Dia de los ñatitas

Some celebrations of those who have passed away slip across the calendar and are held a little later than the beginning of November. One such day takes place in Bolivia, a country that looms large in Ghulf history. It was the country of Monique’s foreign exchange year. On this day, in very traditional families, family skulls are decorated with flowers, sometimes dressed up. And a special mass is celebrated in the cemetery of La Paz.

The image I offer here, from Wikipedia (link)—because it is so wondrously, paradoxically attractive—shows figures commonly displayed in Mexico on November 1 and 2. The Bolivian festival goes back to pre-Columbian times and customs in the Andes. It was customary there to revisit the dead in the third year of their passing. Current customs typically only involve the skulls. At these events, in Bolivia, the dead are offered “cigarettes, coca leaves, alcohol, and various other items,” Wikipedia informs me, in thanks for protecting the survivors during the past year. Somewhat reassuring for someone like me who values nicotine—but troubling if it only happens once a year, on November 9.

The day is typically rendered Day of the Skulls. But ñatitas means “snub-noses.” The Spanish for skull is calavera.

Erntedankfest

The population just isn’t “in the mood”—to shop ’til you drop, that is—and merchants are going crazy. That must be the reason why, on our last shopping trip, we saw three different “early Christmas” displays. They simply ignored Grandparents Day (September 9), Halloween (October 31), and Thanksgiving (November 22) and are already jingling the bells.

With that in mind I feel entirely justified in heralding the Erntedankfest, German, literally, for the Harvest-Thank-Fest. That takes place on October 7 this year. The word came floating into my mind on a recent walk. I usually wander without a bill-fold, but this time I had an urge to take some money—thinking of children selling lemonade at the curb. That turned out to be a guiding intuition.

My first destination was one of the Grosse Pointe’s oldest cemeteries—where many gravestones and crosses have sunk deep into the ground over time and where you can move from family group to family group and reading the last names think that you’re looking at a street map. Here lie the ancestors after whom major arteries are named. This time I discovered Frazho, a street that just happens to cause Brigitte and me frequent laughter when we’re lost. And there it is, again, Frazho!, and we are delighted and always laugh. But why? You figure it out. We haven’t.

The cemetery more or less marks the farthest line I reach in my walks—and all that time not one lemonade-selling youngster. I figured that my hunch had been off target. Then, continuing on my way back along Moross, a major artery, going west I espied a stand. Two mothers and a clutch of children were madly waving at the passing cars. Alas! I sighed inwardly, glad that I’m still “in the zone” of unfailing intuition. But when I got nearer, I had a surprise. They were selling—

cucumbers. The picture you see is the one I purchased. The spoon is there for scale.

Good Lord. I’d never seen such a mass of gigantic cucumbers—or a little boy so wildly excited. He was literally jumping up and down hoping to get me to let him show me the Pumpkins. His mother, at last, judging me the right sort, agreed. She told me that they had had an overwhelming harvest of both. I followed the little boy to the backyard where he showed me dozens of pumpkins, still on the vine, hidden by huge leaves. It was a wonder. Erntedankfest! And the little people competing avidly with the grocery store in selling their surplus.

This morning, nudged perhaps by jealousy, I went out and counted the still-to-be-harvested small tomatoes on just one of our seven plants. Mind you, we have been harvesting them for about two and a half months already. On this plant I counted thirty-six—and the other plants are larger. Something to be thankful for. Meanwhile, starvation drives our merchants mad. We expect soon to learn that Valentine’s Day is only 155 days away. Better start buying that precious present while the sale lasts.

Diwali - The Festival of Lights

We wish all of our friends in India and elsewhere a happy and a bright Diwali!

Diwali is the Festival of Lights—its outer form. The deeper meaning is to remind us of the inner light within. Hindus, Jains, and Sikhs all celebrate the festival although, in each case, a different historical or mythological event is the basis of a common celebration.

In the Sanskrit the word means “a row of lamps.” In Dravidian the word used is Deepavali. The festival is celebrated over a five day period, and in Hindu practice each day is the celebration of a different event or holy manifestation.

The holiday is based on the lunar calendar, hence Diwali begins on a different days each year; it always falls into the same month, however, the month in the Hindu calendar that corresponds to a four week period beginning mid-September and ending mid-October.  In extent, and certainly from a commercial perspective, Diwali  is equivalent to our Christmas. Preparations (decorations, big sales, the planning of major fireworks, etc.) were already under way in August of this year.
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Picture credit goes to Wikipedia here.