Ashes to Ashes
Entropy increases over time. So posits the Second Law of Thermodynamics. Without any other force exerted on them, things will eventually disintegrate. This applies to systems, to organisms like you and me… and to Singing Towers.
High on the crest of Omaha’s Westlawn-Hillcrest cemetery stands a monument that is a regrettably silent proof of what I would call “evitable decay.” It has stood on this crest for almost a century, witness to the interment and hidden decay of thousands of our city’s departed loved ones. When the “Singing Tower” was built in 1931 by prominent Omaha architect Frederick A. Henninger and his son – inspired by a similar tower built a few years prior in Florida – apparently it produced music of some kind, either by bells/chimes (which would make the tower a campanile/carillon) or by some kind of electronic amplification.
On a recent visit to Westlawn-Hillcrest, the towering edifice seemed to be experiencing the same ravages of time and decay as all the good folks occupying the graves around it. The tower’s exterior stonework is crumbling in places, and the interior – exposed through a barred but unprotected window opening – revealed a set of rotting wooden stairs and a confused array of rusting, antiquated electronic components. One wonders at what point in the past century the decision was made to abandon the upkeep of this once-grandiose monument. And, one wonders at what point in the future the tower will finally topple due to its continued neglect.
There’s a part of me that is perfectly fine with the aesthetics and the evocativeness of crumbling edifices. Who doesn’t love the melancholy romance of strolling among ancient ruins and imagining their storied past? And if you venture into a cemetery for a stroll, you accept the reality of death and decay – it’s quite literally all around you. The weathered, time-worn stones in a cemetery are just one more reminder of the inevitability of disintegration and decay in our fallen world. And no matter how hard we may fight against it, the dark and gaping oblivion will eventually swallow us all. The Singing Tower at Westlawn-Hillcrest will – like everything else in time – eventually be reduced to dust. A slow, evocative disintegration is nice to imagine; the more likely scenario is that bulldozers will bring down the tower as soon as the corporation that owns the cemetery judges it to be a liability more than an asset.
But just as one part of me finds odd solace in the serene acceptance of crumbling edifices, there’s another part of me that shudders at the notion of letting the Singing Tower succumb to neglect. It’s beautiful and cool and unique. It was built by a prominent Omaha architect. It’s survived almost a hundred cold Nebraska winters. It’s witnessed thousands of burials and provided comfort and serenity to generations of folks who have visited Westlawn-Hillcrest cemetery.
I don’t have a loved one buried there; but if I did, I’d be kind of sad to think that the folks entrusted with its “perpetual care” were allowing things to fall apart. I’m not likely to choose Westlawn-Hillcrest for my final resting place; but if I were considering that, I’d maybe wonder whether my mortal remains would be cared for any better than the Singing Tower. And I’m not a time-traveler; but if I were, I’d like to go back in time to ask the folks who built the Singing Tower how long they thought it would stand (and sing) — and I’d like to go forward in time to ask future generations how they felt about our stewardship of what was entrusted to us. Omaha hasn’t always had the best track record when it comes to saving and preserving things for future generations. But it doesn’t have to be that way.
I don’t know a ton about the Singing Tower. I don’t know whether there are any plans to preserve it. I don’t know if it’s worth saving. I don’t know if it will ever sing again. I sure hope the answer to at least one of those uncertainties is a resounding “yes.”
But I do know that when I walk by it and consider its fate — and consider my own fate — I know that decay may be inevitable… but in the meantime, neglect and indifference are a choice. Look, we’re all gonna die. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t take care of business while we’re still alive and kicking. A tower that sings — even when situated amongst the dead — is a monument to living… and to what marvelous things we’re capable of when we care enough to do them.
