Recently, on my annual trip to the cemetery to clean the graves of my deceased parents, grandparents, in laws and other family, I found myself in a remembering mood. The thoughts, as they flooded my mind, were at times memorable and amazing, scary and unflattering all at the same time.
I remember my grandfather taking me to the cemetery to clean his friend’s grave, which was ultimately to become his final resting place. I helped; how much I cannot say. But there were ceaseless warnings about stepping on other people’s graves or sitting on their headstones with the threat that you may have your feet pulled by the deceased.
At the time, decades ago, there was much more to All Saints’, which we as Catholics observed, than merely ‘lighting up’ the gravesites of our departed loved ones. It meant for us as children, an evening out with reduced parental supervision. The adults lit the candles and recited the appropriate prayers.