Remembrance of Times Past

The academic discipline to which I have devoted a good part, perhaps the better part, of my life, History, is essentially about remembering and understanding. The opening lines of Homer’s epic we know as the Iliad acknowledges this strange duality we historians observe:

Vigil’s Aeneid invokes Homer’s spirit in his history of the origins of Rome and thereby pays tribute to the same duality of history’s noble epic lineage, that is history both as an evocation of remembrance and of understanding.

For us the month of November, the ninth month of the old Roman calendar, had become a solemn time of remembrance of the epic heroism of the common man, the ordinary men who died in their millions in the Great War. Since the guns fell silent on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918 we have paused to remember them in a silent moment of collective commemoration. Since the Armistice this day has been observed around the world but most particularly in Britain, Northern Ireland and the component parts of the dead Empire born again as the Commonwealth.

Yet, the pedigree of November as a time for remembrance is more ancient. It marks one of the most enduring legacies of late Medieval Christianity. The feast of All Souls became greatly cherished in the effulgent spirituality of the closing century of medieval Christianity. The terrors of the Black Death marked more than the countless dead. It marked a society left with a traumatic sense of loss. Death in ruinous quantity always elevates our sense of life and afterlife. The aftermath of the catastrophic loss of life in the wars in the twentieth century gave impetus to an act of collective remembrance so also in the shadow of the plague Medieval society was drawn to find a collective expression of its need to remember. The need to remember; the need to mourn; the desire to do something practical for the departed were ritually bound together into a holy moment to shared equally by all Christians of all classes in all social strata. Prayers and masses for the dead became a cult. Even the kings of England patronised this cult – Henry V being the founder of All Souls college in Oxford dedicated originally to pray continuously for the fallen of Agincourt. It was in a profound sense the model chantry chapel. Today there is one lone inheritor of that mantle of continuous prayer for the dead in the chantry chapel found within the grounds of the Anglican Shrine of Walsingham.

Half a millenium on, the tradition of remembering and praying for the dead endures in All Souls everywhere there’s Christian practice. It is observed in most parts of the world outside China and Japan  – which of course both own another rich cultural and religious tradition of their own. The Muslim and Jewish communities too have their poignant rites over death and remembrance.

Remembrance between generations of living and dead binds us to each other’s experience of life. In the arc of time that’s one human life by remembering we are put into contact with the legend of our greater past. This simple memorial survival of medieval men and women endures more than any of their other myriad legacies. It still serves today the same useful purpose it did in those times almost lost to our direct imagination. It still fills the narrow gap between life and death with quiet reflection. For here in this solemn time the urgent sense of the faith of our forebears touches us. The simple notion that by prayers for the dead we gain heaven for those who in turn will pray for us when our time on earth is accomplished gives us a roundel of hope which can play out over lives; families; centuries and peoples.

The continuum of annual All Souls Days during the course of one’s life is a remarkable way to keep in touch with our life experience which leads always to one certain end. Each year turns and each year there is a special time set aside for cherishing those who have touched our lives; and also as life goes on there’s a special time each year we can devote to cherishing another lost family member; another lost loved one or another friend lost – each adding to that sacred roll of honour we keep to recall all those who touched our lives and shaped our small world.

That there is a place in the order of life’s time to remember and cherish those we shared part of our life with; those we have shared some of our love with; those who we’ve shared some of our joys or sorrows, or some of our fears or hopes with, we do so with the warmth of our memories and the efficacy of prayer – which itself is another form of remembrance.

This special month for the last three years I have dedicated to remembering those who might otherwise be forgotten, in my case my many friends fallen too soon before Time’s scythe. This year is no exception.

Richard, Irma and me 2011 during their visit to London

Irma Zigas 1929-1913

I met Irma in Amherst whilst visiting my dear friends Ralph and Manfred over Thanksgiving. Irma was a few years shy of my mum’s age but she was such a life-force. I liked her from the moment we touched swords. She had a wonderful wry sense of humour and a joyous way of cocking her head slightly to one side as if to say – you’re kidding me, brother! She was warm; kind; direct; funny and always a fountain on stories from her early life. I really wish I had met her sooner. She loved the opera but in an unfussy – very Jewish way.   I last saw her albeit briefly with her husband Art. They had moved from their beloved apartment in San Francisco to sheltered accommodation. Irma wasn’t much taken with what necessity had forced on her but she was uncomplaining – ‘what can you do?’- she asked me as she held my hand. I asked her if she was doing Ok as I had heard she had been ill. She squeezed my hand and merely said – it’s good to see you you’re looking great.

I am not pretending I am gifted with great understanding of unspoken communication but I left the apartment feeling Irma knew she wasn’t well. When my friend Ralph told me Irma was admitted to hospital and a few hours later that it was all over – I knew somehow she had known all along. Irma faced death as she had faced her many difficulties in her life with grace and uncomplaining strength. Sometimes you do not need to know someone long for them to change the course of your life. Irma certainly changed mine. I am so proud to have known her; prouder yet she liked me and most proud that she thought of me as her friend. In my head I hear her voice and see her face. She will be with me until my sunset comes and the evening star lights my passage across the bar….

I was sent this lovely tribute to Irma which deserves to be watched since it both evokes the person and the times in which she lived so richly.  Richard and I are deeply honoured to be amongst those photographs. Irma Zigas, 1929-2013.

You can also watch as Irma cooks with her grandson Caleb, preparing her own take on Passover brisket. There’s love, there’s respect and teaching, there are disagreements over chopping onions—it’s family. Caleb and Irma aren’t kosher, and neither is this recipe, but it’s the one Irma’s been making since her anti-Vietnam, pro-women’s-rights activist days, when she needed to bring the family together but couldn’t spend hours in the kitchen. As well as giving you the flavour of Irma it’s also hell of a recipe (but I’m less sure about the cranberry)….Irm’s brisket recipe….couldn’t be simpler!