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There she was again. I don?t know how many times I?d seen her as she dragged all her meager treasures in the rusted red wagon. Even though the heat of Houston caused the coolest dressed Houstonian to break a sweat, she wore her clothes layered topped off with her multi-colored hat and a feather bobbling as her toothless smile greeted passersby.

She never was without that smile as she made her rounds in the section of town I lived in. I lived there by choice because I wanted to be a part of the diversity of the ethnic and economic section of town?it kept me grounded so I couldn?t forget how it was to be living in an area that wasn?t always safe. She lived in the streets knowing full well what it meant to be poor, without the safety of a roof over her head, and to be ridiculed and taunted by truant youth or people who passed with nary a nod of recognition.

As a former human service worker I knew her story all too well in generalities. Workers would ignore her because she wasn?t in crisis. She?d hit their desks if someone would complain or she was found by law enforcement to be ill. Thus, in between these circumstances she would follow her daily routines of perusing her world to gather mementoes of colorful scraps of cloth, paper or fauna. While some would walk around her with disgust, pity, or as if invisible, she seemed to find the world she moved in filled with details others missed.

I rode my bike in the early hours of the morning along the bayou bike trail. There I?d find her making her early morning trek. She?d wander off the path to pick a small pink flower inhaling deeply to breathe in any fragrance lingering. I?d watched her more than once tenderly petting the petals as if a beloved pet.

I got so I?d bring along a banana to share with her, knowing it was the easiest for her to chew. Soon it became a ritual she?d expected and I?d bring her a bunch of bananas if I knew I?d be gone for awhile. She never conversed verbally with me, instead just smiled and nodded to statements or questions.

Bissonnet Street went over the Bayou, which meant there was shelter under the road. If you didn?t think about it you?d pass by without ever noticing the blankets, cardboard boxes which became home and shelter for people who chose to sleep in the open instead of going to the local shelters. During the summer, the location provided a cooling space in the shade from the hot Gulf winds and humidity.

One morning the faint sounds of crooning came from behind me. I stopped my bike to follow the sound. Under the bridge I saw her holding in her arms a man, rocking him as if singing a lullaby. As I approached, her eyes were filled with tears with grief, and she motioned for me to stay back?gently I spoke to her knowing she knew me well enough to know I?d not harm her in anyway. He did not die alone.

There is a tendency to judge why people ?choose? to live in this manner. However, getting to know some of the homeless I discovered, for some it was a matter of freedom. From my multi-colored chapeau friend, I learned she thrived on the beauty of the bayou path along the canal. She would sit for hours watching the catfish jump, the long legged birds with pileated beaks securing their daily fish intake, and squirrels challenging each other for a fragment of food. She braved the steep bank just to touch a dandelion.

She often saw the nuances of life I would miss trying to bike 10 miles on the within a prescribed time frame. She, on the other hand, observed her surroundings with the passion of a botanist on his first discovery.

I think of her often as I live here in the north woods watching the snow fall lightly outside my window. I?m glad she lives in the south because life here would be so much harder for her. However, I do believe she would discover the same detailed interest in the world. I suspect snowflakes would hold a fascination with each crystal its own design.

She never did tell me her story?only gave me her smile and nods. I don?t know the circumstances of living on the streets with her precious rusted red wagon. I do know she would not allow herself to be taken away from the lifestyle willingly. Her monthly government check seemed to cover what she wanted and more than once, I observed her giving money to someone else. We were friendly acquaintances more importantly she became the teacher altering my perceptions of life.

When I think about her, she reminds me to view my world through a lens without the trappings of things to gain or achieve. She reminds me the world has details to discover, and care for tenderly. She and others are great teachers to those who think they know so much.

She reminds me not to pass judgment about people I pass, who are living a life so different than my own materially. She reminds me the same Creator breathed His life into us. She is a valuable contribution to those who take notice and the others who share space under the bridge with her.

MCStrom ?01/03 ? revised 6/06 All rights reserved

Maralene Strom is a speaker and author who teaches on topics dealing with grief and recorvery — let her help you discover your life’s meaning as you journey now and into your future. Visit http://AdventuresInLivingsite.com to receive her newsletter.

People who commit suicide are very selfish people. They do not inflict their own pain. They inflict pain on their innocent family and friends they leave behind–the ones that are capable of caring and loving unselfishly. Nobody deserves that much pain.

We might have all said this at one time or another, “I’m going to kill myself,” or “I might as well be dead, no one will care.” We might have all thought it from one time or another. I admit that I have said it and contemplated it.

I believe my two older brothers had made sacrifices for me–in a morbid sense. They each committed suicide in a way that saved me. Their methods were different, but the meaning was the same. My brothers’ weaknesses are my strength.

My oldest brother, Donald, put his revolver in his mouth and blew himself away. I was the unfortunate one to discover his violent way out. After this traumatic incident, I never thought about suicide again. This was his sacrifice for me.

I believe if there were anti-depressants available then, in the early-to mid ‘70s, as they are widely used today, he may have been saved. He was awestruck at what Valium did to calm his nerves. If Wellbutrine was prescribed back then, it may have taken him out of depression, like it has done for me.

There are many anti-depressant drugs on the market today that works wonders. This requires a doctor visit and a prescription. Some of these wonder drugs are, Wellbutrine, Celexa, Prozac, Paxil, Zoloft,
Effexor and Serzone. These drugs are the alternative to depression. It surely is worth a try to help prevent a deadly choice of suicide.

My second oldest brother, Mark, killed himself in a fashion that took him years to accomplish–he drank himself to death. His years of alcohol abuse, kept me in check most of the time. After experiencing his health declining with cirrhosis of the liver and eventual death, I finally made the decision to stop drinking because I was going down the same road as he traveled for years. This was his sacrifice for me.

No matter how awful, cruel and fearful the world seems at times, it should never constitute a reason to eliminate yourself. Doing this is cowardly. It doesn’t take courage to kill yourself–only selfish determination. Their survivors were not allowed any alternatives or considerations–only guilt, grief and pain.

Through the years, I have had friends that have killed themselves. Take for instance, my long-time friend, Rick, who overdosed on morphine. His obituary read that it was an accidental overdose. My understanding is if you mess with a killer drug, like morphine, you should expect to die. I wouldn’t call morphine a recreational drug. I wouldn’t call Rick’s death an accidental overdose, rather than– a suicide.

I felt really lost for a long while after Rick died. I can only imagine what his family had to go through. It was my first experience of having someone close to me die like that–so mysteriously. We went to school together, started out drinking together, consuming drugs, sneaking out his parents car and chasing girls.

Because of the nature of his death–suicide, his family and friends were left with questions and guilt, along with grief. He left behind his young wife and baby daughter to suffer because of his actions. He had his whole life ahead of him. He was only twenty-two years old.

About two years later, my oldest brother, Donald, put his revolver in his mouth and blew himself away. His suicide was a violent death. He left our family and his friends with many unanswered questions and tons of guilt and grief. For me, it was very hard to separate my grief from my anger. I was angry at him for doing this and leaving us with so much pain to deal with. He left behind a four year old son. He was divorced from his wife. He was only thirty-six years old.

A friend I use to know through school, named Harky, put a hose to his car exhaust and stuck it through a port in the interior as he dosed off into suicide. His explanation in a note was that he couldn’t go on without the girl who left him. I was pretty distant from him when he died, but there is no doubt what his family went through. He was thirty-something at the time.

Another friend of mine, named Mike, hung himself on a bathroom door with a belt. Everyone was surprised by his actions. His girlfriend was watching television in the other room at the time. There was no note. This was another case of a heavy burden of questions, guilt and grief his family had to deal with. He was a thirty-nine year old fire fighter.

A distant friend I knew, named Steve, overdosed on heroin. It was speculated his death was an accidental overdose, too. He was living his life precariously on the edge. And he, too, left behind a monster of unanswered questions, guilt and grief for his family. He was thirty-something.

A fellow worker of mine, named Jerry, arrived at work early to hang himself beside a boiler in the boiler room of the school where he worked. He was a nice and friendly, easy-going man. Again, why would he want to put his family and friends through this to grieve hard and feel guilt, shame and anger? He was forty-something at the time.

Another friend and fellow-worker, named Brian, decided to take the easy way out and overdose himself with a variety of pills. His body was found near his opened refrigerator door. He had been despondent over a broken up relationship with his girlfriend. He left a rambling and incoherent letter behind. He also left a family in shock with grief, anger and lots of unanswered questions. He was fifty-nine years old.

My other older brother, Mark, drank for about forty years. He developed cirrhosis of the liver and died a very slow, agonizing death. He was almost unrecognizable. He refused help and continued to drink right up until the fifth day before his death. It was horrible. His death was suicide-by-drinking. Of course, that is my terminology and not the coroner’s. But I believe it was suicide on all accounts.

In Mark’s case, I thought I was prepared for his upcoming date with death. I was surprised he had survived as long as he did. I didn’t think I would experience the grief and anger like I did. He had so much potential. He was a good looking, intelligent, talented musician and artist, before this ugly disease took a hook to him and battered his ambitions and choices in life–to hell. He was a brother I became ashamed of because alcohol turned him into a blithering idiot. I knew he was once intelligent and that booze was his ultimate demon. I tried to look past his faults, but it was our family who failed to recognize his serious disease. The denial of his disease turned him into a mentally disturbed man. He was fifty-five years old.

If there is a message I could relay to the young and old contemplating suicide, I would advise them not to be ashamed to seek professional help. I also would recommend them to assess their desperate decision and think their actions out. I would make them aware of how their decision to end their life would deeply affect their family and friends. I would ask them why they would want to inflict such pain and sorrow on their loved ones. Most of all, I would inform them that all things must pass and that what seems unbearable to them now will seem so insignificant if you give it time.

The act of committing suicide is not recommended and approved by God. There will be no guarantee that your spirit and soul will reach heaven. Suicide is final. It is the easy road for some, but it means tears and pain for others.

Earl D. Erickson is a grateful, recovering alcoholic. He loves writing, photography, watching old classic television and films and listening to music. He is an internet author and has writen for Ezine Articles in the past. He is currently writing a book on his life and his struggles with alcoholism, drugs, depression, grief and loss. His book is entitled, Abstinence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder. He hopes to be finished with that project by early next year.

Earl owns and manages two websites. They are http://BobbiesMountain.com, dedicated to his late wife, Bobbie, and to cancer research. His other website is http://sqwearlenterprises.com
His love of writing true stories about his experiences bring him happiness and satisfaction. He hopes his stories help his readers identify their struggles they have encountered in similar events in their lives.

Earl is a native and resident of Tacoma, Washington.

I turned off my computer and said good evening to my coworkers. Outside, the brisk winter air chilled my face. Crossing the street and entering the parking lot I thought about what I wanted to do that evening. I got in my car and sighed.

The sky was already turning a dark gray, the sun coursing toward the horizon. I never much liked the way that worked out in the winter months. Seemed all the good, daytime hours, were sucked up in the void of work and sunlight was a rare commodity.

A week ago I looked at a litter of Golden Retriever pups. They’d been rescued and were placed in a foster home. I chose the runt, and named her Clarity. I decided I’d go home, gather up Clarity, then drive over to Duncan’s store. He’d been wanting to meet her.

As I pulled into the parking lot a pearly fog was swirling low to the ground. Through the mist the tiny white lights framing the windows and eaves of the bookstore twinkled warmly. I gathered Clarity and headed for the door.

As I neared, treasures of cloth, leather, and paper lay just beyond the long window, beckoning readers to come have a look. I opened the door and walked in. Warmth from the portable heater wrapped around me, as did the fragrance of Duncan’s subtle cologne.

Duncan was rearranging books his customers had pulled out to peruse. As he heard me enter, he turned around and a big smile lit his face. He was a tall, bear of a man and ruggedly handsome. I walked over to him and we embraced. Clarity pressed between us barked in her puppy voice.

Duncan stepped back, reached out for the pup, ‘Maurine! What a cutie you have here!’ He held her at arm’s length and chuckled as her paws pumped rapidly in the air. ‘She’s adorable.’

He waved me over, and behind the counter. From a small refrigerator he pulled out a piece of deli meat and offered it to Clarity.

‘How are you doing, Duncan?’

His face grew ashen, and he placed Clarity in my arms . . .

`*`

His father had passed away on New Year’s Day. Duncan had taken his father to a nursing home, against his father’s wishes, but his dad’s dementia had made it a necessity. The decision had left Duncan filled with remorse, and he was growing restless and edgy. His color looked bad and I worried about him.

More than friends, Duncan and I shared a bond filled with love, respect, and gratitude. Thankful to have a soul mate in each other, there was nothing we could not share. Our relationship never progressed to a physical joining, as lovers, but our connection was just as deep.

`*`

Duncan sat down in one of the two chairs he kept behind the counter. Clarity and I took the other. Mindlessly, he ran his fingers through his hair, shook his head. ‘I can’t rid myself of the guilt, Maurine. I keep seeing his face and frightened demeanor, when he begged me to never put him in a facility.’

‘I know, Duncan. I know . . .’

It was something we had talked about — the fate of our parents. How we felt we couldn’t deal with it when they passed on. My parents were in their 80s and though healthy, there was always that fear of the unexpected. Duncan’s mother died from Parkinson’s in the autumn, and a part of Duncan’s spirit atrophied with her passing.

His parents had seen him through a tough patch in his life. Soon after a bitter divorce his only child had lost his life in a snow boarding accident. Likewise, my folks had pulled me through a near death injury I suffered in a car accident. Consequently, the attachments we had to our parents went deep, and unlike many people, we had learned to value our familial relationship with them and to value them, also, as friends.

We talked until a customer entered the store. As I readied to leave, Duncan handed me a book from the countertop. ‘For you. The newest from your favorite author.’ He gave me a quick hug. ‘Why don’t you come over this Friday night. We can celebrate my birthday.’

I nodded and hugged him back. ‘It’s a date. You take care . . . Love ya.’ I started for my car and heard him reply, ‘I will, Maurine. I love you, too.’

`*`

I stood at his front door, a neatly wrapped gift with a card in hand. Duncan shunned many modern conveniences. His home was filled with 1950s memorabilia. The gift I had for him was an answering machine. I doubted he would use it, but I had hopes.

He greeted me at the door and quick on his heels was the patter of paws. I looked past Duncan and saw a pup. A black, Flat-coated Retriever, gawky and panting.

I gaped up at Duncan. Grinning like a kid he gripped me affectionately and ushered me in. ‘His name is Piper. A birthday gift to myself. He’s cute, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, yes. When did you get him?’

‘Day before yesterday. I don’t know what compelled me, but I felt led to find a furry companion. There was an ad in the paper. I went to have a look and he was irresistible.’

We talked late into the night. Sipping wine and staring into the flames of his fireplace.

`*`

Saturday afternoon I received a call from Duncan’s housekeeper. Sometime that morning Duncan had died from an aneurysm. She’d found him on his kitchen floor, unresponsive. An ambulance was called out but it was too late.

I dropped the phone, rushed out to my car and drove over to Duncan’s house. My mind refused to believe it. The front door was ajar. I entered to find the house eerily quiet and dark. Sitting on the back porch the black pup had been looking in and saw me. At once he began whimpering. I ran over to the French-door and let him in. He came over, stood up and pawed at my legs.

I bent down, scooped him up and gazed around. The house seemed like a tomb and I felt I was suffocating. I took Piper and left.

`*`

Three months later as I sat in my backyard, tears spilled unbidden to my lap. I ached for Duncan’s company. Never had I thought to not have him around. It was unbearable–this business of missing him.

The days were longer and the two pups had grown gangly. The sun was setting and the air was thick with gold motes. Glittering specks danced around Piper and Clarity as the two romped playfully in the grass.

Something in the garden had captured their attention. They circled round, listening, looking. I walked over to where they stood in the garden. Warmth radiated from the far-reaching sunbeams that wove the daylight and twilight.

The air was alive and the sky a moving painting of colors. It was a sight Duncan would have watched with wonder, and I would have been at his side, filled with awe and joy. It is part of what bound us close, our reverence for the beauty of the Creator.

I turned toward to the house, unable to summon that feeling. It was not the same as when it was shared.

‘But it is shared, Maurine. I will never leave you. You were so much a part of my life, it only makes sense that you would be a part of my new life. You cannot see me, but you can sense me . . . in the warmth of the sun. In the gold motes at twilight.’

Numb at first, I turned around. Clarity and Piper sat studying me. Their tongues lolled out and they were clearly grinning. Then, together, they raised their heads and closed their eyes in pure pleasure, as dogs will do when lovingly caressed by their human companions.

There was a twinkling in the air, the last specks lit briefly by the setting sun. ‘Duncan?’

“Yes.” The word came with the scent of his cologne; ethereal and light. “Thank you for taking Piper.”

I nodded, unable to formulate a thought.

“You are my heart mate. When you desire me near, I shall be there for you. Our connection transcends our human, physical life on Earth. That is how it is with soul mates. So do not miss me.”

I lifted my chin and swallowed back tears.

“I have also left a part of me with Piper.” Duncan chuckled. “That is how it is with our fur kin. They have a connection in both worlds — yours and mine. And that’s why he so readily expresses his love, and mine, to you.”

‘I don’t know what to say. I cannot even see you.’

‘Don’t worry about what to say. And, you don’t need to see me, it is what is inside that counts — inside of you. That place where you keep me close.’

I was speechless. Soon, the dogs were begging to go inside. I followed after them, closed the door, and shut the aching, lonely past away at the same time.

“`*`*“`
I wrote this because life can be filled with magical moments and those we care about, humans and animals, are often a part of that enchantment. Such times as described in the story are what make life a special gift and I thank God for the gift.

I live in the Central Valley of California with my husband and fur family. I have four books in print, with a fifth on the way. Through my writing I hope to touch hearts receptive to hope.

Copyright © 2006 Kathy Pippig

Kathy lives in California’s San Joaquin Valley with her husband and furry family. She is a weekly columnist for the publication ‘Frank Talk’ and a published author of five novels. She states, ‘Were it not for her need, desire, and love of writing — she would surely go mad!’

I have a loneliness inside me for you.

My soul keeps it in a carry-on bag and stores it close at hand.

I don’t usually feel the weight of it, unless it is time to pull it down from the overhead carry bin inside my mind.

A warm summer breeze threading through my hair, laced with the fragrance of magnolias, the sodium-lime odor of hot concrete, and barbecue smoke from a neighbor’s back yard, will prompt me to have a look inside.

While I look around me filled with thoughts of you, it seems there is a rift in the world I observe. A tear in the fabric of what should be whole but is now a flapping open of seams; where the scent of your cologne, and the timbre of your rich and vibrant voice, the tall solid vision of you, gone missing now–traveled onto other realms–have left in the wavering rip only blurry glimpses of the past.

Moments you have stood there, sharing yourself with me; firming up the walls of my existence. Making my reality a strong and viable force just by your presence. Merging with me on several levels, filling up my lacunae and making me more whole.

Those places we shared grow more hollow, with only my memories of you trickling through what once was abundantly full when it was we two.

Sometimes I do not wish to open it, the carry-on bag, and gaze within.

Sometimes I seem to almost have forgotten what now is. And then it will happen… I’ll get in the car, hoping to drop in and see you during the wintry holiday season. Step out of the cold and wrap myself around you in a hug. Your smile warming me to a toasty glow.

When the sky is alive with storm clouds and bold winds tear through the city, I recall gazing at the dark clouds, listening to thunder and waiting for the lightning, excitedly with you. Our faces gazing up into the first sprinkles of the storm.

On the Spring day, redolent with the smells of new mown grass, orange blossoms, and gentle rains in the nearby hills, I’ll make my way to your place. You on my mind. Excited about what I want to share with you. But I can’t. That is what once was. The echoes floating out to me, remind me. Reverberate, tainting my exuberance with remembered regret.

When it is sunny and hot and a cool breeze dances through the odd summer day. When the zephyr flirts with sun glistened vegetation, and ruffles the petals of roses, I will recall similar days when I listened as you shared your fears and hopes, your loves and joys. And as the breeze lifted the summer heat, the words you shared refreshed my spirit. Gifts, is what they were.

In the autumn, when the western horizon was ablaze with fiery clouds and liquid hues, like watercolors, spun the sky with reds and oranges and gold, we would both sigh at the awesome workings of nature and God.

In the evenings, when I am taking a walk and twilight embraces me, thoughts of you will waft around me. Shadows of you, the many facets that comprised your spirit, walk with me–keep me company. Whisper to me.

You are here, and you are not. It is an uneasy compromise. But one I’ll live with. If it is the only way I can have you, then so be it. I am smiling.

***

© copyright Kathy Pippig Harris

Kathy lives in California’s San Joaquin Valley with her husband and furry family. She is a weekly columnist for the publication ‘Frank Talk’ and a published author of five novels. She states, ‘Were it not for her need, desire, and love of writing — she would surely go mad!’

Where divergent religious customs merge…

Daniel Perez Gonzalez was a beautiful baby. His parents Flor and Jorge thought so; my wife Arlene and I agreed. Few are able to share our certainty, though, because we were among the very few to see him alive. Daniel was born in a hospital in Oaxaca (wa-HAW-kah), a city of about 400,000 inhabitants high in Mexico’s Sierra Madre del Sur mountain range. I welcomed him into the world along with Arlene, our then 13-year-old daughter Sarah, and Daniel’s grandmother Chona. From the womb, the nurse passed our newest extended family member into three sets of anxiously loving arms—Chona’s, those of his big sister Carmela (Sarah’s closest friend in Oaxaca), and then Sarah.

We have a long and colorful history together, my Jewish family in my previous hometown of Toronto and my devoutly Catholic family in Oaxaca. Chona is our comadre and matriarch of her family. Not six months earlier she and her grandchildren had shouted Mazel Tov at Sarah’s Bat Mitzvah in Toronto. Over the years we have raised many a glass of mezcal (Oaxaca’s version of tequila) at milestone birthdays including quince años (the fiesta when a young girl turns fifteen, with similarities to the Bat Mitzvah); we have eaten matzoh together for Passover in Toronto; and we have welcomed many a Christmas, New Year’s and Day of The Dead celebrations together in Mexico.

But it was Daniel’s death that reinforced for me, through much laughter and many tears, the profound irrelevance of cultural differences in the face of universal rituals surrounding death.

On the day of his birth, it was easy to imagine that Daniel’s life would unfold like Sarah’s. At 8 pounds, and with a full head of black hair, the baby looked extremely healthy. Like my wife’s, Flor’s pregnancy had been full-term. Like Sarah, Daniel was born by caesarian section; like Sarah, his mother’s umbilical chord had been wrapped around his neck, causing temporary respiratory distress and the need for a few days in an incubator. But we didn’t worry, his father and cousin both obstetricians with connections in the Oaxacan medical community. He would receive the best post-natal care available, and we would dance at his wedding one day.
But then their paths diverged. After two days of life, we mourned little Daniel’s death of respiratory distress, beside his coffin in Chona’s living room, with family, friends and compadres.

Between the birth and the death came a crazy-quilt of only-in-Mexico experiences that resonated with my memories of the mourning process my Canadian family had undergone when my father Sam died a few years earlier.

Most Oaxacans accept that death hits you at home—literally. Daniel left the hospital in a white, ornately-adorned satin-lined coffin, bound not for a funeral home, but for the livingroom of the family compound. Once he was settled atop a table covered with fresh linen, with a large silver crucifix behind him, my compadre Javier and I were dispatched to the Mercado de Abastos (the largest peasant market in the state), to buy white gladioli and flower arrangements. This was a far cry from the somber discussion of formal arrangements at Toronto’s Steeles Memorial after my father’s death.

In this passionate and expressive country, even death rites are incomplete without the drama of shouting and accusations. At the cemetery I learned that Daniel was to be interred in a low tomb-tike grave atop Tia Lolita (Aunty Lola), his great-great-aunt who had died in 1990, who was layered over yet another relative who had died in 1982. But when we met with the head undertaker, el presidente, at Lolita’s graveside only hours after Daniel’s death, we were advised that annual fees hadn’t been paid in ten years. Much shouting ensued, but in the end, after heated debate, el presidente had successfully “extorted”, as was his right, thousands of pesos for arrears of government taxes and administrative fees—plus about 1000 pesos in the likely event that Daniel would require a boveda (literally a vault, the rebar reinforced concrete slabs designed to keep the grave’s occupants in an orderly configuration). And we still weren’t done. Only once Chona had presented sufficient historical documents to convince everyone that she indeed had the requisite authority to bury Daniel alongside Lolita were the appropriate certificate and receipts issued.

Back at Chona’s home mourners had begun to arrive. Shortly thereafter Jorge and I dropped off 150 various pastries, to be used to dip into the traditional hot chocolate served to those attending such gatherings. I then experienced another profound frisson of déjà vu. The notably slower pace of Oaxaca’s mañana society was gone. With efficient dispatch, Chona and family transformed the home into a grieving chamber, arranging for necessities such as chair rentals, and ordering attendees off to kitchen duty. There under Chona’s roof I traveled back in time to my mother’s kitchen, crowded with friends and relatives I hadn’t seen in years, just after my father’s funeral. I could hear my mother’s friend Rayla organizing who would bring what meals into our home during shiva.

Then there were the inevitable tragicomic moments. When I gave my father’s eulogy, I couldn’t resist telling a story about him that made reference to a shared moment that involved passing gas. In Mexico, the black humor of death is even more visceral. When Chona and I went back to the cemetery to ensure that preparations for the burial were well underway, we found His Highness and his aide a half-foot down, at the top concrete plate of the vault—along with part of a human jawbone. Chona was outraged, and began shouting, “that can’t be Tia Lolita!” We came up with many theories for the mystery bone, all revolving around the amorous activities of the dead, none repeatable in this newspaper. That kept us going until we finally came across the complete skull of Tia Lolita, still covered with the traditional fine headcloth to prevent mosquito bites. We ultimately concluded that a few years back someone else had been buried alongside Lola. Mystery of the extra jawbone solved. Here in southern Mexico, multiple burials in the same grave, at times at different levels, and at times involving the removal of bones after several years of non-payment of fees, may occur. In any event, in return for a handsome gratuity el presidente agreed to clear away a spot for Daniel’s cajita (little coffin, or literally, box), and hide Lolita’s head and any other remaining bones in a sack at one end of the grave opening. The funeral would take place the next day, not unlike the dispatch with which Jews bury their dead—but very different from the traditional adult Oaxacan death custom characterized by several days of prayer, visitation and other rituals prior to burial, similar in purpose and function to the Jewish period of shiva after the interment.

Later that evening back at the house, we listened to a cassette recording of nursery rhymes. Although we in the Judaic tradition are not permitted music during mourning, these tunes seemed appropriate. Arlene tenderly placed a small rattle beside Daniel, in accordance with local custom. A young woman led a 20-minute prayer, strikingly similar in nature to Kaddish in a Shiva home. Then more food— mole negro (chicken stew in a rich sauce of chilies and chocolate) with buns, tortillas and salsa—and more prayer. When the padre finally arrived late, there was the obligatory humour about the clergy; someone joked that he had just shown up for a meal.

By the following afternoon, we were placing a bountiful display of flowers into the back of a pick-up. Javier and I took final photographs of the baby, and then Jorge placed his son into the back of a 1980s white stationwagon, for his final journey.

The cemetery ritual combined the continuing familiarity of my own Canadian experiences with Mexicana. A few soft prayers, a few handsful of earth placed atop the coffin, and incongruously our two congenial cemetery workers placed the concrete slab back between the remaining portions of the lid to the vault, then mixed and applied cement to seal the boveda. Reminiscent of Jewish custom, Chona asked Javier and I to assist with the shoveling of earth, then invited everyone home for a large luncheon.

Back at the house there was no music. Idle chatter took its place. Eventually, once most of the people had left, and only the barren white altar and the slowly burning mourners’ candles remained, Arlene and I decided to go downtown for a walk, sad and emotionally drained, but oddly comforted. After a Oaxacan funeral for a Catholic baby, I felt exactly the way I did the first time I walked outside after arising from my father’s shiva.

Alvin Starkman, M.A., LL.B., is a resident of Oaxaca, Mexico, and together with wife Arlene operates Casa Machaya Oaxaca Bed & Breakfast ( http://www.oaxacadream.com ). Mr. Starkman received his Masters degree in Social Anthropology from York University in Toronto in 1978, taught for a few years, and subsequently began attending Osgoode Hall Law School, becoming licensed by the Law Society of Upper Canada in 1986. Until 2004 he was a partner at Banks & Starkman, Barristers & Solicitors, specializing in family law, with employment law, personal injuries and commercial litigation rounding out his practice. A frequent traveler to Oaxaca since 1991, it was not until he ceased practicing law that he took up permanent residence in the state capital. Mr. Starkman takes groups of up to 4 people to tour craft villages, towns on their market days, ruins and other sites depending on his clients’ interests; and writes articles about life and the multiplicity of cultural traditions in Oaxaca, and about antiques and the law.