I struck up a conversation with Jerry, Val's father. He was formal at first, but after we discussed the weather, livestock, and the farm standard topics of conversation in rural communities he loosened up some and we hit it off. He reminded me of the neighbors and townspeople I had known while growing up on the rolling prairie of southern Illinois. As a longtime Midwesterner who had recently moved to Colorado, I felt very much at home on the Heiders' farm.
An Indian man and his blonde wife stood near the fence as well. I recognized him as being from the Denver area. He was one of the Aztec dancers who had performed during a major exhibition on the Aztecs at the Denver Museum of Natural History, where I work. He didn't know me but said he knew my boss and my boss's boss. I guess I knew my place.
After a short while, I walked back to the house and joined Doris and Vickie, sitting around a picnic table. The Aztec dancer and his wife were there too. Doris introduced us all to Val. The Aztec man sat down beside Val and started talking about himself and the importance of the calf. I stayed in the background and listened. My conversation could wait; I wanted to hear what he had to say.
He told Val that he was Aztec and represented a quarter of a million Native Americans in Mexico. The news of the white buffalo already had traveled through Mexico to the Indians of South America. They had been waiting for this event. The calf was sacred, he said, and people would come from around the world to pay homage. His wife, a freelance writer from Sweden, was planning to write a story about Miracle for some Swedish publications. The calf would likely bring wealth, he claimed. People would send donations of money, lots of money, maybe a million dollars or more. Others would try to exploit the calf, he said, and he asked Val not to let them. He spoke of practical matters as well, of tax breaks and of the need for security and crowd control. Val's eyes grew in astonishment. Was she really hearing all this: security, crowd control, a million dollars?
Before the birth of Miracle, the Heiders had lived a pretty normal life Dave driving heavy trucks for the Rock County Highway Department and Val running her own office-cleaning business and also working for J&B Janitorial Service. By their own description, the Heiders are hobby farmers. They raise a few beef cattle and occasionally board horses. Chickens, ducks, and geese have the run of the place. In 1990, they decided to add some bison and bought three heifers at an auction, including Miracle's dam. A few months later they purchased a bull, Marvin, Miracle's sire. At the time of Miracle's birth, the Heiders had a herd of fourteen bison.
Just twenty-four acres, the Heiders' farm is nestled between a slow-flowing stream flanked by massive cottonwoods and a rolling hillside shaded by oaks. It's a small but active operation. Some of the outbuildings look as if they were built more out of necessity than planning. On the day of my visit, it was pleasantly quiet except for the cicadas in the trees, the cows in the next pasture, and the sound of a lawn mower in the distance typical summer sounds in rural Wisconsin. A field of hay had recently been cut and the smell of sweet clover hung heavy in the humid air. Two small, friendly calico kittens and a gray tabby played in the yard. Norman Rockwell would have been comfortable here.
Dave pulled up in his pickup truck and parked in the yard. I had seen him earlier but had decided not to intrude. He had looked preoccupied and his demeanor had indicated that he didn't want to be bothered. Dave came over to where we were sitting around the picnic table and took a seat on the riding lawn mower. He had just returned from one of his many errands. Dressed in a T-shirt and work pants, he looked tanned and muscular, clearly a man who gets his exercise at work, not at the health club. He listened to our conversation but kept his thoughts to himself. He appeared tense, his jaw muscles tight. He wasn't frowning, but he wasn't smiling either. Again, I decided it was not the time to introduce myself. That was probably a good decision because Dave quickly moved off to take care of some other business.
It was getting on toward four o'clock, and about a half dozen people were waiting to be escorted to the pasture to see Miracle. Val agreed to take them, and I went along. When we reached the pasture, other people were already lined up along the fence, different people than I had seen earlier. Again, Val's father, the local expert, answered questions. An artist with palette and easel was painting a huge four-by-six-foot canvas of Miracle and her mother, his homage to the pair. Tiny medicine bags hung on the fence (Color Plate 13), tied there by people leaving offerings to the white buffalo calf. Some of the visitors talked in quiet, almost reverent voices. A young Indian woman and a boy walked silently up to the fence. I wanted to ask what tribe they were from and what they thought of the white buffalo calf, but I felt uncomfortable interviewing strangers and refrained. A reporter from National Public Radio wasn't so shy. Seeing a good angle, he zeroed right in on the Indians. He interviewed several other Native Americans gathered at the fence and also talked to Val.
I overheard a woman say that she was from Chicago, that she had been to the Mayo Clinic for medical tests and had decided to come see the calf on her way home. People from all walks of life were there young, old, rich, poor, Indian, and non-Indian. All wanted to see Miracle. A slight man with a reddish beard stood off by himself. He was conservatively dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and tie and, if I'd had to guess, I'd have pegged him for a small-town Methodist minister. He told Val he had put all the money he was carrying in the donation can. Val just looked at him, incredulous at this reaction to Miracle.
Val and I finally had a chance to talk while standing at the fence. She agreed that it wasn't a good time to interview Dave. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning would probably be better, she said, when she hoped things would be a little quieter and less hectic. I told her about my background and my work as curator of anthropology at the Denver Museum of Natural History, where I was heading a team that was putting together a major exhibition entitled The Great American Buffalo.
The exhibition would cover almost everything relating to buffalo, from their place in the prairie ecosystem to their importance in Plains Indians' culture to modern bison ranching. The white buffalo and its spiritual significance to Native Americans are an integral part of that story, and we wanted to include it in the exhibition. The contacts I had made while working on the exhibition had led me to this pasture in Wisconsin to write an article on Miracle for the American Bison Association.
Although not a member of the association, Dave had called the ABA shortly after the calf was born to ask if it was rare. The ABA's reaction was cautious, said Val, almost chilly. The association explained that blood tests for the calf, the dam, and the sire would be necessary to determine the calf's bison lineage. I explained to Val that the ABA receives a number of calls each month from people claiming the birth of a white calf. The tests are to authenticate that the calf is not a cross between a bison and a white breed of cattle, such as Charolais. With most calls to the ABA, if the people go through with the blood test at all, the calf in question turns out to be a bisonCharolais cross. Val looked surprised that someone would try to fake something like that.