Lighting the Candle

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.