JPG Magazine: Stories: Photo Essay: A more perfect union

A more perfect union

By Robert Josiah Bingaman

7 June 2007

Last weekend I visited a place in Northwestern South Dakota that few people know of. The few that do know of the place tend to live there, in Perkins County, where rain is prayed for and cattle ranching is life. At the Wesleyan church in Prairie City the pastor stood before a small Sunday-morning crowd and began his message with a simple reminder. "Folks, it isn't just that the rest of America doesn't care about what we think, see, they don't even know we're here."

It's true. We know about South Dakota, and we figure there's something up there, between the Black Hills and Wyoming, but most of us haven't the slightest idea of who these bold, vibrant people are. If they are known at all, they're known for their straightforward ease, for their kindness, and for their iron will. They are people I don't visit as often as I'd like, but they are mine, and I feel I know them well.

The story I wish to tell is of a wedding that wasn't even scheduled until a few weeks before the date. A nineteen-year-old cousin of mine was courted efficiently by a kind, caring young man with a toothy smile and a love for the ranch life that he's destined for. They met earlier in the year, and on Valentine's Day they were engaged. Their wedding would be outside, beneath the Slim Buttes of the South Dakota plain, on the first Sunday in June. It was widely accepted that the Lord's Day was the finest, most convenient day to be wed.

The couple didn't send invitations. Instead they personally called nearly five-hundred people, almost all of whom were expected to attend, and did. It would be the county's largest gathering in most young memories, a broad assortment of ranchers, ranch-hands, and rancher's wives. The acreage spoken for on that narrow lawn was unimaginable. Some were from states away, and among those present it was obvious that a significant portion of the region was well represented in terms of land, there beside the ditch of State Highway 79. According to the bride's father, a backup plan for rain was in place, but the reality of a ten-year-old drought left him with a unique resolve. "We're not backing up," he said the day before the wedding, "she'll get married at the Buttes, rain or not."

Now that kind of determination might be found in the culture I am a part of, in the cities and suburbs of America, but never before have I seen an entire assembly of stubborn, white-knuckled women, children, and men gathered together with such a simple purpose: to witness the vows of marriage, no matter how wet. Young and old, umbrella-clad or not, the vast majority sat in their chairs through a message that was not shortened, and hymns that included each verse. The crowd arrived for the ceremony beneath a blue sky, but clouds threatened from the beginning. By the time we had the bride and her groom before us, everyone there was plainly wet. Cousins distanced by space and years sat huddled and hugging under one umbrella, sharing a smile. The rain brought no tears of sympathy from the audience, nor could it manage to dampen any spirits. These people had grown accustomed to thanking God for such showers, and if anything, the service was lengthened for that reason. If tears fell, as I'm sure they did, they were for joy, and hidden by the drops that watered all cheeks alike.

When the two were proclaimed to be one, no one rushed for the aisles or their trucks. They applauded and stood patient, sure that the sun would dry them soon enough. By the time dinner was served, and the pies were retrieved from the vehicles, we all sat beneath an evening sun that soaked our faces with a warmth that spoke softly of what most people miss for a lack of a waiting. Maybe we hadn't earned this unspeakable peace, but it was worth staying for.

Such a strong shared will, such common and abiding faith is something I rarely find. But in this place, it is as old as my family's line, at least. It has always been there, as it always will be. There are fewer people in Perkins County than there used to be. The church crowds are smaller, the ranches are bigger, and the distance from one soul to another is greater than ever before. Yet these people are well aware of who they are, and what they mean to be. The people are the product and producers of America, be that a notion or a way of life. Most of us don't care about what they think, most of us don't even know they're there. Nobody important may ever know the newlyweds' names, long as they both shall live, and that's the way they like it. It is their isolation, their indifference to the ways we city folk have become accustomed to that leaves me certain that I've never witnessed a more perfect, blessed Union than the one that was quietly born beneath a South Dakota rain.