More Dead People.
Funk and I went to see the “Grateful Dead” last weekend. We chose a show in Connecticut because the venue was close to the gravesite of my grandparents on the Squitiro side. A few weeks before the trip, I was really excited at the thought that I’d be standing within six feet of the grandfather that I’d never met. Believe it or not, I was more excited about visiting his grave than I was about seeing a Dead show.
A few days before we left, something told me I had to greet my grandmother first. Such are the ways of Italians. There are “rules” that are never told, but nevertheless, you better not break them.
With that thought in mind, the day after the show, which was fantastic, by the way, in the rain and wind leftover from Hurricane Ian, I walked up to my grandparents’ gravesite, repeating to myself, “Don’t even look at your grandfather’s side of the grave, greet your grandmother first.”
Laying my packages on top of some other dead person, I dropped to my knees, laid my head on my grandmother’s side of the headstone, and proceeded to sob. Like big, huge, wracking sobs. I didn’t know what the tears were all about since I barely knew my grandmother.
Just as I was pondering that, I felt a big rumbling beneath my knees, and the expression “rolling in their graves” came to mind. It was almost like I could feel bones rattling to awareness below me. The next thing I knew, a big whoosh of energy shot through my body, and I filled with love and wonder.
Until I remembered.
At which time, I said to myself, “Are you crazy?! You’re dealing with Squitiro’s! They could be taking over your body right this very second!” I went from kneeling to standing in a heartbeat, brushed the mud and grass off from my knees, apologized to the other dead person for laying my junk on top of him, and then finally, finally, I greeted my grandfather. But him being Italian, even a dead Italian, I kept my guard up.
Here’s to you for honoring your ancestors, a tradition long forgotten by many, me included, until I got involved in lineage healing work. I know that work sounds like a big bunch of New Age woo-woo. I hate all things New Age, and I agree, the practice sounds pretty out there—yet it’s important.
The Photo: Rose and Alfonso Squitiero. Italian immigrants from the early 1920s. And me, their granddaughter, loving every minute of being by their side.