(Originally published in the September/October 1991 edition of Deadwood Magazine.)

 Growing up on an isolated homestead in western South Dakota during the dry 1930s did not present a very exciting lifestyle. Ranch chores, trapping skunks for pelts, and catching gophers for the state bounty was not very exciting for a boy who, like most boys, dreamed of travel and derring-do in the far reaches of the world.

            The dreary life was occasionally livened by the funeral of a local grizzled rancher or his workworn wife.

             “Let’s go. We’re going to bury him.”

  Funerals tended to be practical affairs. A local preacher or articulate neighbor said a few words about the sterling qualities of the deceased, the casket was lowered, and everyone gathered at the local hall for sandwiches prepared by neighbor ladies. The sandwiches leaned toward chicken salad and were adequate, but nothing to write home about, or to leave home for. After the food, everyone went home to continue the interrupted jobs of haying, fencing or whatever.

            My rather bleak view of funerals was modified after I matured. Returning from service in World War II, I met the young woman I later married. Although we grew up in the same rural area, her stories of funerals she attended as a child showed that the most routine activities are not always routine.

            Carol’s mother played the piano and organ at many local funerals and my wife, an only child, attended the funerals, whether she wanted to or not.

            Death does not take a holiday. The funerals Carol remembers most vividly were in the bitter cold of South Dakota winters or the sweltering summer heat. Winter funeral services in the local frame church building were inadequately heated by a small stove in the corner. Heavy coats, overshoes and mittens were worn by all attendees, including the minister.

            At one of these icy farewells, the hell-fire and brimstone minister held his frigid audience captive with arm-waving and loud thunder, then his voice would sink to dramatic lows while his frosty breath made white clouds. The little black-clad widow finally had enough of the interminable haranguing. She stood up, tapped the nearest pallbearer on the shoulder and said, “Let’s go, we’re going to bury him.”

            A sigh of relief must have greeted this sensible decision. As the casket was carried from the church, the minister, still preaching, followed at the tail end of the procession with heavy overcoat collar turned up and high, unbuckled red overshoes flapping.

            At summer funerals, snow and cold was exchanged for wind-blown dust and sweltering heat. The summer funeral that stands out in my wife’s memory was one that tugged at the heartstrings.

            A teenage boy, the only son of a homesteader, drowned in a stock-water reservoir. The funeral was at the same church, with the same spellbinder of a minister who officiated at the winter funeral. Windows remained closed because space between window and screen was alive with yellow wasps.

The minister launched into his tear-jerking recital of the terrible loss of an only child. The bereaved mother, who had grown up in the south and moved west to homestead, chewed tobacco. As the lengthy sermon progressed she needed to spit. Flinging open the nearest window, she expectorated through the screen, liberating herds of wasps into the church, most of them gravitating toward the podium.

Flailing away at the wasps with his prayer book, the minister bravely continued with his inspired words. The organist played a ragged rendition of “The Old Rugged Cross” with one hand while the other hand, holding sheet music, vigorously warded off circling wasps. Kids who had been stung, or anticipated being stung, began to squall and were hustled outside by flustered mothers.

            That funeral also left a lasting impression on a perspiring nine-year-old child.

            Stories of funerals are vignettes of rural life 50 to 60 years ago in western South Dakota. The people involved were neighbors, acquaintances and friends – and western South Dakota was built by people such as these.