Dead People Watch Over Me
By Denise Gibb
Cemeteries fascinate me. They always have. Is my fascination one of morbid curiosity? No. ‘Dead people’ watched over me as a child.
My parents used to own a two storey weatherboard house near the Back Beach, Bunbury Western Australia. In its hay day, it was a boarding house brimming with activity. For young men in search of work, the house offered a home away from home. Cooked meals, clean sheets and clothes washed and ironed. For others, it was seasonal accommodation before they moved on.
Across the road from our weather board house was ‘my sand hill’. Over the other side of ‘my sand hill’ was the Back Beach. In the summer, a continual stream of locals trekked over ‘my sand hill’ to get to the beach – a paradise promising surf, sand, fun, boys, girls, ice creams and cars. (My hormonal pilgrimage was still a few years off. I was only a small child.)
My mother used to worry about me being alone in the sand hills. “I’m not alone,” I used to reassure her. “The dead people look after me.” And as only a mother can do, she would raise one eyebrow in question of my insistence that dead people lived in ‘my sand hills’. (Luckily, my mother’s generation didn’t have the option of consulting a child psychologist.)
Ironically, ten years ago, I discovered ‘my sand hill’ was, in fact, full of dead people. Directly across the road from our weather board house was the original site of Bunbury’s Roman Catholic Cemetery (1842). By 1965, when my parents bought the house, all signs that a cemetery had been located across the road had been removed, and covered over by drifting sand (my sand hill).
To this day a cemetery is, for me, a place of history, secrets and untold stories - a place of shelter and peace. There is no fear, sadness or loneliness. Much to my delight, I discovered no country knows this better than Mexico.
In Santiago Sacatepéquez, a village just forty minutes from Guatemala, Mexico, cemeteries are a place of celebration, laughter and fun. ‘All Saints Day’, sometimes called ‘Day of the Dead’, (November 1 and 2) is arguably one of Guatemala’s most important holidays.
The traditional observance of ‘All Saints Day’ calls for departed children to be remembered during the first day (1 November) of celebrations (the ‘Day of Little Angels’ ‘Dia de los Angelitos’) and for adults to be remembered on the second day (2 November).
During ‘All Saints Day’ festivities, families welcome the dead back into their homes and visit the graves of loved ones passed. The cemetery dances to the beat of the living. Family members work together to decorate the grave sites of their loved ones with brilliantly coloured flowers, and beautiful amulets. Sumptuous picnics are prepared and shared to the upbeat tempo of local music. Families exchange stories to honour the memory of loved ones passed. High above each grave the sky is ablaze with brilliantly coloured kites. The vibrant flames of colour symbolising messages of happiness to loved ones passed. No one is sad. Everyone is happy.
If you’re missing a loved one passed, take a leaf out of Mexico’s book. Gather your friends and family, pack up a picnic, make or buy a kite, and as you feel it pull your arms toward heaven, know your loved one passed is receiving your messages of happiness.
Cemeteries fascinate me. They always have. Is my fascination one of morbid curiosity? No. ‘Dead people’ watched over me as a child.
My parents used to own a two storey weatherboard house near the Back Beach, Bunbury Western Australia. In its hay day, it was a boarding house brimming with activity. For young men in search of work, the house offered a home away from home. Cooked meals, clean sheets and clothes washed and ironed. For others, it was seasonal accommodation before they moved on.
Across the road from our weather board house was ‘my sand hill’. Over the other side of ‘my sand hill’ was the Back Beach. In the summer, a continual stream of locals trekked over ‘my sand hill’ to get to the beach – a paradise promising surf, sand, fun, boys, girls, ice creams and cars. (My hormonal pilgrimage was still a few years off. I was only a small child.)
My mother used to worry about me being alone in the sand hills. “I’m not alone,” I used to reassure her. “The dead people look after me.” And as only a mother can do, she would raise one eyebrow in question of my insistence that dead people lived in ‘my sand hills’. (Luckily, my mother’s generation didn’t have the option of consulting a child psychologist.)
Ironically, ten years ago, I discovered ‘my sand hill’ was, in fact, full of dead people. Directly across the road from our weather board house was the original site of Bunbury’s Roman Catholic Cemetery (1842). By 1965, when my parents bought the house, all signs that a cemetery had been located across the road had been removed, and covered over by drifting sand (my sand hill).
To this day a cemetery is, for me, a place of history, secrets and untold stories - a place of shelter and peace. There is no fear, sadness or loneliness. Much to my delight, I discovered no country knows this better than Mexico.
In Santiago Sacatepéquez, a village just forty minutes from Guatemala, Mexico, cemeteries are a place of celebration, laughter and fun. ‘All Saints Day’, sometimes called ‘Day of the Dead’, (November 1 and 2) is arguably one of Guatemala’s most important holidays.
The traditional observance of ‘All Saints Day’ calls for departed children to be remembered during the first day (1 November) of celebrations (the ‘Day of Little Angels’ ‘Dia de los Angelitos’) and for adults to be remembered on the second day (2 November).
During ‘All Saints Day’ festivities, families welcome the dead back into their homes and visit the graves of loved ones passed. The cemetery dances to the beat of the living. Family members work together to decorate the grave sites of their loved ones with brilliantly coloured flowers, and beautiful amulets. Sumptuous picnics are prepared and shared to the upbeat tempo of local music. Families exchange stories to honour the memory of loved ones passed. High above each grave the sky is ablaze with brilliantly coloured kites. The vibrant flames of colour symbolising messages of happiness to loved ones passed. No one is sad. Everyone is happy.
If you’re missing a loved one passed, take a leaf out of Mexico’s book. Gather your friends and family, pack up a picnic, make or buy a kite, and as you feel it pull your arms toward heaven, know your loved one passed is receiving your messages of happiness.