A Ritual of Remembrance at ‘Day of the Dead’ Event

Outside the grand marble church in downtown Middlebury, the night was dark and crisp. Stars sparkled overhead. A warm glow radiated through the stained glass windows.

Congregants from across Addison County arrived in small groups, swinging open the heavy doors of St. Mary’s Catholic church, which were decorated with wreaths of orange and yellow paper marigolds and painted sugar skulls.

They had assembled for a special Sunday evening Spanish-language Mass in honor of Día de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead, a Mexican holiday with Catholic and Indigenous roots that is held on November 1 and 2. Families gather to joyfully remember deceased loved ones, welcoming their spirits for a brief visit. Vibrant altars offer them drinks, flowers, candles and a sweet bread called pan de muerto.

After Mass, the congregants would join a lively procession through the Middlebury College campus, where students performed traditional dances and theatrical renditions of Mexican folk tales. The event, now in its fifth year, has become an annual attraction in this part of the state, where hundreds of migrant farmworkers and their families have put down roots.

This year, the celebration took place amid an aggressive immigration crackdown that has spread fear through the community. On this night, as the pews filled with dozens of young families, politics took a back seat.

Men in collared shirts and brown leather jackets sat beside women with bows in their hair. The occasional squeals of young children bounced off the high, vaulted ceiling.

Father Tim Danaher, dressed in cream-and-gold vestments, began the Mass shortly after 7 p.m. The fresh-faced 39-year-old priest with cropped brown hair serves as Catholic chaplain at Dartmouth College but learned Spanish while appointed in Colombia. For the past five or so years, he has traveled to Vermont once a month to offer Mass in Spanish.

From the pulpit, Danaher’s voice echoed through the church.

“The vast, vast majority of humanity has already died,” he said in Spanish, imploring the worshippers to appreciate the brief gift of life. “We are in the minority here.”

“What a joy it is for us to be part of the human race,” he went on.

As he preached, a toddler in a pink-and-purple puffer jacket ran up and down the center aisle, waving at the quiet rows of people. Parents passed fussy babies back and forth. In the last row, a teenager in a hoodie scrolled TikTok.

When it was over, Danaher instructed the parishioners to head outside for the procession.

“Se pueden ir en paz,” he said, meaning, “You may go in peace.”

The crowd of 100 or so people slowly filed out of the church and into the night, where a group of students waited, some carrying large papier-mâché renditions of the painted sugar skulls used as decorations on the Day of the Dead. Others held on their shoulders a sculpture of La Catrina, an elaborately dressed female skeleton that is another icon of the Mexican holiday.

Middlebury theater professor Olga Sanchez Saltveit, one of the event’s organizers, kicked things off. She was dressed all in black, with her face painted to resemble a skeleton; on her head she wore a crown of black roses. She thanked people for “remembering our dear departed dead, who remain in our hearts.” Father Danaher blessed the group’s journey and then ushered them along.

“¡Vamos!” he said to the crowd in Spanish. “Let’s go.”

The students led the crowd across the street to campus as a violinist played “Cielito Lindo,” a cheerful Mexican folk song.

Dried leaves crunched underfoot as the group reached the first stop, where half a dozen ofrendas, or altars with offerings, were assembled under white tents. At one altar, framed photographs of dogs and cats honored departed furry friends. At another, rolls of Goya Maria Cookies and bottles of Jarritos soda were arranged alongside yellow marigolds, whose strong scent is believed to help guide souls toward the world of the living.

“Banana!” a young boy said, reaching across one of the altars for a piece of fruit.

“We don’t touch,” his mom said in Spanish. “That’s for the deceased. We don’t touch; we look.”

Nearby, Jesús Rodríguez Silván, 30, pushed his 1-year-old son through the procession in a stroller. His partner, Adela del Carmen Malla Córdova, 31, walked alongside them. The couple, who work on a nearby dairy farm, have been coming to the event for four years. Back home in Tabasco, in southeast Mexico, they would have spent the night at the cemetery with relatives, eating tamales and sharing memories of the dead, Malla Cordova said.

“The most important thing is that we keep our family members who have passed away in our mind,” she said in Spanish.

The group continued on, following the musicians toward a small amphitheater with tiered cement benches.

They settled in, with kids on laps, for the next show: a theatrical rendition of La Llorona, the weeping woman. Alternating between English and Spanish, six students acted out the popular folktale about a beautiful woman who, in a fit of rage, drowned her children after her husband abandoned her for another woman. As legend has it, regret consumed her and she died of sorrow, her spirit cursed to haunt riverbanks for eternity.

The students brought the story to life with a dramatic flair that infused the sad tale with a touch of humor, strutting across the stage and causing ripples of laughter through the crowd. They finished with a word of warning to the children in attendance.

“So beware, when it gets dark, get inside the house! Many children throughout the years have been chased by the weeping woman. And some have even been caught!”

As the actors wailed a final spooky cry, the crowd whooped and clapped in appreciation.

The procession continued, gathering around a makeshift stage, where dancers in traditional long skirts and tap shoes performed several dances. At nearby tennis courts, another group of dancers in skeleton suits and painted faces performed an interpretive dance, jumping and twirling for observers who watched through the fence.

For the night’s final act, the congregants entered the campus chapel, which was dark except for an illuminated altar topped with an image of La Virgen de Guadalupe. Attendees slid into the creaking wooden pews.

Speaking into a microphone at the front of the room, Sanchez Saltveit invited the group to join her in a ritual of remembrance.

“We are here remembering our dead,” she said. “And one way to bring them into the space and bring them forward is just to speak their name.”

She began by saying her grandmother’s name aloud: “Blanca Gomez.”

“¡Que viva!” the crowd responded in unison, which roughly translates to, “May they live on.”

Names began to ring out in the dark chapel.

Rosario. Sarah. Ana Maria. David. Luis Alberto.

Each one was followed by a resounding “Que viva.”

After several minutes, the room fell quiet.

“And for everyone we haven’t mentioned but we hold in our hearts?” Sanchez Saltveit said.

“¡Que viva!” came the final reply. The group broke into applause.

At the front of the room, note cards and pens were laid out on tables for people who wished to add to the chapel’s community altar. Pushing his son’s stroller, Rodríguez Silván approached and grabbed a pen and paper. He took a seat in the front pew, bowed his head and filled a note card with the names of deceased relatives — aunts and uncles, great-grandparents.

He stood and placed their names among the flowers. ➆

The original print version of this article was headlined “Ritual of Remembrance | At a Day of the Dead event in Middlebury, attendees remember and commune with their ancestors”

This article appears in November 4 • 2026.

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