Gravy and Graves

This past November was a magical one. November is like October, but more dead. In an enlivening way. There is more of the “autumn muskiness” in the air. The trees of November are more naked, their branches looking like gothic cathedral spires. The sun’s angle falls lower and lower, making afternoon/evening walks scrumptiously surreal.

Going on these walks gives way for monumentally deep thoughts – like how “gratitude” rhymes with “foody-food.” We Americans consider November as the month of Thanksgiving, and though I miss Halloween decorations, I’m happy to report that I saw some jack o’ lanterns turned around right in their spots on some porches with turkey feathers stabbed in them. I think Thanksgiving is a lovely holiday similar to Halloween in that it celebrates the sacred and the profane. Sacred – gratitude. Profane – testing the elasticity of one’s stomach.

But for me, November is also a continuation of Halloween. I call November “The Month of the Dead.” Where many countries do not think anything special of October 31st (I’m trying to change this), they DO think very important things of November 1st and November 2nd – All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day.

Pagan Samhain (pronounced SOW-in) was gradually morphed by the medieval Christian church into All Hallows – a day to remember the saints. This was in the 7th century, and later, in the 10th century, as Christians wished for a day to remember their own familial dead, All Souls’ Day was set forth officially. I’m so fascinated by all the cultural interpretations of these holidays (“holy days”). One of the most notable to me, perhaps because I’m from California, is Mexico’s Dia de los Muertos. Some year I will travel there to experience it firsthand. (And some year I will travel to Delaware for the annual “Punkin’ Chunkin’” contest and see the brilliant display of pumpkins flung thousands of feet across a field. Oh happy activity.)

When I lived in Vienna, Austria for a semester of college in the fall of 1995, I remember walking the streets on All Saints’ Day, noting the services at various churches and cathedrals. I did as the locals did, and rode a streetcar out to the cemetery to visit graves. The day is distinct in my memory … crisp, cool weather; droves and droves of people making their way out to the cemetery; the sun at such a pretty angle with a magical haziness in its beams, the day seemed photo-shopped to perfection.

I visited the grave of Herr Beethoven, among other great ones. But great or small, known or unknown, I just enjoy graves. What stories they tell of the bones who lie beneath them. I like noting the families, the religious beliefs carved into the stone, other symbols carved there, what life might have been like during the years they were alive, and so forth. The only thing I don’t like seeing is a little gravestone with the years something like “1912 – 1913.”

I do love seeing humor among gravestones. One family I am quite fond of resides in the Salt Lake cemetery. I’ve never met them in life, but I often stop on my bike ride by their plot, just to re-read their gravestone. It’s shared by the mother, father, and a baby son who only lived a day. Under the son’s date of birth and death, it reads – “His humor kept him young.”

Also in the Salt Lake cemetery, I once happened upon a gravestone whose occupant’s first name was Bror. Bror! I think that is so handsome. He was an immigrant from a Scandinavian country in the 1800’s. I often think about naming one of my future sons Bror. It rhymes with roar.

I just started Neil Gaiman’s new book last night – The Graveyard Book. I went to the Cathedral of the Madeleine for a children’s choir Christmas concert (which was enchanting … those perfectly pitched little voices with nary a bit of vibrato). I was in my seat an hour early, so Gaiman’s book kept me company. Delightful company. I’m only a bit more than one chapter in, and I find it a charming read! A boy who was raised by ghosts in a graveyard. Love it.

In other news, my motorcycle burn is healing very well but still makes me chuckle with happy memories of the Pacific Symphony’s Halloween Spooktacular. Yeah, who needs Maxim Eshkenazy’s autograph? I’ve been practically tattooed by him.

Next up in my recording endeavors … cat sounds. Oh yes. Cat sounds. I’ve already scored the cat parts right underneath the cello staff. Just as Christmas needs jingle bells, Halloween needs meows. I can’t wait to record this for you!