul permanently perforated.

And so it was with reluctance that I filled out the form to reserve our space at Forever Hollywood’s annual Day of the Dead festival. Although my brother and I had made a commitment to each other, as written on this blog a year ago, to construct something commemorating our father, my enthusiasm had waned to a snail’s pace. In the weeks preceding the event, Phil and I half-heartedly discussed a few conceptual ideas but I was secretly hoping he would back out so I could have an excuse to stay home.

I suppose this is why I’ve heard it said that death affects the living the worst. Maybe it's the fear of reliving that first moment of loss. In contrast, I’m sure the spirit world is ecstatic when Dia de los Muertos comes along. And my father is not to be excluded from this rowdy group.

After agreeing on who would bring what, we arrived at 9:30 AM and stayed in that cemetery until past midnight. I didn’t imagine I’d spend an entire day among gravestones and all the while, having a ball. We cavorted with skeletons, admired the dedicated and commercialized Ramones fans, cleared the path for hordes of Aztek dancers and performance artists, feasted on homemade tamales and reminisced about our father to thousands of visitors. Once we started, it became easy to talk about him. There were so many quirks that made up his sparkling personality.

We created a simple altar, covering an old card table with chili peppers, charms, sun flowers, a DVD of the Red Sox World Series win, a JFK souvenir, traditional skeletons and the makings for martinis. For our backdrop, Philip had enlarged and mounted photographs which we crudely attached to bamboo poles stuck into the earth. We laid marigolds, sage and clove incense among the candles.

Invariably, his Ted Williams t-shirt on display sparked the question “Did he get to see them win?” and guests were disappointed that he hadn’t until we pointed out a ticket from Fenway where we illegally spread his ashes.


When it got dark, and the temperature dropped, we lit our candles and plugged in the large old-fashioned Christmas lights similar to the ones Bob was caretaker to at our house on Pratts Mill Road.

Later in the evening, I learned that we had brought our gringo approach with us. We didn’t realize that offerings, such as food & drink items, were for the dead. As we talked about Bob, it just seemed natural that someone should start mixing martinis. Philip took the job, and while people gathered around the altar looking at our memorabilia, we passed out lollipops and stuffed olives and recalled especially memorable character traits about Bob. At one point, I looked over at my brother, donning his Sox cap chatting with four visitors, all sipping from concave cocktail glasses, laughing about something, Sinatra softly crooning in the background. I thought Bob would have liked this. A party where everyone is welcome.

Already in the works for next year's festival are designs for an elaborate altar where we plan to grill steak. And I encourage you to celebrate the life of those you’ve loved and lost by joining us at the Forever Hollywood cemetery. To borrow from "The Wonder Years", "Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, and the things you never want to lose.