I don’t do yahrzeits.
In case you were wondering what those are, they are a widespread
and ingrained part of Jewish tradition.
It’s the observation and commemoration of the date of death
of a close relative, spouse, or friend – parents, particularly. The kaddish
(mourner’s prayer) is recited, a candle is lit, a palpable act of tzedakah
(charity) is encouraged, and Torah can studied in honor of the memory of the
deceased.
Sounds laudable. And very depressing.
My mother died a year ago today. I have my share of problems
about that . . . but commemorating it doesn’t help to solve any of them. (Yes I
did say kaddish for her for 11 months. I’m not a complete monster.)
Maybe I don’t feel the pull of the ritual because I’m a relatively
new Jew. I come from Lutherans, from the shady Christian hollows and hilltops of
the Missouri River valley, Alexander Payne country, right around Omaha, where
the blues are more commonly referred to as “our Scandinavian heritage.” It’s
Garrison Keillor without the charm. Performed in stiff motions of despair.
In that primal culture, death is seen as a relief from
earthly trials. More accurately, life is conceived of as one long “American
Gladiators”-style competition against temptation, sin, and error. A vestibule
crowded with a kaleidoscope of potential soul-destroying torments to be
sidestepped.
Plus, we had this quirky family tradition of TAKING A PICTURE
OF THE DEAD RELATIVE.
IN THE COFFIN.
AND HANGING IT IN THE LIVING ROOM.
My paternal grandparents’ walls looked like they were hung
with pictures of fallen Pez dispensers. This is not OK, I thought then but
confirmed objectively years later. This kind of familial focus on the Grim
Reaper explains much of my reluctance to memorialize the departed.
In fact, we spent our fair share of time in cemeteries,
sprucing up our people’s plots, or just taking a drive out to visit that field
full of unresponsive relatives. Out of boredom, I would run up and down as a
kid, vaulting over the headstones, until my grandma caught me and scolded me
out of it.
Dad’s death, 20 years ago, didn’t help. The first mortuary
we went to, the guy started off by saying, “Well, what can I help you with?” We
moved on. Later, the unfamiliar minister faked his way through Dad’s eulogy,
throwing in a plug for the funeral home smack dab in the middle of it.
I did make a habit of visiting his grave on the Day of the
Dead. I thought treating it as a festive occasion was at least a move in the
right direction. And those visits did actually lead finally to a kind of peace
for me. So, memorialization works.
But Mom got cremated. So . . . she’s out blowing around
somewhere right now. That’s not comforting.
More to the point – if I’m going to remember someone, why am
I going to remember them on THE DAY THEY DIED? I can testify from personal experience
that this is not when people are really at their best.
“Hey, remember that day Mom died?” is just not something I’m
willing to entertain. It seems -- gauche.
Plus there’s the letter. I know it’s traditional, but I
don’t want an ecclesiastical form letter reminding me of what happened, especially
one containing a donation suggestion and envelope. Nope. Don’t like that.
So, smartass, I ask myself, how should you remember someone?
I would pick out the nice bits to mull over, to start. That’s what I’ve been
doing.
For better or worse, the parental influence is pervasive. I
work in the arts, after a childhood my mother flooded with films, books, and
music. I write; she wanted to. I read my kids Laura Ingalls Wilder with the
same intonations Mom used. And we all seem to laugh in the same places.
So I currently choose just to remember the funny stuff. That’s
what I can handle, that’s where I’m at. When I go, don’t light a candle or nail
a little brass plaque to anything.
It’s like the old joke:
The teacher asks the class what their fathers do for a
living.
Little Betty says, “My daddy’s a doctor!”
Little Billy says, “My dad works at the grocery store!”
Little Jimmy doesn’t say anything. Teacher asks him, “What
about YOUR daddy, Jimmy?”
Jimmy says, “My daddy’s dead.”
Teacher says, “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. Tell me, what did he
do before he died?”
Jimmy clutches his chest and yells, “GGGGAAAAHHHGAKAKAKAKAAUGHHHH!”
Just remember the funny stuff.
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