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

Funeral One – The Big Guy Politician

I sing for dead people. I’ve been singing in churches since I was a teenager, which means I lost track of the body count years ago. Funerals, most for elderly strangers, are not as bad a gig as you might think. Wedding ceremonies involve a lot more pressure from exhausted brides, mothers of brides and wedding planners than funerals do, as the guest of honor never complains. Dealing with people who are recovering from the immediate shock of a loved one’s passing and who now must deal with the pressing problem of memorializing and laying someone to rest is strangely easier. Grieving kin seem to need the music and the sound of a human voice whereas happy couples appear to use the music more as an accessory, like flowers and cake decorations.

St. Stanislaus Kostka church in Chicago, founded in 1867 and built from 1871-1881 is the mother of all Polish Chicago churches. Built in Polish Cathedral style, and at one time, the largest parish in the United States, this one house of worship spawned a host of churches, equal in scale, within blocks of each other. Holy Trinity, St. John Cantius, and St. Mary of the Angels are magnificent sanctuaries of marble and stained glass erected by poor immigrants who fled the starvation and occupation of their homeland. All of them are visible from the Kennedy Expressway that runs across the city. The development of the highway was begun in the 1950’s. It was supposed to go right through St. Stanislaus Kostka. Former Congressman Dan Rostenkowski, the politician who both supported the construction of the road and caused it to curve around the building of his baptism is being buried today, a Tuesday in August.

I brush past the Mayor and his brother milling about in the crowd on the steps outside of the church doors and climb two flights up the aged, wooden staircase to the upper loft that contains the organ. Although it has been a brutally hot summer this year, it is a cool day in the mid 70’s. Which is great, because there’s no such thing as air-conditioning in this Old Lord’s House. A chorus of twelve voices borrowed from a nearby parish greets me. Catherine, a beautiful Irish singer, famous around town, tosses a cheery wave my way when she arrives a few minutes later. She was placed in charge of organizing musicians and vocalists for the Mass. I am here to sing one song in Polish, “Serdeczna Matko” (Beloved Mother) or, as my own mom likes to call it, “The Dead Mother song”. It works at funerals for either gender.

As a string quartet launches into the graceful melody of “Sheep Shall Safely Graze”, the choir is chatting and peering over the balcony rail to view the assembly below. It’s pretty crowded, way down there in the nave, perhaps a thousand people. I know that one of the senators from Illinois is in attendance plus, current and former politicians from other states. Our ex-Congressman was a Big Guy, both in stature and power. Tainted by minor charges and a brief prison sentence, columnist Mike Royko wrote “Nobody should be taking pleasure from Rostenkowski’s misfortune. Not unless you have never, ever broken even a minor law and gotten away with it, fudged a bit on your taxes or violated any of the Ten Commandments.” President Clinton pardoned him and the tributes to him are heartfelt and stirring. He was a son, a brother, a daddy. If you have ever taken a CTA train to O’Hare Airport or driven on post-S-curve Lake Shore Drive, you have benefitted from the Big Guy’s works.

The choristers sing well, far-removed as they are from the proceedings of the Mass. It’s dark up here by the ceiling, above the daylight coming through the stained glass windows. We must be at least a half a football field away from the casket draped in white in front of the sixteen (count ‘em) priests who are officiating at the altar. There are microphones in front of the choral singers, but I have to move up to the edge of the balcony for my song so that the organist and I can see each other. As soon as I let the first un-amplified note leave my lips, I think, “Uh-Oh, This is a mistake”. I’m not loud enough, two stories up, over this full congregation. Luckily, the organist is also surprised by the choices he made and he changes the stops that he is using. Suddenly, my voice is there, pouring over the rail, as I take everything I have ever learned about vocal technique and attempt to sound effortless, po Polsku, “Dear Mother, protect us, open your heart and plead our case to your Son, the Truly Big Guy”.

When it’s finished, I rejoin the choir to sing the closing song, “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”. The group is blasting away, so loudly I can’t hear myself and the organist is letting the folks below know what a pipe organ is all about. Pleasant “goodbyes” and “beautiful singing” compliments follow me back out onto the sidewalk. I have not taken an emotional hit this morning. Mostly, I feel a lingering sadness that a way of life for the Big Guy and his friends, his city, his neighborhood, is over. While I’m not a fan of corruption, I think it must have been exciting to say “Let’s move Lake Shore Drive!”, or “We need a train to the airport!” and then to truly make those useful things happen.

My car is parked one block away in the Holy Trinity lot (I’m not kidding, these churches are so close to one another). This morning’s earnings are going towards new backpacks and school gym shoes. Two little girls at home are about to jump all over me, asking for kisses, lunch, and their trip to the store.

(Coming Soon: Chapter Two - The Irish Mother)