In the cemetery

In the cemetery

Today we celebrate the Day of the Dead.  When our children were little often I made a pizza on this post-Halloween day.  Even though we aren’t Mexican, I thought it an auspicious occasion to remember our ancestors.  We would take a slice of pizza and put it out under the oak tree for all the grandpas and grandmas and my godmother Kathleen.  Here, you ancestors, we won’t forget you!  You are still part of our family, even though you’re long gone into the coffin’d earth.  Join us in spirit.  Let’s share a slice of pizza.

We told stories.  This was your grandpa and this is how he loved you.  This was Grandpa and he held you in his arms and read you this story when you were barely four years old.  This was Grandma and she made the best baked beans drenched with molasses and brown sugar. This was your other grandpa and once he fed us rutabaga and red jello in Florida.  Don’t forget them!  They loved you more than you will ever know.  You were their hope for the future.  You were the dreams they dreamed in the darkest night.

A bed of autumn leaves

A bed of autumn leaves

The gate between worlds is wide open at this time of year.  You can talk to your grandmas and grandpas, aunts and uncles, all of them ghosts.  You can tell them about your life and listen for your inner thoughts to share stories in return.  They will tell you of their sojourn in the spirit world, in heaven, in the other place.  You must not label your thoughts imagination too hastily. Listen.  Take note.  Share the “imaginary” stories with those who knew them.  You may be surprised that your thoughts tell you stories of truth, stories your conscious mind never knew.  Believe.  Believe that the ghosts of your ancestors are only a breath away.  Only a sigh away on the autumn breeze.

The gate between worlds

The gate between worlds

The Day of the Dead.  I find it interesting that I was writing today, mostly fiction about those long dead.  About folks moving and breathing and loving and exploring and walking in the outdoors about 1932.  I was back among them, listening intensely to the footsteps they made almost a century ago.  The words flowed out so easily during the first writing session, and then proved more challenging later in the afternoon as I struggled to describe happenings in a century before my actual birth.

I went outdoors more often than usual today.  To clear the cobwebs from my writing mind.  First, I traveled over to Pequaming ( a nearby almost ghost-town and snapped about 80 photos.  You’ll see some of them maybe tomorrow.)  Later I wrote another hour’s worth of words from the distant past, and then Barry and I split up our last load of wood. Our last load of wood!  Did you hear that?  We’ve only been dealing in firewood since mid-winter.  Now our last wood is split, hauled and piled.  We’re almost two years ahead, rich in logs.  We sigh.  We relax.  Winter can almost come…as soon as we finish those other chores…

Boo!

Boo!

I am feeling so…nostalgic…today.  So intimate with those who have died, those who have been dear loved ones.  People throw around the term “ghost” too easily.  The spirits of our mind and heart are so often our dear uncles and aunts, our grandmas and grandpas, real people like you and me.

Only the red of apples

Only the red of apples

Don’t forget to feed your dead today.  Feed them bright red apples.  Slices of pizza.  Feed them your thoughts, your love, your appreciation, your joy.

One day you, too, will be an ancestor.  Someday your great grandchildren may remember you.  Give you some pizza.  Pass it on through the generations–pass it on.

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