Dia de los muertos

I came home on Halloween, after a long meeting, and found that Arthur had set up something that has become a custom in our home - a table for el dia de los muertos, the Day of the Dead.  I was happy to see it - a seemingly more interesting way to observe the days around the 31st of October than bad candy and even worse costumes.  So I sat and looked at it for a while - it would be a good way to focus thoughts as the Christian Year moved from All Saints' Day (1 November) to All Souls' Day (2 November).

What is really delightful is to remember by means of the objects that Arthur has placed there.  Track with me, if you will:

1.  A biography of Gertrude Stein, originally in the library of Arthur's good friend Pat, who died as the result of a heart operation.  We both miss her.  This book and a photograph of a cathedral side aisle keep us always in mind of her.

2.  Behind the book is a photograph of Kevin - a mutual friend, long before Arthur and I knew one another.  Kevin was the chair of Dignity, and had one of the longest funeral services that I have ever attended.  As the speakers dragged on and on, we finally decided to leave.  That funeral may still be going on over on Seventh Avenue.  But that was Kevin, and those were the stories that had accrued to his memory.  One humorous note, the photograph shows Kevin in a motorcycle jacket looking modestly butch.  Up close you can see that he is wearing suit pants.  He had come in to have a formal portrait done, and the photographer thought it would be fun to photograph him with the jacket.  Somehow it captured some of the spectrum that Kevin enjoyed.

3.  Behind the photograph, you can see a candleholder shaped to look like a palm tree.  It is my legacy from my good friend Gerry, who had more china and crystal than most people.  He was Italian, but born in Boston, and his home in the Castro made you think that you had just stepped into a house in the Back Bay.

4.  Leading up the table is a "stream" of black stones.  After a delightful dinner one evening, with my good friend Salvador, I discovered a fine box in front of my door that had been left by him.  Inside was a message from him, thanking me for the evening, and enclosing the black polished stones.  I open the box from time to time and just remember.

5.  Behind the stones is a small, old photograph of Arthur's father's (Arthur II) parents, Arthur I, and Mary Ethel Culbertson.  Arthur knew his grandfather, but his grandmother died in 1946, and so he never knew her.  She was buried in Saint Louis, Missouri, until they decided to put a freeway through - and now we don't know where she is.

6.  Behind the photograph is a painted vase, painted by my father's aunt, Ida.  I apparently met her one time when I was two or so - I've got the picture to prove it.  I don't remember her, however.  I do think of her - my parents both loved her dearly - and remember what a joy she was to them.

7.  Hovering behind the vase with a rose in it, is a series of Japanese dolls, that my Aunt Lola purchased when she was living in occupied Japan.  They were among many treasures that she gave to us, the value of which totally escaped us at the time - we thought they were just toys.  Now, as I look around our house, I find many evidences of her generosity, and of her taste.  Oddly enough, her birthday was on 13 May - the day that was originally celebrated as All Saints' Day.

8.  Behind the dolls is a portrait of my father.  I love this photograph of him in clerics - he is handsome, present, and smiling.  I miss him, and have so many things that I would like to have shared with him.  I remember Dad at the symphony - an appreciation that was given to me when he took my to my first performance at the age of 6, in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

9.  Down from Dad is a wonderful photograph of my friend Tucker.  Tucker and his partner Casey lived across the hall from me on Divisadero, and became wonderful friends.  Tucker was an artist, and a party-giver.  He designed furniture, and decorated a million Christmas trees for businesses in San Francisco.  When he became ill and went into a coma at San Francisco General, Casey and the doctors came to the realization that it was time to discontinue the assisted breathing.  Casey called me and said that they were going to do this at 5:00, and wondered if I could come and offer last rites and prayers.  I said that I would be there.  Gently, Casey explained the situation to the comatose Tucker, saying that he and I would return later.  Casey left the room.  Tucker died fifteen minutes later - always in control.

10.  Down from the picture is a small cup and saucer - highly colored and glazed.  It was given to my mother by her brother Milford, whom we called Jiggs.  Jiggs was a walking comedian - always knowing how to make one smile and laugh.

11.  Up at the top of the table is a glam photograph of Arthur's mother, Pat.  I miss her terribly.  Once when she and Big Art were out here to visit, we went to a restaurant over-looking the Bay in Tiburon.  It was hot, and I slipped off my shoes, under the table.  Later I had to leave to go to the restroom, and couldn't locate my shoes - my feet were surreptitiously flying everywhere under the table trying to find my shoes.  I looked across the table at Pat, who was smiling angelically - she had taken and hidden my shoes.  I remember her when I eat onions (she hated them) or see an image of Our Lady (she loved her).

12.  In front of Pat is a photograph of Betty and O.P.  O.P. was the president of Valparaiso University in Indiana, and I did an intern year with his brother, A.R., in Chicago.  Betty, however, O.P.'s second wife, was our friend.  When I moved back to California, and showed up at St. Francis Lutheran Church in 1982, she saw me, came running over and said, "Michael Hiller, what are you doing in my church?!" When she turned 80, the family all came to San Francisco, and we hosted them all for a festive birthday cocktail party.  Betty loved it.  Later on, Arthur would become her friend, companion, and care-giver.  On her death bed, as she was being treated for circulation problems in her legs with a rather painful apparatus, she looked over to me with disgust and resignation and said, "Michael, this dying is a hard business."

Ah, but Betty - and all of you - this living was great "business" with all of you.  Sometimes Arthur and I will pack lunch, drive down to Colma, and to Olivette Cemetary, and have a picnic with Betty.  As we walk through the graves, having had our lunch with Betty, and encounter so many other saints, I think of Arthur's table and el dia de los muertos.  Resquiescat in pace amici mea.