Lighting-up: A Family Tradition

By Iris Leona Marie Cross

Great-aunt Sugar plonks her overweight self in the front passenger seat, reserved for her.

“Come, hold this jug, quick! The water’s spilling,” and it spills all over Sugar’s frilly, floral cotton frock. 

Skipping down the front steps, I rush to help since the others are already waiting in the sweltering car, engine running. Selina, my mother, a stickler for time is at the steering wheel “steupsing”. Great-aunt Gigi is in the backseat fanning herself and my older sister with a Christian Endeavor Hymnal.

“You all remembered matches?” Sugar asks in her usual bossy manner.

“Yes. Hurry up. Close the door,” replies great-aunt Gigi. “Selina’s already vexed.”

Uncle Arthur, Sugar’s long-suffering, henpecked husband, is in his wood and wicker rocking chair looking on from the porch, anxious for us to depart. With his wife gone, he gets a much-desired breather from her commands in octaves, typically rising to a crescendo: “Arthuur! Come and do this; Arthuuur! Come and do that. Arthuuuur!” He can now enjoy a puff of Marlborough and a tipple of Teacher’s, without harassment.

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So began our outings to Lapeyrouse Cemetery, Trinidad, when I was a child. Each year on November 1st, All Saints’ Day, my family visited Lapeyrouse for the annual Lighting Up ceremony in remembrance of Ma Small, my great-grandmother, who died before I was born. 

My two great-aunts, my sister and I packed into my mother's second-hand, moss green American Rambler motor car which she drove with enviable expertise. We loaded the car trunk with paint, paintbrushes, rags, vases, candles, matches, and a cocoyea broom—paraphernalia needed to celebrate Lighting Up, Festival of the Dead. Great-aunt Sugar always insisted on holding the large white enamel jug brimful of water, a must-have in case the cemetery taps were dry.  

Lapeyrouse was abuzz with activity as families paid their respects to the deceased. Hustlers at the cemetery’s gates, posing with tins of white paint, heavy-duty brooms, and hungry for a few dollars, hounded everyone entering the cemetery for a quick clean-and-paint job. Alongside the hustlers were vendors, chanting “Get your fresh flowers!”—often stolen from already-beautified graves.  

Lighting Up was one of those rare moments harmony reigned between my warring great-aunts Gigi and Sugar. During school holidays, I often woke up to both of them engaged in verbal warfare over pots and pans. Swinging aluminum and iron pots left and right in these heated sessions, Gigi and Sugar argued, at maximum volume, over who was the rightful owner of the cooking utensils in question. It’s a surprise no one was ever injured physically, but emotionally they both suffered the blow of hurtful words slung to and fro.  Whenever Sugar provoked Gigi, Gigi proceeded to shout “Get thee behind me Satan!” while walking through the house sprinkling holy water; an embarrassment in light of the middle-class, mostly white neighbourhood where we lived.       

Yet come Lighting Up, Gigi and Sugar united. Together they regaled us with stories about Ma Small as we swept dust, scrubbed moss, and scraped flaking paint from the wire-fenced, concrete-paved allotment. Dust from the swishing strokes of the cocoyea broom and pungent fumes from the wet paint invaded my lungs, threatening to bring on an asthma attack.  When the allotment was spanking clean and decorated with a variety of flowers—gerberas, ixoras, roses and tiger lilies—freshly picked from our garden, we took turns to light candles in tribute to Ma Small. 

For me, Lighting Up wasn't a morbid experience. Instead, I was filled with rapture as I listened to my great-aunts recount my great-grandmother’s journey from St. Lucia where her parents (freed slaves) owned a sugarcane estate to Trinidad where she met her husband, an immigrant himself but from Barbados.   

Each year, I learned something new about Ma Small—the family’s matriarch. She appeared to be a formidable, entrepreneurial, philanthropic, religious, no-nonsense woman who kicked her husband out of the family home because of his infidelity.  Papa, my great-grandfather, came home one evening from his supervisory job at the Port of Spain abattoir to find his belongings strewn on the street. I was always intrigued by my great-aunts' recollection of events, and their attempts to correct each other or add to the storyline for the sake of accuracy.

Goaded by the incorrigible duo, I dumped weeds, unruly vines, pebbles, and dirt on top of the adjacent grave where “Blanche Fraser” (etched in black on a white headstone) was buried. I had no idea who Blanche was, or why my great-aunts insisted on defiling her grave. Yet I assisted, and had fun doing so. This was the one occasion I obeyed their orders, no questions asked. 

In my teens, all was revealed. “That jezebel was our father’s mistress. We have no respect for her, living or dead,” one of my great-aunts said. Blanche was the temptress who had beguiled Papa. 

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Gigi died, followed by Uncle Arthur and Sugar, taking with them (I'm sure) untold, riveting stories about my family history. Growing up I had to abide by Gigi and Sugar’s antiquated rules and irrational, baffling beliefs only they could make sense of. Still, accompanying them to the cemetery every year was an enlightening, enjoyable experience that helped to bridge the intergenerational gap, even if only temporarily.

Lighting Up wasn’t the same without great-aunts Gigi and Sugar. My mother and I continued the tradition with a tinge of sadness, careful not to dump rubbish or step on Blanche, the temptress’ grave. The two of us harboured no ill will towards Blanche. Unlike great-aunts Gigi and Sugar, we didn’t have first-hand experience of the family turmoil Blanche created. When my mother was born, Papa had long since been kicked out from the family home and by the time I came along, Papa was already dead.  

“I wonder who’ll do this when I’m gone?” my mother mused as we swept, scrubbed, painted, and decorated the cemetery allotment with flowers before lighting candles. I remained silent. A guilty knot swelled up in my tummy. Unbeknownst to her, my intention was to leave Trinidad for good, as my sister had done when she turned eighteen.

Decades later, life has come full circle. I have returned to the family home in Trinidad. On November 1st of each year, I visit the allotment that now houses a new resident—my mother. As I clean, paint, lay roses and chrysanthemums (her favourites), and inhale the pungent fumes of wet paint, I too wonder, gazing teary-eyed at the flickering candles, who’ll do this when I’m gone?

Iris Leona Marie Cross {BSc. Dip. Ed. MBA} attended universities in Canada, USA, Trinidad & Tobago, and England. She has spent years as a teacher and researcher. She now resides in her home country, Trinidad & Tobago. A health and fitness enthusiast, Ms Cross researched and produced (in 2018) the Caribbean’s first health calendar. Her first published story appears in Best New True Crime Stories: Small Towns (Mango Publishing, July 2020). Ms. Cross’ story “That Perpetual Plaid Dress” placed third in The Preservation Foundation’s 2020 nonfiction contest. She was also Gotham Writers 25-word story winner for July 2020.