Twelve Days of Christmas Images, #6

While I am a South Sider, I was born and spent the first ten and half years of my life in Chicago's Bucktown neighborhood. A good portion of those ten and a half years was spent on my knees in the breathtaking edifice pictured at the right, St. Hedwig Church, and getting scolded or clucked at or smacked by the nun in whose charge I had been placed at the time. Mass was a six day a week event, and I still don't know how they overlooked that we didn't show up on Saturdays.

While there were holy days and processesions and celebrations of various kinds throughout the year, Christmas was obviously the big day, and no part of the big day was grander than midnight mass.

We usually went to midnight mass, and it was a tactical operation in order to get the full impact. The Wigilia dinner and the gifts and partying had to be brought to a conclusion by about 10:30 so that we could make the two and a half block trek to church. We usually took the car, and it was critical to get there on time to get the good parking spot in the funeral home parking lot across the street from the church and then get the good seats. The cavernous church building was a challenge to heat, and when we'd arrive it was usually not much warmer than outside. There we'd sit, the minutes passing like hours, the pews steadily filling until eventually it was standing room only. The assembled crowd spoke only in whispers, probably in fear that some rogue nuns would swoop in and deliver a well timed smack should anyone speak too loudly.

Finally, at precisely 11:30 (as precise as it could be in the analog world in which we lived), someone in the choir loft would loudly clear his throat, bringing total and absolute silence to the congregation for a few seconds, anticipating the beginning of the choir's performance. The silence was split by the peal of a lone trumpeter, sounding the ten notes that comprised the triumphant beginning, one time, joined by a second trumpet on the repeat, a sound that gave young me such a rush, I can feel it all these years later. The announcement was followed by the organ's first chords, setting the tune for the choir's first song. There followed thirty minutes of mostly Polish language Christmas songs, the koledy, so reverent, ranging from the heart rending, ever so gently Lulaje Jezuniu (Lullaby to Jesus) to the sing-song Pójdźmy Wszyscy do Stajenki (Let Us All Go to the Stable), all songs that I could sing even though I had absolutely no idea what the words meant. There were special handouts for the congregation of song sheets, Polish lyrics on one side, English language on the other. The congregation would sing, like you can't imagine white folks singing, a great thing as I think of it now, annoying to me then because I wanted to listen to the choir and not a bunch of amateurs. Some of the songs used the trumpets and violinists to accompany the choir and the organ. It was always my favorite when Miss Annette, the organist, would sing solo sections, as she had a clear, rich, beautiful and strong voice that to my young ears was as near as I would ever be to hearing the sound of an angel.

At midnight, the choir would sing something to begin the mass, and the best part (for me) of the evening was done.

I've been to many midnight mass celebration since--not many in recent years-
-but none ever has matched the magic of those nights from many years ago, with everyone so reverent, so happy, so in the moment of Christmas.