Last night was
Halloween, and in Bunny’s memory, we lit his bleeding skull candle. (See Trick or Treat, Oct. 14, 2012.) Almost appropriately, today was All Saints’
Day. For those of you who are unfamiliar
with it, All Saints’ Day is a day to remember those who’ve died. For Catholics, it’s a holy day of obligation—one
on which you’re required to go to church.
When we were
young, our grandparents would load us into the car for a trip to the cemetery,
which was on the outskirts of town. We
would put flowers on our family members’ graves, say little prayers for each of
them, and wait for the priest. In our
hometown, the priest would come to the cemetery to say Mass and bless the
graves. Going to the cemetery took care
of the obligation, at least according to what Pops (our grandfather) said. Grandma went along with his opinion, because
she wasn’t Catholic, anyway; she was one of the few Baptists in our town.
It’s fairly easy
for a kid to sit still for Mass in church (even though it’s about an hour long),
because there are relatively few distractions.
In the outdoors, though, it was quite different. So many things out of context to Mass as it
normally was: birds, clouds, wind, graves, and the overwhelming, sickly-sweet
smell of the freshly-laid flowers. Even when I was older, I could barely keep
still for more than a few minutes.
After the priest
was done, Pops and Grandma would visit with their friends who’d come for the
same reason. On occasion, we’d meet up
with one of our friends, but the crowd generally skewed much older. When we were younger, we’d sit in the grass
and wait for the ride home. As we grew
older, that practice was discouraged.
The last time I
was in a cemetery was about five years ago, when my mother-in-law was
buried. I really have no desire to ever
go to another one. Maybe it’s because I
saw enough graves as a child. Maybe it’s
because I think that the graves hold no more than the earthly remains of the
dead. I can honor my dead relatives without climbing
over tombs.
Now, back to
Halloween--my late husband’s favorite holiday--and his previously-unlit
bleeding skull candle. A few months ago,
my friend Will introduced me to the concept of the Yartzeit candle. In the
Jewish tradition, on the anniversary of a loved one’s death (the Yartzeit), the
survivor lights a special candle in remembrance that burns for 24 hours. Even
though Bunny’s actual Yartzeit is a few months away, I felt like the concept
was similar. We would light a candle in
Bunny’s memory on his favorite holiday.
I
had the candle all ready to go by the time JoCo and the kids arrived. I lined a small plate with aluminum foil (to
catch the wax and “blood”) and set the candle in its center, then put the whole
package in the middle of the dining room table.
I set up my iPad to film the process so that I could share the bleeding
skulls with folks who hadn’t seen them before.
My
crew arrived and we lit the candle. And
waited. And waited. No blood.
Finally, Joey and Corey took the kids out to trick-or-treat around the
neighborhood. There would be video for
them to see when the magic happened. An
hour and a half later, they returned—loaded down with candy—and were
disappointed to find that the skulls still had not begun to bleed. After
a few minutes, JoCo and I went to sit out on the lanai. Because a watched candle never bleeds,
right?
We’d been out
there about 20 minutes when Trinity announced that the skulls were starting to
bleed! We all rushed in to behold the
sight. I rotated the plate so that the
camera could catch the action.
Success! They stayed a little
while longer, and I blew out the candle once they were gone. We’d light it again next year.
Now, I was left
with over two hours of video footage of a bleeding skull candle that didn’t
start to bleed until long after it was lit.
I snipped out the better part of it (with iMovie—an awesome ap), and
started looking for the pivotal moment when the bleeding started. A short clip of the action (with catchy music
added) follows. WARNING: Don’t read the
next paragraphs until you’ve watched it!
Okay, if you
didn’t head my warning, this is what happened: the candle is burning away, sans
blood. The tips of two red devil horns
appear (Trinity was a devil for Halloween), shortly followed by the tip of her
nose. She rotates the plate to check for
blood. Nada. She cups her hands over the flame then moves
them to the sides of the flame—casting a bleeding spell, maybe? Next, she waves her hands over the flame in
semi-circular motions. Definitely trying
to cast a spell, I think. Nothing.
Since sorcery
isn’t working, she resorts to McGyverism.
Using a stick from an already-eaten Tootsie Pop, she pierces through one
of the skulls’ eyes. Finally, there’s
blood. That’s when she called to us to
come and see it. I couldn’t believe it! We were hornswoggled by a 10 year old! Far from being angry, though, I burst out
laughing. That was SO something I would
have done. Shucks, it was SO something I
almost did while they were out!
Patience is
definitely not one of my virtues: even as a child, I hated to wait for
anything. When I was Trinity’s age, I would
stare at presents wrapped under the Christmas tree, dying to know what was
inside them. I’d shake them, trying in
vain to discern what they were from the noises that ensued. Then, when I was 10, I invented a way to surreptitiously
remove the wrapping, look inside, and restore the paper so that my mother
couldn’t tell I’d been into the presents.
Having that sneak-peek didn’t diminish my enjoyment of the gifts on
Christmas Day, and I was even more pleased because I’d managed to satisfy my curiosity
weeks in advance.
The year I
turned 18, I made the mistake of showing off my skills to my sisters. Hey, I was proud that I’d figured out the
system! One of them—I forget which—wondered
aloud what was in her packages. I offered
to show her, and did. I found out what
was in all of our presents, and returned them all—none the worse for wear—to their
spots under the tree. Shortly
thereafter, one of my sisters—I do remember which—ratted me out to our
mother. Oh, Mama was so angry! I surely didn’t tell her I’d been doing it
almost half my life. Mama never let me
forget about that little incident, and warned Bunny about it when we were
dating. He thought it was the funniest
thing he’d ever heard, which incensed my mother all the more.
So next year,
before we light the candle, we’ll poke holes in the eyes. Because what good is a bleeding skull candle
that doesn’t bleed? Bunny would certainly
approve.
