Rainy November 1

I am awakened by the strong rain. I remember it is  November 1. And I remember Mama and all the rainy All Saints Day we had to bear when we were young.

It begun in 1971, a few days after we had just buried Lola Ipay, who died on October 25, in Loyola Memorial Park . Before that, we had always gone to the cemeteries in San Pablo and Sta. Cruz to visit our dead. I don't ever remember that it rained during those times and having had to do anything taxing except to locate the grave site of our relatives. So when we had to spend Nov 1 that year in Loyola, we were not prepared for what would transpire.

That first time, it took us hours to get to Marikina from the corner of Katipunan, a ride that would normally take 15 minutes. I was amazed to see the serene memorial park of two weeks before transformed into what looked like picnic grounds with big tents dotting the landscape. That evening signaled the beginning of an annual ritual of 1) setting up the tent days before All Saints Day, 2) starting very early in the day but still enduring hours of travel of bumper-to-bumper traffic, then 3) lugging tables, chairs, food, flowers, and candles to the grave site. Whether rainy (and therefore, muddy) or steaming hot, we had lunch under the tent. We usually stayed until late afternoon or until we just had about enough of what was going on all around us. Surprisingly, teen-aged me longed to stay till it was dark because it seemed there appeared to be more action in the evenings. But that never happened because there was the tiresome task of bringing back all our stuff to the car and then bearing the lengthy trip home.

Mama did all that was needed to be done for this event with a passion. I don't know whether it was out of duty or love for our relatives buried there that she made sure everything was in place. Or was it so that she actually enjoyed being there, chatting with the "neighbors", having the whole family there eating food she prepared. I didn't share her enthusiasm for this family outing but had no choice in the matter, of course!

Things changed when in 1988, I had a legitimate reason to stay home. I had to breastfeed our 6-month old daughter who was too young to join everyone in Loyola. Everyone that year included our 5-year old son who managed to get lost in the crowds of thousands. He was later found exploring the sights on his own. It was that year that I decided that I would no longer go to Loyola on November 1. Instead, my family would pay our respects to our dead on November 2, All Souls Day, when traffic was lighter, crowds were sparse, and the placed looked more like a park than a circus.

Mama continued to go to Loyola on November 1 with my cousins until one year, when she was nearing her 80s, she said she preferred to join us. She had, on that day, passed on the baton of the responsibility of taking charge of the Loyola visits to me. 

Today, Mama and Papa are both buried there now and I sort of understand now why Mama was so devoted to her annual rituals. It was her way of professing of her undying love for those who lay there. I guess the tradition (with my modifications) will go on because they make sure that our ties with our loved ones will always remain. Through heat, through mud, through rain!