All Saints or All Souls Day, November 1st

November 1st, All Souls' Day or All Saints' Day, a Catholic religious observation day. It's also a day- off in predominantly Catholic countries. It reminds of Chusseock in that one visits her dearly departeds' graves armed with Chrisantemums and candles, pray, remember, cry... This should assure the ones "on the other side" of our undying love and devotion. (the picture shows a typical Croatian cemetary on this day).

I can't remember if my faith seeped out of me gradually or if it left me in one powerful gush - in any case it's not been with me for a long time. I do observe some of the Catholic traditions to honour my Mother (and since my Grandma passed on this last summer,her, too) who embraced religion especially in the twilight of her life as a consolation for all the bad stuff that had befallen my family. My hope is that their faith helped them die with less fear and lots of hope.

Today I went to the Catholic Martyrs Memorial and Foreigners cemetary with yellow roses (couldn't find the white ones; Mom might frown, but Jelica, my dearest cousin, killed in the war, is smiling - she always loved yellow roses). I brought with me a little prayer book that had belonged to my maternal grandfather, inheritied by my Mom and finally ended in my hands. I found a prayer for the dead and I mumbled it feeling cool air on my cheeks streaked with tears. Time's a tricky healer, as we all know or are about to find out.

Looking around me, though, provided a bit of comfort, made me feel like a part of the crowd. People were milling about praying, looking solemn, hopeful, ... The little candle shelter was all alight, hundreds of candles flickering inside. Candles, Chrisantemums, roses, prayer books - they are all a way for us to deal with the grief, to keep the spirit of those we love around us, although their bodies are crumbling in their silent graves.

It is at times like these that I miss my family the most. I'd love to talk about Mama and Baba with someone who knew them and loved them, someone who also remembers their voices, body language, the way they looked when angry, happy, sad...

As I sat in front of the statue of Virgin Mary (Mom's favourite saint, I think), memories of the times when I still lived under her roof and under her wing rushed to the surface. The only time we ventured into making home-made plum jam, ganging up with Tetka Mira and Perica. A purple ocean of foggy-skinned plums in the pot; we, the kids, Goran, Josip, Perica, I, helping with pitting them; Mom and Mira sitting on the couch, the rest of us on stools around the 'ocean.' To kill the boredom of the long tedious job, mom starteed telling us about the book she was reading - a silly romantic book called "Mala supruga," "A little bride" - but she mesmerized us with her Sheherezadian skill. The sound of her voice, the nimbleness of her fingers working on the plums, her legs outstreched in front of her....

Mom baking 12 different kinds of cookies at Christmas, her pride and joy, and me feeling like her slave doing all the whisking, greasing, stirring, dredging hot cookes in in vanilla-flavoured powder sugar. Goran and Josip helped also, if for no other reason than to be allowed to lick the spoons and bowls. the taste of her creams and icings, lemon or chocolate flavoured, the crunch of her cookies.


The end of summer: with a toothpick mom's gently pricking freshly picked sour cherries from our own cherry tree in the backyard; she's helping them ooze more juice into the sweatened 'loza' schnaps - she's making her liquer. I see her prooning her flowers, attending to her roses, or weeding in her vegetable garden, hair a mess, and old dress on...

The touch of her warm hands on my stomach as she rubbed it when it hurt. I see her in front of the mirror, applying lipstick and combing her chestnut hair...
I see clearly as a younger woman, very popular in her office, joking and chatting with her co-workers. I used to stop by to have her fix my pigtails; sometimes, during her lunch break she'd go to the market and buy strawberries; she'd give them to me instructing me to beat the Dr. Oetker 'schlag' [whipping cream], spoon it over the fruit and let it chilll in the fridge.I learned to make this simple and still favourite dessert when I was in grade One or possibly Two.
At the time my parents were building the cottage and the money was tight, or so my father claimed, [and still does]. Whenever she'd indulge in something she'd say mischiveously: "kad se propada, nek se otmjeno propada." - "if you go down you must go down in style."

The memories come rushing to the surface, of her, of grandma. As devastated as I still sometimes feel over not having them in my life, I know that I am lucky to have had them. I just wished I had had more time with them. I left so early and visited so seldom. I am not colouring my relationship with them in soft hues. God knows we had our differences, our misunderstanding, there were moments when I hated them... But they are me, what I loved or hated about them are the same things I love or hate about me. They both were my Pygmalions, they moulded me, added more to what I already was when I was born, influenced my my strengths and weaknesses.

Mama and Baba.... They both had hard lives marked by wars, losses, sadness, harshness....it's all a part of the deal being born in this troubled Powder Keg called The Balkans. But they both had such incredible zest for life; they were strong, they were tender, also... My grandma who would yell and scream at us was also the one who fed stray cats and gave food to poor Polish or Check tourists camping nearby our cottage. When we were teenagers and never had money for cigaretters, she would pretend to be a smoker, take an offered cigarette saying that she's savae it for later. One day at the cottage, when were dying for a smoke, she went to her room and came back with a crumpled packet of all kinds of cigartettes inside, smiling like a mother cat bringing a nice morcel to her kittens. What a pity that she was orphaned and nobody cared to recognize her talents.

I have a Thousand and One Story collection hiding in the pits of my being, stories I hope to keep alive with each candle, each flower and each "memorial" prayer I do. Jewish people are right in saying that the highest comfort comes from not forgetting. Neka vam je laka crna zemlja. Volim vas i uvijek cete biti uz mene.