In some California communities with roots in Latin America, especially Mexico, the last days of October are spent getting ready for Day of the Dead. That means making altars for loved ones and covering them with marigolds.
With their flashy color and strong perfume, marigolds help spirits find their way back to their families. At least that’s one theory about why they’re the flor de muerto -- the flower of the dead.
These bright orange blooms aren’t always easy to find, and Central Valley farmer Antonio Chavez is trying to change that. He's growing them for people like him, who are longing for a piece of home.
For Chavez these aren't marigolds, they're cempasuchils, a word with Nahuatl origins. He never thought much about why cempasuchils are so important, he just knew they were. "It’s the tradition our grandparents handed down," he says. "The flowers are sacred. They’re essential for Day of the Dead."
Chavez and his parents left Oaxaca, Mexico, a decade ago, and missed celebrating like they did back home. So a couple of years ago they started growing marigolds in Kerman, a small town outside Fresno.
They farm a few acres along a country road; mostly squash and chilies with a few rows of fiery flowers mixed in.
"The first year we just planted a small amount for ourselves," Chavez says, "but then people started coming by saying 'Sell us some.' "
So many people bought flowers that the family ran out. This year Chavez planted more. His family still gets first dibs.
On the last day of October they’ll pick the flowers and make big arches out of them to place over the altar. They'll arrange others in the shape of a cross. Then they’ll set out fruits and sweets for Chavez's sister, who died as a child, and tamales and mole for the grandparents who once taught him these traditions.
For Chavez these rituals are especially important now that his hometown in Oaxaca has been abandoned.
Life was hard there, he says: no TV, no phones, no money. But he describes it as a beautiful place tucked into a green mountain valley.
When he was young there was a school there, and lots of kids. Now, he says, "there's nothing."
Only the elderly are left, because they couldn’t make the trip across the border to the U.S. "Sometimes it makes me sad to know that in a few years there won't be anyone left in the town."
But Chavez says growing these marigolds makes him feel like at least he’s sharing the spirit of the place with his fellow immigrants.
"Everything has changed," he says, "but we haven’t. We haven’t changed who we are."
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