Subscriber Dick Davis is a benefactor of the arts in Storm Lake, responsible in part for mosaic murals throughout town and seven bronze sculptures of children.

The Panteón, Zacatlán’s cemetery, glowed in candlelight and was golden and aromatic being festooned in marigolds. Families seated themselves near graves which they had cleaned and cleared of weeds. Altars were decorated with photos, mementos and favorite foods of their departed loved ones. The sky was dark, contrasting with the candles glowing, as if they were souls. It was late evening, Nov. 1st, Day of the Dead.

Raul and I walked together along the winding paths of the Panteón. We stopped from time to time, noted the decorated altars, the care families took in adorning graves, sometimes ancient, family tombs, the living having a meal, eating pan muerto, a special bread, drinking tequila or downing or a beer, but not in grief, cheerfully, respectfully, honoring their loved, remembered relative and partaking as if in company with the spirit of the departed.

Raul said to me, “It’s the Callejón of Hueso you should visit.” The Callejón was a pedestrianized alleyway, not wide enough for cars. It was crooked, it followed an old creek bed that had been ignored when Zacatlán was laid out on a grid, but the meandering creek, overtime as the neighborhood grew, turned into a black-water, open sewer. Years later the town built a culvert, putting the sewer underground and leaving a dog-legged alley that no car could drive. The alley became walls of ugly graffiti and later artists transformed the graffiti walls into beautiful mosaic mural memories of the people and town as they had appeared in old 1940s photographs.

Raul explained, “Those murals are magic. Once a year, just after midnight the souls of the past return, the people in the murals leave the walls and visit their graves in the Panteón to be with their families.”

“What a story,” I said. “Visit the Callejón after midnight, see for yourself,” Raul challenged, “unless you fear spirits.”

Raul departed, saying he was tired but to meet in the morning at 7 a.m. for breakfast at my hotel.  It was only 10 p.m., too early for my bedtime. We said good night.

I wandered passed the Panteón; the murals caressed by fog gave me an eerie sensation of two worlds, living and departed. I arrived at the plaza. Crowds had thinned. It was cool, foggy, “spirits,” I thought, chuckled to myself.  I walked to the barranca, the gorge that divides Zacatlán from the Sierra Norte Mountains. Fog rolled over the edge and drifted into the valley below. It moved slowly, as if an old woman with an invisible broom was pushing the fog.

Lights, as if stars, could be seen in the distance. I knew I was looking at San Miguel de Tenango, a village town, across the gorge, not more than a km distance, but a 10-km drive.

The town bell chimed 12 midnight, alerting me. I had walked along the barranca, unknowingly, “maybe guided by a spirit;” at the thought, I laughed to myself, I was approaching Callejón. It was the hour Raul had mentioned.

Callejón was dark, shadowed, the alleyway entrance opened in the middle of a block; fog at my knees crept along the narrow path, moved with the flow of my presence. The murals Raul mentioned covered the walls, both sides of the Callejón.  In the dark, I could make out the scenes taken from photographs of the town from the 20s, 30s, 40s, that were recreated on the walls.  I rummaged in my shoulder bag, found my flashlight and pointed the light at the murals.

Zacatlán, the town, old houses, churches, cars, a bus, shops with names now changed, which I knew, buildings but often with different shops or stores, the bank I recognized now a hotel, but what was missing?  People, all the people in the murals were gone, not a one, not the taco man, the priest in the plaza, or bus driver or the people on the bus, or on the street, or in the group photo of the women dressed in traditional dresses for the first Apple Fair.  The mural-photos…. were empty.

Long ago I heard that natives would not permit photographs as they feared the camera would capture their soul. It was true!  Raul was right, images taken from a camera, transferred to a wall mural were alive in spirit on the wall and now were visiting their adorned graves in the Panteón.

Visitor: You must return Nov. 1 at midnight, to see for yourself!