Bruce hung up the phone. “That was the cow buyer,” he said, turning to me and his kids. “The deal fell through.”
“What?” I said. “That can’t be!” The load of weaned calves was supposed to ship from our ranch the next week. We’d just spent the day sorting out the ones we would sell.
Not only did we desperately need the money, but with a brutal winter looming we simply didn’t have the feed to carry all those calves through until spring. It was terrible news to get—especially the day before Thanksgiving.
I’d been working alongside the Tophams on their family cattle ranch for nearly 20 years. So long, in fact, I was practically one of the family. Besides me, there was Bruce and Virginia, and their grown kids, Brandan and Susan.
Contrary to the Hollywood stereotype that cattle ranchers are fabulously wealthy, the day-to-day reality is anything but glamorous. Scrimping and saving is the norm. When tax time rolls around we just hope to break even. That didn’t happen enough, according to our banker.
“This is bad,” Bruce said, taking me aside. “I honestly don’t know how we’ll make it.”
I wanted to reassure him, but I was worried too. Most of us living at the end of dirt roads aren’t doing it for the money, but for the love of living in the country and the opportunity to spend our lives with animals.
Call us ranchers crazy, and you’d be right. But greedy we’re not. Every rancher’s humble prayer is to make just enough to keep an outfit going one more year. And sometimes that’s asking for the moon.
This year had been extra tough—even before we lost the deal to sell the calves. Our 30-year-old baler broke beyond repair in the middle of haying, and we had to buy another one or lose the crop.
A dry summer shortened our grazing season, and renting extra fall pasture for our cattle stretched our budget. To top it off, the price of hay climbed skyward just as the price of cattle nose-dived. We’d been tightening our belts so much we’d run out of notches.
Overhearing my conversation with Bruce, Virginia came in from the kitchen where she’d been preparing for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving meal. “What’s the plan?” she asked.
“I’ll do my best to find us some hay,” Bruce said and picked up the phone again.
“It’s too expensive,” Virginia argued. “The banker said—”
“We don’t have a choice.” Bruce was trying to stay calm. Trying to keep his frustration in check. But there were only so many setbacks a man could take in one year.
A dozen phone calls later, we learned there was no hay to be had anywhere—at any price. “What’ll we do, Dad?” Brandan asked.
“We can’t just let those calves starve,” Susan said.
Bruce just shook his head. “I don’t know what to do.”
That night in my room, I couldn’t sleep. I sat at the windowsill, staring out into the darkness beyond the frost-covered glass. We’re in an awful fix, Lord. But I know you can fix anything. Could you spare us an angel? Just one?
Thanksgiving Day dawned cold and clear, but even the promise of a special dinner did little to lift our spirits. We spent the morning feeding and chopping ice for the cows, calves, bulls and horses. No one said much. What was there to say except, “How long will our feed last?”
Virginia had the table set and ready when we trooped into the house. Everything smelled and looked divine. Virginia had obviously wanted this to seem just like any other Thanksgiving. As we found our chairs she lit two slender white candles, one on each end of the table.
“Let’s say a blessing for hope,” she suggested as we folded our hands. But, truly, hope for us seemed as tiny as the flames atop those skinny candles. We passed our plates and dug in.
We had nearly finished eating when Susan all but shouted, “Look! Look at the candle over by Erika! It’s an angel!”
I’d been twirling my fork through mashed potatoes, my chin resting on my fist. I sat upright so fast I rattled my plate and nearly knocked over my water glass.
Susan was right! Wax from that tiny, hopelessly small flame had melted down the sides of the candle and cooled into the shape of a perfectly formed wing. An angel wing.
“Last night I prayed for an angel,” I said. “Maybe this is a sign that we’re going to be okay.” Did I dare to hope we could keep the outfit going? Another drop of wax rounded off the candle wing, and a rush of thankfulness welled up inside me. “Who wants pumpkin pie?” There would be slices all around.
The very next day a hay grower called with an extra load of calf-quality hay that didn’t fit his other orders, and he needed room in his barn. When he quoted the price, Bruce nearly fell out of his chair. It was dirt cheap.
“Even the banker would say we could afford it,” he told Virginia with a grin. “Barely.”
It was enough to get us past the first of the year. By that time the cattle market had rebounded, and Bruce negotiated a much better deal on those calves than the one we would have been forced to accept back in November.
The sale more than paid for the extra hay, and it paid a few other outstanding bills as well.
We’ll never get rich in the cattle business, but this family is richly blessed. The angel that graced our Thanksgiving table told me that God always has one to spare.
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