I Sing for Dead People - a Tale of Three Funerals -Chapter Two

Funeral Two – The Mother

The same Tuesday afternoon, I am in the school supplies aisle with my daughters comparing the merits of “Hello Kitty” backpacks to polka-dotted ones when my phone receives a call from Jimmy, the Irish guitarist. I sign on to sing at a service being held in a funeral home chapel for an elderly woman who was born in Ireland. The event on Friday will be like a Catholic Mass, but without the liturgy of the Eucharist. Jimmy gives me a list of songs, all are standard hymns or Celtic folk tunes re-written with religious lyrics. This should be straightforward, uncomplicated, a piece of cake.

As I dash out the back door on Friday, wearing the same black dress and necklace of pink and blue glass beads as I did on Tuesday, I hope that my husband will be able to manage all three of our children all day long. It would be great if I could go from the funeral home to my office at the not-for-profit performing arts company without having to turn around and go back home to pick up the 7-month-old baby boy who is my near-constant companion. An Irish proverb says, “Is é do mhac do mhac go bpósann sé ach is í d'iníon go bhfaighidh tú bás” (Your son is your son until he marries, but your daughter is your daughter until you die). I’ll have to wait a few decades and see about that.

I get the last space in the parking lot, making me nervous, because I might get blocked in and have to wait for the procession driving to the cemetery to exit before I can. It’s fifteen minutes before the service, no time to move the car. I grab a hymnal and some sheet music from my binder. The purple, zippered notebook contains my Greatest Hits of Funerals and a bizarre collection of programs from past ceremonies. I do not know why I keep the visages of these strangers who have passed on, constituting a Funeral Service Hall of Fame that is only visited by me. While I cannot remember the details of most of these solemnities, some of the more tragic deaths are easily recalled. The young man on spring break who had a scuba accident, the high school girl who argued with her dad, entered the garage and ended her life, the asthmatic teenager who suffered an attack in a horse barn, the burglary victim who was tied to a chair and beaten to death, the man who had a heart attack and died at his own brother’s funeral. I am relieved to know that this event is being held for an eighty-eight year old Irish Mother, her name was Ann.

I walk through a softly lit, wood-paneled hallway to the chapel at the rear of the business. The deep, rectangular room features several china cabinets housing Belleek porcelain and Waterford crystal, from when Waterford was still manufactured in Ireland. Tiny spotlights built into the cabinets highlight the details of this fine collection of objets d’art, and I can ignore the open casket at the other end of the room for a few moments as I contemplate ceramic Celtic harps and a large container that features the crests of Ireland’s counties. “Oh my”, I say to myself, “it IS a long way to Tipperary.”

Sigh, time for my entrance. The instrumentalists include the guitarist, Jimmy, Kathleen, a gorgeous woman and wonderful violinist, and John, a world-class musician on concertina and Irish wooden flute. They are seated on padded folding chairs just to the left of the bier supporting the Mother’s pall. Far more than a simple box, the wood in which the Mother’s remains will spend eternity looks like cherry, it glows with a deep, buffed luster, features carvings of Celtic designs, and has an interior encased in a stuffed, linen-colored cloth. The esteemed Mother lies in repose, holding a rosary. The interior lid of her final resting place has been embroidered, in Kelly Green on taupe, with the words of the Old Irish Blessing “And until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.” Beneath the wording, a portrait of the Mother, her husband and her daughter together, is perched. The photo looks rather recent, the parents are aged but have wonderful smiles, and the daughter is in her 60’s. The father is not present on this day; perhaps he has preceded his wife in death.

Jimmy and his guitar amp are directly in front of the floral pedestal, overflowing with lilies, mums, and roses, which abuts the casket. Somebody locates a chair for me and, as I am being introduced to the daughter of the deceased, places it in front of the corner of the coffin. I am allotted the awkward position of sitting practically in front of the Mother. My left arm can rest on the rail of the kneeler positioned so that the mourners can whisper a final prayer to their beloved. The Mother’s freshly coiffed head is lying just beyond my left shoulder.

Dead bodies do not freak me out. Although, I must point out that I have never seen one outside, in the wild, and have only viewed the ex-living in an embalmed state. When Chicago’s first black mayor, Harold Washington, passed away in 1987, my college beau confessed that he had never seen a dead person before. I could not believe it, “No great-great aunts? No great-grandparents?” “Nope, none,” said the beau. I replied, “he’s lying in state at City Hall all night long, we should pay our respects, let’s get on the ‘L’ and go downtown.” Off we went into the frigid November night to join a snaking line of Chicagoans who felt compelled to see the Mayor one more time. Throughout the long night, we shared hot chocolate offered to us by strangers who had thought to bring a thermos, and listened to Chicago stories. I saw Mayor Washington several times in life, I have a photo of me standing next to him while I am wearing a clown outfit (don’t ask), and this was a worthy task. Once inside City Hall, two lines, one on either side of the Mayor, shuffled slowly past him. I remember thinking, “He looks green”, and the beau got his first glimpse of a cadaver.

The Mother is not emerald in color, she is the odd shade of “deceased white people makeup”, complete with rouge, to make her look more life-like. Mourners are filing in, coming up front to see the daughter and kneel in momentary thought. The musicians begin playing prelude tunes and one of my favorite melodies, “In Carrickfergus” floats through the air. I hear the lyrics in my mind, “I wish I was in Carrickfergus, only for nights in Ballygrand. I would swim over the deepest ocean, the deepest ocean for my love to find.” By the second verse, I am making up my own words, as I continue to sit inches away from one teary-eyed friend of the family after another, “I wish I wasn’t sitting by this coffin, I’ll need more tissues, when can I go home?”

The priest is late, he is at another funeral at his church. The daughter comes over to ask our forgiveness and Jimmy reassures her that the musicians will continue to play. Another lovely air is called for, “Shebeg and Shemore”, and the carefully held together daughter lets go with a cascade of weeping. She rests her hands on the edge of the box and leans down over the Mother’s face, and says, “These tears are for you Mom, all these tears are for you, Mom, just for you.” Over and over again she repeats these lines, sobbing and gulping for air. The wave of her grief cannot be held back, there is nothing separating us, her anguish crashes into me, I feel her pain permeate my skin.

And now, I am crying, not for the Mother, but for the daughter who appears to be lost and alone in the world. Jimmy is playing the guitar and looking my way, concerned perhaps, that I won’t be able to sing when the time comes. I wipe my eyes and whisper haltingly, “I have to go get a drink of water.” “Sounds like a good idea,” he says, and I am off, in search of air that is not saturated with sorrow.

In the ladies lounge, I splash water on my cheeks. The priest has arrived and I must go back into the chapel. This young clergyman has been the pastor of the Mother’s home parish for six weeks. He is, as we say in Chicago, fresh off the LOT Polish Airlines plane. I sing the opening hymn, “On Eagle’s Wings”. It is a song that many Catholics love. Many singers I know would profess a different emotion about the tune. It’s not for me, anyway, it’s for the family that wants to hear it.

The young Polish Father speaks English very well, but he doesn’t quite get the rhythm of Midwestern English yet. Polish is a language without articles, causing the reverend to put too much emphasis on the word “the”, plus, he cannot make his tongue say the “th” in “the” and it comes out sounding like “duh”, “She had DUH faith. She had DUH baptism.” He also has a hard time with the nasal vowel “A”, as in “Ann”, the name of the honored Mother. He uses the short vowel, the way it is pronounced in Polish, “AHHnn believed AHHs we do, in GEE-sahs.” He is trying very hard to do right by the Mother, and the room is filled with the faithful flock of his new parish that has turned out to witness the homily. He points out that the Mother wore white to her baptism and is now covered in white. Looking over at the casket’s beige lining, he realizes that this is not true, and he is flustered for an instant. He rallies and goes on to assure the assembly that the Mother is now at home and enjoying a glorious life in Heaven.

The biggest musical moment of the morning comes as part of the final commendation, when we ask that choirs of angels lead the Mother into paradise. Of course, we will make this plea to the tune of “Danny Boy” (also known as “Londonderry Air”). The Irish trio lays down an introduction that is so haunting; the bereaved have tears in their eyes from the very first note. As I start to sing, the daughter opens her mouth and the sound of her lamentations is now accompanying the song. I can see her sitting right in front of me, I can’t look at her, and I gaze over the heads of the throng and settle upon a painting of a Grecian Urn. Which reminds me of “The Music Man”.

The good Catholics in the room are familiar with the church words for “Danny Boy” and some of them chime in, “May choirs of angels lead you into paradise, and may the martyrs come to welcome you.” As I head for the high note, the climax of the melody, the daughter wails even louder. I pray that the others singing will give up, and I attempt to give her the best F-sharp that I have ever sung.

The high note was good; a fresh box of tissues is passed around and after a quick closing song. It’s over and time for the mourners to take the Mother to her final resting place. Before they depart, the file past the body, leaving the musicians trapped at the end of an odd receiving line. Several friends of the Mother shake my hand and express gratitude for the music. The single African-American woman in the room takes my hands in hers and says “Phenomenal singing, you are so talented, thank you so much.” Her critique is the most meaningful to me. In my few experiences singing for African-American audiences, I have learned that, if they like your singing, they’ll let you know and, if they don’t like your singing, they’ll let you know. It’s difficult to voice a reply in these situations, “It was my pleasure” doesn’t cut it. I mumble something like, “Thank you, I tried.”

As the vocalist, it is easy to leave because I do not have to pack up an instrument or carry an amplifier. I head for the lobby, longing to move past this activity and go forward with my day. I am stopped by a petite, eighty-something woman with short gray hair and thick eyeglasses. She puts her arm in mine and tells me that the Mother was her good friend. She thought the music was fitting and well performed. As I am thanking her, she peers up at me through her lenses with her watery blue eyes and says, “My son died three years ago. He was fifty-seven. I know I’m supposed to but, I’ll never get over it.” “I’m sorry.” I say, “He must have been a wonderful man.” I walk towards the door with her and do the quick mental math calculation that informs me that I must live to be one hundred years old in order to see my own son turn fifty-seven.

Jimmy catches up to me on the front sidewalk. Summer heat and humidity returned with blazing sunlight. I tell him, “This one wins the Proximity Award for uncomfortable closeness.” He tells me a joke about musicians, because he always tells me jokes, and I laugh, because his jokes are always funny. “Hey, Susan, what’s the difference between a banjo and an onion?” (Pause) “No one cries when you cut up a banjo.”

I’m done with crying for today. Back in the car, I let the blast of AC from the dashboard dry my cheeks, wet from sadness, weather, and giggling. Calling home, I can hear that my son is not about to spend a day apart from me. In my living room, my husband hands the eager, squirming infant to me. I hold him close so that I can soak up his rays of joy, pat the fuzz he has for hair, and drink in the scent of his clean baby-ness. “Mmm, honey”, from the Burt’s Bees Buttermilk lotion that I put on his skin this morning.

I will probably not live to be one hundred years old. On this summer morning, I am grateful that my cherub and I are neither the adult child who has lost her mother nor the mother who has lost her adult child. Today is simple and special, for he is the baby and I am the Mother.