He is . . . resting? Part I (Early Friday)

Greek Easter is a multi-day phenomenon, bigger than in the U.S.  (In fact, what we call Holy Week is called Big Week here, which consists of Big [Greek: μεγάλη, i.e. megaly]—not Ash—Wednesday, Big—not Holy or Maundy—Thursday, Big—not Good—Friday, Big Saturday, and finally, Easter Sunday.)

Though half the population of Greece now lives in Athens, about 80 percent of Athenians leave to celebrate Easter in their (or a friend’s) ancestral village.  If you can leave Athens for Easter, you do.  The saying is “Christmas in Athens, Easter in the village.” 

We are visiting with a friend’s family in the Peloponnese area.  Their farm is a few kilometers from an urban center.  Because we drove here on Thursday, we didn’t witness Big Wednesday events.  Our Orthodox friends explained that instead of ashes, they are anointed with oil on the forehead, chin, cheeks, as well as palms and backs of both hands.  We were astonished to think of how long this must take for a church full of people, but we are told that fewer and fewer people actually do this any more—usually just the older generation who may take their grandkids with them. 

While still in Athens on Wednesday, we also passed on the street some folks who appeared to be Ethiopian; they had small crosses on their foreheads that looked as though they had been sketched with a charcoal pencil.  (When we asked about this, our Greek friends explained that the Ethiopian church, which with they were not familiar, might have its own traditions.)  Nor did we attend Thursday evening events, though our friend’s mother attended the village church.  

Friday, however, involves “obligatory” visits to family graves—we came along for what turned out to be a two-hours (plus) roundtrip.  While driving, we asked more questions about Greek funerary practices.  Our assumptions about cremation (see earlier post) were wrong.  Greeks do not generally cremate and a lawyer acquaintance was not sure if it was yet legal here.  Those few who wish to do so do have to send the bodies to Romania or some other nearby country; the ashes are then shipped back.  

When we asked about our earlier trip to the Athens cemetery and the burial sites which didn’t seem large enough for all the names listed on the marble coverings, we heard a couple of possible explanations.  In some cases, the names were part of the family record—but those who died in wars, for example, might be buried elsewhere.  (We forgot to ask about the criteria for inclusion on the “family” marble—was it a particular degree of consanguinity?  Did it include both maternal and paternal forebears?)  

Greeks also have a very practical approach to grave-sharing.  A burial plot is provided free (“by the government”)—for 7 years.  By the end of that time, the body has decomposed and the coffin has disintegrated. (Our friend did not understand the meaning of the word “embalming,” nor, when we explained, its purpose.  Caskets are made of simple wood which also disintegrates quickly.  The idea of thousands of dollars spent on a heavy-duty casket “built to last” was completely incomprehensible to our friends.  Cf.  Jessica Mitford’s The American Way of Death for a serious treatment of the subject, and Evelyn Waugh’s The Loved One, which was later made into a movie, for a hysterically funny send-up of the US funeral industry and its fictionalized but entirely recognizable icon, Forest Lawn.) 

 If someone else in the family dies after 3 years (the time required for sufficient decomposition) but  before the entire 7 years are up, the old bones are dug up and put into a smaller container which can be reburied with the new “occupant.”  Then 7 year clock starts over.  Clearly, timing is everything, and thereby hangs the tale of the grave we visited.

Ordinarily, one doesn’t worry about the burial arrangements until the need arises.  This fellow had pre-purchased his own marble plaque or slab (a covering lain over the grave, not what we might think of a headstone) and pre-etched it with his and his wife’s birthdates—the rest to be filled in when the dates were known.  (Our friends, who were his relatives, described this unusual behavior as “creepy”). 

  

However, his wife, who was younger than he, unexpectedly died before him.  She had been ill in the last few years of her life and had been given lots of medicines (from the story, we surmised they must have been antibiotics).  As a result, when he died, even though the minimum three years had passed, her body was insufficiently decomposed to be ready for sharing the space, and he had to be buried elsewhere (so much for advance planning).  Eventually, enough time passed that she could be "re-packaged" and was ready for her husband to join her, which he finally did.

The “honoring” of the grave involved our friend bringing another photo of the occupants to replace the one that a year’s weathering had faded substantially (despite the heavy plastic covering), new plastic flowers, and a fresh flowers picked in her own garden.  

The long-burning memorial candle was also replaced as well as the paraffin in the quicker-burning lamp, both of which were inside the tiny doll-house sized “chapel” at the head of the graveside (where we would expect a headstone to be).  Our friend struggled to get everything safely lit inside the tiny space.  (It’s considered bad form to burn down the graveyard as part of the annual obligation.) 

 

An unexpected detail we noticed (it was quite common, though not universal): At the foot-end of the marble slab was etched a commercial—how to contact the company that had made the slab. 

Below is a video taken the following day.  Dimitra has finished honoring her father's grave (a ten minute walk from her mother's house in the village).  After she finished lighting the lamp and so forth, she showed us where the  "boxes" of old bones go, once they no longer are in the ground.  Plus we got the inverse of that old commercial: "Parents!  Do you know where your children are?"