The 2010 census shows the population of Merriman, Nebraska at 128 souls. All of them, I think, turned out for my daughter’s wedding to a local rancher a few years ago.
The town itself was established, as many were in that wide-open part of the country, as a bustling railhead where cattlemen shipped their cows to market. When the trains vanished a few years back, the town shrank to its present size and has lingered there ever since. The highway that goes through the town is paved. The streets are not.
My daughter’s wedding was a study in contrasts. Nothing about it fit the surroundings. The women wore floor-length formals. The men were decked out not just in tuxedos, but full livery and tails.
We parked our cars at the abandoned gas station and walked as a procession to the church a block away, leaving swirls of dust with each step. The women held their skirts high, and the men tried not to look at the grime engulfing their patent leather shoes.
The church was small; its shiplap sides and simple belfry offered a fading hint of aging paint. Inside was a single room with a dozen wooden pews. But it was the back wall that caught my attention. There, floor to ceiling, was a magnificent pipe organ.
As soon as we were seated, the organist began to play. Bach, Brahms and Mendelssohn flooded the church, the town and several miles in all directions. The air was still vibrating when the minister invited the groom to kiss the bride.
Before being called to the ministry, the pastor had worked in the family pipe organ business somewhere out east. When he came west, he brought one with him.
My daughter’s wedding is an indelible memory. And I no longer dismiss small, forgotten towns as insignificant.