When my grandmother died in 1963, we buried her in Bakersfield and then were horrified when distant family members began to lay out blankets and carry immense amounts of food—sliced ham, fried chicken, salads and jello salads, biscuits and butter, sweet iced tea—to the graveside. We had not encountered this Midwestern/Southern tradition before.

It made complete sense to me a year ago when I was at the Arroyo Grande cemetery soon after All Saints’ Day and noticed that the Catholic section, particularly among Mexican-American graves, with brilliant flowers and helium balloons, looked like the assembly point for the Rose Parade’s floats. (The Protestant side was Calvinist and austere.) I was delighted. This is a tradition that celebrates the lives of those we will see again. We had our paper pates of fried chicken and macaroni salad because we had one more chance to eat in my grandmother’s presence. It was her celebration, after all.

I wrote a piece about Chavez Ravine and Fernando Valenzuela earlier this year. In this slightly different version, November 1, All Saints’ Day, El dÍa de los Muertos, plays a more central role.