Fall market
Another year, another check. He felt the yearly mix of feelings that came with the fall cattle sales. Jubilation for the sale of the year’s calves. Stress over the amount he brought home. Frustration because the income was never enough. Determination to drive forward and make every penny count to squeeze by another year. He turned the key to the old pickup and the engine sputtered to a halt. At the same time the faint, but familiar background noise of the heater fan ceased. Behind his seat and on the floor of the cab were the buckets of grain and cow cake, an old feed sack full of twine bundles, straws of hay scattered over the seats as well as the endless dog hair from his faithful companion. Like a typical ranch pickup, it was filthy from use, but the vehicles never stayed pristine for long when the family worked in it all day, every day. He reached down with his left hand, grasping the thin, metal door handle. With a slow pull upward, the pickup door seemed to fall open. He stretched toward the ground with his left foot and slid out of the driver seat and onto the gravel. He firmly shut the door.
He took a deep breath and retrieved the envelope from the pocket of his Carhartt jacket. Spreading the top of the paper enclosure he saw the receipt. He studied it and looked it over with intense focus one more time. He had looked at it before when the stockyard handed it to him, but now he looked at it again as another form of confirmation. The number. He had driven directly to the bank. Never delay a big deposit. He never took chances with losing big checks. This was the yearly income in one lump sum. Every year it was like this. The check long gone from earlier in the afternoon, but he held the receipt. This was his yearly tradition, bring it home to show his biggest supporter.
This small piece of paper will drive all the decisions for the rest of the year. For the supplemental income, his wife worked in town. He always remembered the crochet banner that hung above the kitchen sink in his grandparents’ old cabin that read, “Behind every successful rancher is a wife who works in town.” He never fully appreciated the meaning until he started working the finances with his father as a young man.
He began to walk across the stiff, crunching grass that had yellowed and burned from the dry days full of endless sun, early morning frosts, and typical fall decay. As he opened the front door, the darkening day suddenly opened into a clear, soft glow and the smell of freshly baked bread and meat cooking on the stove. The chilling outside air immediately transformed into a cozy, welcoming feel.
He replaced the door and took a step forward to peek around the corner and see his wife standing in the kitchen. “How did we do?” she asked as he stepped back around the corner. He methodically put his hat on top of the coat rack and slipped off his boots. He slowly stood up, walked around the wall and toward his wife at the counter. He deliberately placed the receipt in front of her as its curled edges tried to push it back up and off the surface. Only a split second before kissing her on the temple he replied, “Prices were down. It’ll be another year of struggle.”
The number. She looked, shook her head, and asked, “Why do we keep doing this?” The year’s work, the time, the heartaches, the stress, the frustration. It all seemed to come to a pinnacle in one simple, sobering question. None of the good times and yearly rewards seemed to exist or provide justification. He looked at her. With a heavy knot in his chest and dryness in his throat he replied, “Because it’s who we are. This is our life, but if this last too much longer….” His voice slowly drifted away with deepening comprehension of the repercussions. Like a gambler waiting for the next big hand, they silently looked at each other and hoped for next year.
