Jacob Cryer, 72, is the last of a dying breed.

Despite a leg brace, a wooden cane and two hip replacements, each year on Nov. 1 Cryer ignores his ailing health and heads to Osey Cemetery, a small burial ground tucked away on hidden dirt road with no signs off Davis Avenue in Lacombe.

Like he’s done since he was 6, Cryer is keeping the tradition of La Toussaint alive. Also known as “Lights of the Dead” or “Lighting of the Graves,” Cryer and about 200 people will help clean graves, light hundreds of candles and spiritually reunite with loved ones who have passed.

Jacob Cryer

The day is similar to Mexico’s Dia de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead. And Lacombe is one of the only places in the country where the tradition, started in the 1880s by his Creole ancestors, exists.

“I’ve never missed one, and I don’t intend to start now,” Cryer said, sitting on a wooden chair outside his country home. “It’s our tradition.”

The tradition was launched in the 1880s when Choctaw Indians living in Lacombe lit ritual bonfires every November as beacons to guide ancestor spirits home. The Creole people, descendants of those Indians, eventually adopted the measure.

Now, other areas such as Slidell and Lafitte, and even Covington and Mandeville, perform similar rituals, but nothing like in Lacombe, where generations look forward to it every year, Cryer said. It’s a way of life.

And now he’s afraid it may be dying.

The area’s youth simply aren’t interested, although people like Cryer and his wife, Cynthia, have participated for more than 60 years each, since both were 6 years old, Cryer said.

“Young people just don’t care about doing it. It’s work. I have a hunch in 30 years this thing will be no more,” Cryer said. “But we’re going to do it as long as we can.”

Cryer pauses and shakes his head.

“After that, who knows,” he said.

Many, however, have faith. For generations families have turned up to see a priest bless the graves, then light candles and tell stories of kinfolk to kids and grandkids. Meanwhile, many, like Cryer, often sip on beer, whiskey or wine, and before long those tales of grandpa’s heroics turn tall, he said laughing.

That’s what the day is all about: laughs and family time, he said.

“Sometimes it’s the only time of the year you see you kin,” he said. “More than even on Christmas.”

On Monday, that was hard to believe. As Cryer limped around the Osey Cemetery, often leaning on his cane, he looked like the patriarchal grounds keeper.

Others milled about, preparing for Nov. 1, but they didn’t speak to Cryer until spoken to. They, like many others, know his entire family dating back four generations are buried there.

He finally stops walking and sits down a wooden chair with no back that he’s clutched in his hand for he past 20 minutes. Using his cane, he points out his great-great-grandparents, great-grandparents, grandparents, uncles, cousins and more all buried there, some on top of each other. He eventually pointed to his grandmother, Manuel Cryer. She was a slave. Cryer’s dad was the slave owner, he said.

Finally, others in the cemetery stop and say hi. One is Cryer’s wife’s best friend. Another grew up around the corner from Cryer. All know each other. All are family. And all are preparing for Nov. 1.

“The young people just don’t have that spark in them like we do,” said Joan Dubrey-Ducre, Cryer’s longtime friend whose family is also buried in the small cemetery. “We have it ingrained in us. They don’t, but I’m trying.”

Moments earlier Dubrey-Ducre’s grandson, Aaron Robertson, darted around the headstones, seemingly playing.

He wasn’t. Instead, he inspected what part of the headstone needed painted, how many flowers to buy and how much white sand to bring.

White sand, because it’s pure, has become a symbol of “Lighting of the Graves,” Cryer said. It’s poured on a grave every year to cleanse it. Sometimes, over decades, plots are so covered in sand, it’s piled 2 feet high, Cryer said.

With that, Cryer slowly stood up, pushing down on his cane for leverage and started to walk off. He hugs Dubrey-Ducre again and headed for the exit.

On his way out he passes a can of opened white paint. Somebody earlier had jumpstarted the ceremony and started to repaint a grave.

Then he got more optimistic. Although he’s “disappointed” his own grandchildren aren’t interested in keeping the tradition alive, others, he hopes, will.

Then back at his house, less than a mile away, he said, “They’ll be a few of us left. They’ll maintain it. I’m sure it won’t be as big as before, but it will be there.”