What a character!

Frow Where I Sit      "Putty in Her Hands"


Not many women I know harbor fantasies about embalming bodies or creating new faces shot out by a gang shooting. But when Monte attended a “botched” funeral, where the deceased’s face looked gray and plastic and the flowers were arranged so haphazardly, she made her decision. “I could do better than that!” She went back to school and changed careers from a typical woman’s role to her more interesting profession as a mortician.



Finding a job in the industry proved to be difficult. She took a position with a funeral home just opening its doors, catering to the services of anyone who could pay for their professional attention. Minorities were their dominant clients. Though Monte’s introduction to the profession sounds a bit dicey, she’s became an empathetic counselor to bereaved contacts telling them to “Let it go” and “Don’t harbor guilt”. She’s also became exceptionally adept with makeup: her artistry made easier with clients lying down, never fidgeting.



On call one weekend, the telephone rang in the middle of the night at her home. “Come get this body!” The call came from a “questionable” part of town just outside Chicago. She woke her husband, “Butch, you’ve got to come with me! I’m not going into that gang area alone at night!”



The Scandinavian from small town Minnesota and his blonde German wife proceeded to a darker part of town, where most street lights had been shot out, never to be replaced. Pulling up to a darkened apartment building, they spotted one unit ablaze with lights. While Butch remained outside, nervously guarding his van on the dark, littered street, Monte punched the third floor elevator button in the teeny-tiny, creaky elevator. Down a dark, narrow hall, she found a door open, her entrance expected. She hefted and strapped the body to a pallet, hoisted it upright and into the narrow hall, which could barely accommodate the wide, stretched-out body. Juggling her delivery to the elevator, she stuffed herself and the body into the tiny cage, descending to street level where Butch was surrounded by street people talking excitedly with their hands and loud voices.



“Hey, Mista C, wat YOU doin in these parts?”



“Jesse, is that you? Why are you here?”



Dis is my territory. I’m your man...I make sure your van is safe. Donja’ worry! Jesse’s in control.”



It’s all about connections in these parts of the city. Thank goodness, Jesse went to school where Butch was a well-liked administrator.



My mortician friend tells me, “This profession is run by men, but so many of the details need a woman’s touch. I work with the bodies, rearrange the plants and flower bouquets at most of the services and counsel the bereaved survivors. But I think it’s time for me to retire. Bodies are getting to be more than I can handle: they’re too big for me.”



A sense of humor has to be part of the job. Bodies became “putty in her hands”. She’s an artist, sculpting the blown-out faces into facsimiles of their photographs. Monte works hard to make faces and bodies presentable for those requiring open-casket services. She’s become quite proficient at mixing skin tones of brown and black as well as pink and beige.



Some people need to see the deceased in an open casket to have closure. A few folks need to be assured that the deceased is truly dead. Facing the lifeless body in a casket makes them feel safe. At one of her services, an emotionally-distraught woman couldn’t bear her loss; she crawled into the casket to be near her man.



At one of her first jobs, those attending the funeral were a well-dressed group: they wore hats, gloves and dressed in white garments according to the traditions of their culture. The music was loud, filled with rhythm and harmony. Monte cautioned me, “Never stand behind any large ladies. Someone’s likely to faint and fall on you!” Fainting is a common occurrence: a nurse or two are always in attendance at the funeral.



Police photographers often attend or wait outside to capture shots of mourners filing out of the service. Possibilities are huge that a notorious criminal might appear in the crowd. Photos are matched to “Wanted” posters on the walls at the sheriff’s office. Many mourners wear hats, perfect to shadow faces: hats prevent cops from getting a closer look at gang members attending the send-off of their leader.



What an interesting job my new friend chose. She had my undivided attention: her riveting tales reminded me of my early days at the Pope County jail where Daddy was the sheriff. Often I would scan the black and white WANTED posters on his bulletin board and enjoy the juicy stories of our jail guests.