One Last Dance

One Last Dime 

Charles Charlie Zeller (12-17-2019 burial at Bethel Church)

Charlie Fitzgerald Zeller was laid to rest today.

A small procession of trucks and SUVs paraded in order down the snowy gravel road. Usually, dust swirls behind each vehicle on the 13-mile hard-packed trek from the highway. But today, the tires threw wet, dirty snow behind the cars. Temperatures hovered just below freezing. 

Charlie’s body is boxed up beneath a frozen swag of assorted, colorful blooms that had no place in this cold. But, of course, Charlie hadn’t wanted to be left out in the cold either. Nor did his arriving family.

The procession slowly rounded the turn at our prairie church. 

The gate into the cemetery was swung open, wedged tight in a frozen chunk of snow. Slowly, the black Hearst made its way to the rear of the cemetery, passing headstones of prairie homesteaders, ancestor’s voices long silenced against the constant wind. 

Several of the cars pulled up and parked in front of the church. Folks huddled beneath warm winter jackets, hoods, and scarves. The 10 MPH wind was mild today, but the cold bites the exposed skin, which is painful for those unaccustomed to the freeze. It chills to the bone within minutes. 

These folks were not from around here, driving down our frozen roads in fancy rigs. Trucks, which only yesterday, were clean and shiny but now mud-splattered in winter slush. Traveling far from home, the vehicles’ plates came from a different December climate — New Mexico. Texas. California. Only a few traveled from nearby Wyoming.  

Charlie’s widow was among the last to pull up to the lot. Her tall, pearly-white truck pulled up in front of the church’s steps, arriving unseasonably clean of mud and snow. She climbed down from her passenger’s perch of ivory leather. 

Sleek, black crocodile cowboy boots set down onto the ice-covered prairie grass. Her special-occasion boots were pointed and silver-tipped. They barely peeked out beneath matching black slacks. Around her tiny waist wrapped a silver-adorned leather belt inlaid with antique blue-green turquoise. 

Black fox fur enveloped the widow’s petite shape. Silver-gray hair, perfectly coiffed, framed her porcelain face. She looked as fragile as a glass doll. Oversized dark sunglasses hid her emotions. 

Charlie’s widow was a woman of elegance balanced with the gentry of a fine equestrian. The widow, nearly 80 years old, held herself with grace. She would be comfortable in any setting. Yet, here she was, 20 miles from a town in either direction, on an ice-packed gravel road of Western Nebraska, to lay her husband of 60-plus years to rest. Cowboy Charlie sure was lucky to have found her. 

At the graveside, the two funeral attendants laid out a plastic grass carpet and set out white folding chairs with their backs against the prairie breeze. Charlie’s family and friends slowly walked toward the graveside while others gathered inside the little Bethel Church. Fifteen minutes remained before the service -12:45 PM; it was too cold to wait outdoors. Inside, they waited for the pastor to arrive.

I welcomed the mourners inside and shared Bethel Church’s history and her original building construction. I had come down to open the Cemetery gates and the church’s doors so Charlie’s visitors could gather out of the bitter cold. 

Earlier this week, the funeral home from nearby Lusk, Wyoming, had notified me that Charlie Zeller’s wish was to be buried here at the Bethel Cemetery in Whitney, Nebraska. I knew of the Zeller family plot. It has been lovingly visited and tended to many times over the years. Charlie’s father and mother were buried there, too, and a few others. So, it is fitting that Charlie’s wife would make this possible for her husband. 

 There was no obituary in the paper to announce Charlie’s achievements—nothing about his adventures on the Nebraska prairie or his life in Wyoming. No words were written about his family or friends. 

All I found were the following:

“Pier Funeral Home Obituary

Charles was born on October 19, 1937, and passed away on Wednesday, December 11, 2019. ” **LUSK Herald** – Funeral services for Charles F. Zeller, 82, are at 2 p.m. Monday, December 16, 2019, at the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints in Lusk.Mr. Zeller passed away at his home on Wednesday, December 11, 2019. Burial will 1 p.m. on Tuesday, December 17, at Bethel Cemetery in Whitney, Neb.Mr. Zeller served in the United States Marine Corps. He is survived locally by his wife, Sharron (Clarke) Zeller.Pier Funeral Home of Lusk is in charge of arrangements.”

I held back at the church, viewing the service from the window. It was prompt and swift; by 1:15 PM, the pastor’s words were spoken, his Bible closed, and Charlie’s burnished, shiny, dark brown casket lowered into the ground. Charlie’s family slowly walked back to the ice-covered steps of the church. They looked cold and weary. For a few, their long drive across several states began only a few days before. Nevertheless, they managed to push through a blizzard to get to Charlie’s service today. 

Bethel Church had not seen anyone inside her doors for months. So, it seemed fitting that she could now be open to embracing this grieving family. Calmness emitted from her walls, soothing the tired folks from their travels and sorrow. These guests were inside her world long enough for pictures to be taken. Finally, a few smiles appeared as they sorted through their loss — the memories of a well-loved man. 

Soon after, all the vehicles were back on the road. Their red tail lights quickly lost to the distance traveled. I watched their boxy rigs disappear beyond the rise. Finally, I began to close things down in the church. Straighten the chairs and put away a few items that had been out for visitors to peruse. 

As I re-draped the dust cloth over the old piano, I heard boot steps ascending the cement stairs. 

“Anybody home?” came from outside just as the door opened.

It was Dwain. 

“Hey, where is everyone? I thought Charlie’s funeral’s today.”

“Yes, it was, but it’s finished. You just missed everybody,” I answered. “It started at 1 p.m.” 

Dwain looked dearly sorry to have missed the service. He was dressed to the ‘cowboy nines’ for the event. He had shined his boots, put on a black and white-plaid western shirt with blue-pearly snaps, and a center crease pressed down the front legs of his faded blue jeans. His black Stetson brushed clean and tipped just over his brow. 

“Well, I’ll be danged!” he said. “I guess I best be going home.”

“How’d you know, Charlie?” I blurted out as he turned toward the door. 

Dwain spun around. “Well, He and I used to play together. He was my pick’n partner.”

“When I first came to the area, I was looking for someone I could sing with. Charlie played the fiddle. He asked me if I knew the words to “Little Ole Dime” by Jim Reeves. And I said, ‘I think I can remember.’ And Charlie said, ‘Good, ’cause that’s the song we’re gonna do.’ 

Well, I weren’t so sure I could remember the words, but as soon as Charlie started pickin’, I started singin’. And we become partners ever since.” 

The memory took Dwain to another time and place for a moment. 

“Oh, Dwain, I am so sorry that he is gone.” was all I could muster. I then realized Charlie was here in the church with us. He stood right next to me. 

“Tell him to sit down,” Charlie said.

I sat at the long picnic table at the church’s rear.  

“Have a seat, Dwain,” I said.

Dwain took the seat across from me. Charlie sat down to my right.

 “Play the song,” Charlie whispered in my ear. 

“Hey, Dwain,” I said. “What was the name of that song again?”

“Little Ole Dime,” 

“Play the song,” Charlie nudged me again. I looked it up on my cell phone. 

Found it.  

The music started. 

“Little ole dime
You’re the last of a pocket full
I put all the others in this telephone
I’ve called all over town for a lost love
Let this last number be 
The right one”

Dwain started singing just beneath his breath. He struggled at first as his portable oxygen pump forced in shots of air.

Still sitting beside me, Charlie began picking on his guitar strings in time to Jim Reeves’s voice over my cell phone.

Dwain’s boot began tapping on the plank floor beneath us. His finger moved along with the beat. His voice was getting louder, more robust, as the lyrics were remembered.

“Little ole dime
You’re my last chance to find her
And I’m placing all my last hopes on you
Let me tell her I’ll always be waitin’
Just in case things don’t work out 
With someone new”

“Let’s dance to the song,” I suggested, pushing back my chair and standing up. I reached out my hand toward him. 

Oh, we can’t do that! This is a church,” he proclaimed. 

“Yes, we can,” I said. “Today, Bethel is our community center.”

“I haven’t danced in a while since my feet hurt so much.” he countered.

“Just you and me, Dwain. A dance and song in memory of Charlie.”

I watched Charlie help Dwain up out of his chair. 

Dwain put his left hand in my right hand. His right around my waist, my left around his. 

“Little ole dime
Plea-ease don’t disappoint me
I can’t call anymore
You’re my last dime
Tomorrow, she’ll be gone 
With her new love
And I’ve just got to talk to her 
One more time.”  

 Dwain sang louder now; he was on stage with Charlie, performing at one of the local granges, or maybe it was the

Legions’ Hall or at the Frontier Bar. He led me in a two-step. My feet tangled at first, but then, with Dwain’s sing’n, the music playing, and Charlie’s pick’n; the rhythm took over me.

“Little ole dime
As you leave my shakin’ fingers
I pray I’ll hear her answer the phone
The sound of her voice will ease my heartaches
Even though I know tomorrow, she’ll be gone.”

Dwain sang, and we glided across the oak floor of the church. These floors, laid down in 1883, had seen plenty of boots scratching across her planks; years of prairie silt and dirt carried in under leather soles had sanded the oak floorboards smooth. 

This afternoon, the dirt and mud beneath our shoes played another element of music as we twirled and stepped in time to memories of days long past. 

 “Little ole dime
Here you go after the others
If she answers or not, it’s still goodbye
I’m almost afraid to dial the number
If she isn’t there, I know I’m gonna cry.”

Charlie smiled. 

Dwain scooting us along in a two-step slide – dancing, singing, and picking to “Little Ole Dime.” A fitting memorial to the ‘best pick’n pardn’r’ ever. 

“Little ole dime
Plea-ease don’t disappoint me
I can’t call anymore
You’re my last dime
Tomorrow, she’ll be gone 
With her new love
And I’ve just got to talk to her one more time….”

 As the song came to a close, we stood there, in joyful silence. 

“Charlie is smiling right now,” I told Dwain. 

“You might be right on that!” he said, catching his breath. “I’m sure going to miss him,” he says. “But I’ll be following up soon.”

Then, looking upward, he said, “I’m right behind you, Charlie.”

Dwain threw on his heavy winter coat.

We shook hands as he bid goodbye. 

“Thank you for the song and the dance,” I said.

“Charlie would have liked to have been here,” he said contently. “It was a fitting farewell.” 

The icy cold wind blew harder, straight in through the door as Dwain pulled it open. He pulled his hat down over his forehead and held it tightly. Then, he headed out into the cold, closing the door tightly behind him. 

I turned around to grab my coat. 

 Charlie was still here. Smiling. 

“Thanks, Ma’am.” He said, with a tip of his chin. 

And then he was gone. 

END

Reference Links:

Jim Reeves

Jim Reeves’s Little Ole Dime 1963 YouTube