September 1

September 1 has long had a resonance for me, at least since I was a sophomore in college, when I decided that I was going to stick to keeping a diary, by God (“journal” in those days, since I thought “diary” was a girlish word -- a callow notion common to 19-year-olds). So on September 1, 1980, a full quarter of a century ago, I was newly ensconced in my little room in East Hall, and started writing: “Slept till 8:20 am...”

I won’t transcribe the rest of that day; it isn’t all that interesting, just a record of classes attended, people I saw, and things I read. But I was fairly good at keeping that diary. I filled 378 pages in a college-ruled spiral notebook, ending on April 20, 1981, after which I stared another spiral volume. Of course, I haven’t been consistent as all that over the years, but diaries, letters and now web logs have all accumulated with some regularity. I’m glad to have them.

Also around September 1 every year since 2000 -- and, as it happens, on September 1 this year, that is today -- I’ve attended an industrial real estate trade show near O’Hare. It always ends in the mid-afternoon, too late to return to the office (when I had an office), but too early to go home. So every year I’ve spent an hour or so visiting a storied Chicago-area cemetery not too far away, except for the year I visited a forest preserve that had a graveyard with exactly one grave: an old half-Indian, half-pioneer who lived near the future site of the airport before such a thing could even be imagined, and whose stone was worn and neglected.

Last year I visited the Bohemian National Cemetery, an enormous necropolis on the Northwest Side of Chicago, full of Czech names such as Marek, Navek, Proorny, Stetka (I took notes) as you’d expect, but now open to anyone -- as the head cremator, Bob, told me. There I was, ambling along in the vicinity of the crematorium. Actually, I didn’t know that’s what it was, but I could see it was a splendid domed structure, which I later learned was a Renaissance Revival style, dating from before World War I: a sturdy-looking exterior. A fellow in overalls with a patch that said Bob asked me if I was looking for anyone in particular. I said no, and then he asked me if I’d like to see the inside. So he opened the place up for me. Wow. The stained glass and the occasional frescoes were especially fetching, fit for any church of old Europe, and, just like a church, it had a place for an altar, plus pews.

Since it was meant for old Europeans, I suppose the style made sense. Bob told me that the coffin is placed on a platform that’s then raised to the level of the “altar space,” after which the funeral proceeds, with the mourners in the pews. When it’s over, the dearly departed takes one last trip, via this slow, dedicated elevator, down to where the actual burning takes place (Bob didn’t offer to show me that, and I didn’t ask).

Recently, he said, he’d witnessed an enormous funeral for an Indian woman who owned a number of successful restaurants in the Indian neighborhood along Devon Ave., not too far from Bohemian National. “You never seen so many flowers,” he said. “They were piled everywhere, big bouquets, like at a mobster’s funeral.” He went on to tell me that it was also the most colorful funeral he’d ever seen, because of all the saris.

The woman’s ashes, he thought, went back to India, perhaps (I thought) for disposition in the Ganges, though my knowledge of Indian funerary customs is pretty scant. Other people put the ashes in the building’s columbarium, composed of glass-in niches along the entranceway to the chapel. Bob said that most of the niches were taken, though a few at the top were still for sale. Some of them had urns and nothing else, but others were decorated with photos of the deceased, which tended to be black-and-whites or even sepias of stern-looking, formally dressed immigrants.

This year I didn’t have quite that kind of experience, but I did make it to a cemetery I’ve long wanted to visit, Woodlawn, which includes Showmen’s Rest. More on that tomorrow.