There was controversy to start the day, and predictably it started on the other side of the bed. Which, having a certain rhyming imperative, Splash wanted to celebrate with the Mexican holiday, Día de Muertos. Of course, that doesn’t actually rhyme with our night-time resting place, unless you do it in English. As usual, he was only off by nearly a month.

He started slowly, saying “The Mexicans celebrate and honor the memory of their deceased loved ones between 31 October and November 2nd.” He acknowledged being a little late with his participation, but reminded us he had raised a glass to them at the appropriate time, but things at Refuge Farm actually were more in keeping with the actual south-of-the-border ceremony.

This being a day of Rest, indistinguishable from many other days of the week for retirees, it is not a “gloomy or morbid” occasion. Instead, it is a festive and colorful holiday. Back when there was an actual southern border, Mexicans visit cemeteries, decorate the graves with festive motifs and spent some time in the presence of their deceased friends and family members. They honor them, which is almost the spirit Splash was getting to what with the matter of The Last Box still pending and Thanksgiving looming. In the Latin tradition, altars are constructed and decorated with lavish ornaments they call “ofrendas.”

“We already got the ofrendas,” he said firmly. “Now it is time to use the Day of Rest to celebrate the Muertos.”

DeMille was cautious in his approach to Splash’s assertions. He retreated to the base of the stairs up to the Loading Dock of the Barn and brushed the screen of his tablet. He gazed at it for a moment and made an announcement: “It is Mexico’s indigenous festivity honoring family and friends. It was even recognized by UNESCO as part of the “intangible cultural heritage of humanity” in 2008. So we should have had time to incorporate it into our Microsoft calendar applications. So, why now?”

Melissa, Loma and Rocket looked up, alert for any conflict prior to Sunday’s religious services. Splash rose from his sitting stone and gestured toward the bunkhouse. “You have been complaining about the Last Box for months. You said there was a large container filled with pounds of ancient pictures. There was still more than half a crate of them, all untouched from where the Chairman’s parental estate got moved down here ten years ago.”

“It has been a challenge to honor them properly. That is why the box is on the other side of the bed where we can’t see it.”

“Honor requires effort, even on a day of rest. I have been on it.” He stretched one of his longer legs out to the stone next to him and gently teased a large box across the gravel to a place of prominence near the morning fire. That was a fair amount of drama for a Day of Rest and commanded attention. “I went through all of the pictures last night. I found some of The Twins when they were just four years old. On the back someone wrote “1911, Atlantic City.”

DeMille frowned, sensing part of what Splash was getting to, and it looked like work. “Who were The Twins? If we carefully sort through all of it, arrange it by which branch of the family tree thought the images were important, scan them, add any additional information from the back and upload them to the Shutterfly app, we can allow everyone in the family who cares to each have complete sets. But there was still more than half the box we haven’t looked at, and God knows what is down there.”

There were some nods of agreement, and others who looked around for more coffee to see if they could boost their artificial (and temporary) enthusiasm. Splash slowly managed to rise to his feet and made a dramatic gesture with his right hand. “I have ensured we can wrap this up before whichever of the Sunday services you chose to observe. I spent my time last night going through all the pictures on top. They were resting on a pristine sheet of packing paper. I assumed there were more albums or something beneath them.”

Despite the delicate blue of the deepening morning sky, the realization that there were hundreds more images to be reviewed, carefully removed from their mountings, scanned and replaced in cracked leather or vinyl bindings, and then returned to their place in the last box. Considering the fact that many of the people in the photos had themselves crossed over to the honored list, it was an imposing task. Splash paused just long enough for the dimensions of the project to penetrate. Then he stood a little taller. “With my effort, I have discovered that there are no additional photographic materials for review.”

The group broke into smiles of relief. There was laughter and the prospect of a last lazy fall afternoon stretching all the way to evening. The Mexican spirit, honoring those who have gone on before us was palpable. Splash sat down, but concluded his official remarks by saying there was another matter for minor discussion when we got to it.

Melissa was curious, and naturally prefers to have a decent plan in place before her Salts get committed to alternative activities which could diminish their admittedly compromised capabilities. She looked at the box of snapshots, and those scattered across the counterpane. “That is going to take a team of at least three. One to examine and sort, another to help load, and an IT specialist to scan and upload.” She paused, waiting for the Salts to absorb what work was going to occupy the Day of Rest. “And what was in the bottom of the box?”

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Splash smiled. “There are seven or eight neatly organized envelopes. They are labeled precisely, just the way you would expect the Chairman’s mother to have organized them.”

Loma was suspicious. “And what are in these alleged envelopes? Isn’t it possible that there are more pictures to be sorted, stacked, scanned and disseminated?”

Splash laughed. “Nope. I only opened one of them. I thought they might be shoes, based on the bulk, and if so we could just pitch them. Unfortunately, they weren’t. They are the complete correspondence files of letters from the generation before the last generation to the more recent generation, neatly compiled and in order. I figure they cover somewhere between 1940 to 1975, in terms of years.”

There was a collective groan at the thought of hundreds- if not thousands- of exchanges between people who had joined the honored departed thirty or more years ago. “Now, now, look on the bright side. They are all in one place, in some sort of order, and could be the actual record of what it was like to live through the Depression, leave the River Valley in the Big War and create those pesky Boomers. It would be invaluable for anyone interested in doing a definitive biography on someone’s grandmother they never actually met.”

Melissa looked thoughtful, considering the vitality of the women who actually made it work. Then she slowly spoke: “So, is there a recommendation for how to assess their value and honor the memory of those who wrote them?”

Splash looked triumphant. “Sure. We can leave them in the box, tape down the lid and put it in the garage. Maybe scrawl something informative on them, like “Letters from People you don’t know, 35 Years.” The kids will be delighted that we turned the decision over to them.”
Rocket scowled. “That doesn’t save anyone any work at all.”

DeMille saw things were lurching in the direction of disorder, which could impact the Muertos. “Maybe we could use them to make paper decorations for some cool Ofredas. In Pre-Hispanic times, the dead were buried close to family homes, sometimes in a tomb underneath the central patio of the casa familia.”

Rocket said, “If you are suggesting burying the box over by the Loading Dock you might be on to something.”

“But to do that, someone would have to dig, and it is a day of rest.”

Splash laughed. “I can dig it. Just not today.”

Copyright 2021 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com