Growing up during the Boomer years in New Orleans, All Saints Day was a holiday. Being a holy day of obligation by the Catholic Church, our family began the day with a Mass. My mother, Aunts Dorothy, Vicky, and Gussie—after her marriage in the 1960s to Uncle James, took me with them to visit relatives in Holt Cemetery on City Park Avenue. Mother always brought an umbrella. A vendor stood outside the gate and one of the adults bought me a bag of peanuts.
Any conversation they planned to have with me that day had already been done. I knew not to scuff my shoes and not to stand too close as I rotated the umbrella back and forth once they stood under one of the trees in the back after circumnavigating the graves. All their talk had not been completed.
We entered the main gate, turned left after the little structure that housed the gravediggers on duty. We then made a quick right, walked past three rows of graves and walked in that aisle to my grandmother’s new grave—Emma Newton 1875 – 1955. The adults busied themselves pulling weeds, removing cigarette butts, and all detritus that was on the grave. I joined them when they formed a circle and prayed for the repose of my grandmother’s soul. They were careful not to stand on any of the other graves. As they stood back, and I moved out of the way, they looked to the far right corner, through the fence to Delgado College. Vicky Dorothy and Ethel my mother, knew about where their father’s grave would have been had the city not destroyed the other half of the cemetery so that Higgins could build boats for WWII. As far as they knew, the bodies were destroyed rather than dug and stored elsewhere. While America won the war, they were still angry over the lost bodies. It was still a fresh wound in the 1950s. They looked down and around them and talked about the families of those nearby. One or all of them had been in school with one of the last names. The cemetery was crowded. Mother held my hand as they decided which way to go. The Priestley grave was behind us. Across the aisle were other relatives, and the road was in constant movement from cars crowded with more visitors.
When they saw people they knew, they headed that way, careful to walk only in the aisles. Every time they stopped, they chatted interminably. I stood quietly, seeing different clothes and shoe colors, though shoes were mostly black, oxblood, or brown. All of them were getting dusty. Sometimes, it was overcoat weather, most times, just sweater and light jacket temps. I looked toward the crematorium, but mostly studied the backdrop on the other side of the fence where New Orleans fire department trained their recruits. My eyes traveled slowly up the tower, knowing I would be too afraid to climb that high. Most birds perched there when the Holt was full of people picnicking under their trees. Some would leave scraps behind and the birds would later have a feast.
After walking and completing the inner and outer circles, talking and waving to others, the women stood under their favorite tree and gossiped, I suppose. I never listened. I imagine they had lots to say about old classmates, neighbors, friends, speculating on things they didn’t know for sure. I opened the bag of nuts and began eating them. I was a slow eater. They were usually still talking when the nuts were gone, so I tugged gently on the umbrella. Mother handed it to me. I opened it over my head and swiveled the handle back and forth, careful of any approaching people as the umbrella turned and twisted.
As the afternoon sun began its descent, Aunt Vicky started walking to the front. This clued the others that husbands would be returning from work soon and they had to be home before James, Eugene, and Arthur arrived. Mother was the only one with young children, and my brothers James and Junior had a key to get into the house, stay in the house, and lock the doors.