Survivor Woman

We were talking with our friends, Mick and Jeanette, last night over dinner, discussing the economy and possible strategies for saving money on food items. Husband found this to be the opportune moment to do his gig on how he loves to eminate Bear Grylls and Les Stroud, the Survivorman-types.

"I've eaten wasp larvae!" he stated proudly, "And I found it to be very nutty."

I repressed the desire to say 'you are what you eat.'

"It was delicious!" he went on, "so sweet and quite satisfying."

Jeanette was looking across the table at us in undisguised horror. Unabashed, Husband was elaborating on what items could be used as food, should the need arise. It is true that once on a camping trip to impress my teenage sons, I ate a winged ant. I mentioned this and how humorous it had been to me that when the boys did it, each time they talked I could see a stray whispy ant leg on their tongues. For some reason the legs were difficult to scrape off, after the fact....

Jeanette, at this point, was absolutely recoiling in horror, and giving me a look that said, "I guess I've never really known you, all these years....I thought we were the same..."

Mick amiably joined in the conversation and contributed the several food sources that he knew of that might not be considered as such in the course of day to day living. Jeanette turned to him as if he had just grown another head. It was clear that she wanted out of the conversation.

When Husband revisited the exquisite taste of the wasp larvae, Jeanette had had enough. She took a deep breath, and blurted out, "Couldn't ya just....DIE?"

Guess she won't be drinking camel urine anytime soon....

Funky Chickens

I have a little Texan friend named Penny. Nothing amuses me more than to hear her tell a tale, or to listen to her rant when she gets all riled up about something...it's just plain funny.

I've known Penny for a while...we'd been neighbors in the town I live in now, when we first moved there, eleven years ago. Then she and her husband, Ray, moved out to the Country and I hardly saw her anymore. Then, O Joy of Joys, WE found a place out in the country, too....only two minutes away from Penny's place...(she and I timed it).

Not only was she interesting to listen to; she was interesting to observe. I was at Penny's home one day around lunch time. She has four kids; and school was out for the summer so they were all there for the day. She lined up the herd at thier bar stools and was 'fixin' to feed them. We gabbed while she made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, lining them up on the countertop. Before she handed each one to the designated kid, she stood up on her tip-toes, and with both hands, put all of her weight onto the sandwich...in a move similar to CPR.

I was amazed...why would someone take a perfectly good sandwich, and flatten it like that...was this some weird kind of a punishment? Had this kid made her mad or something? But I watched, mouth agape, as she did it again a second, third, and fourth time. When I found my voice I croaked out, "Wh....wh....WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO THOSE????"

Penny turned around, calm as a summer's morning, and spoke to me as if she were talking about clipping coupons or some such task, "They're smashed sandwiches." And she left it at that, and continued on with our previous conversation. But I couldn't leave it alone.

"Why did you smash the sandwiches?"

"They're 'Smashed Sandwiches'," she said again.

"But....WHY?"

Penny looked at me like, 'doesn't everyone do this?' and said, "The kids won't eat them if they're not smashed. They don't like the fluffy bread. It makes them gag."

I didn't know what else to say. I told my kids about it, and they tried it....but flat bread makes THEM gag.

Not long after the smashed sandwhich incident, Penny began talking about things they used to do as children at her family home in Texas for fun. She mentioned hypnotising the chickens.

"WHAT?....." I gasped, "You're kidding me...you can't hypnotize....foul....!"

"Yes you can, we did it all the time," she drawled.

Since we had chickens at our house, I asked her to come over and show me, for proof. She was over in two minutes. None of our children were around to witness two mommies leaning over a chicken, performing an odd experiment. But this was what it was like to hang out with Penny....we did strange things all the time, and while I'd be laughing to myself, she always thought it was 'normal'....part of her charm.

"....So ya go like this..." she was saying, holding a chicken's head down to the gravel driveway's surface, "You draw a line right in front of it for a while, real slow-like, in the dirt. Just keep doin' that over 'n' over, 'n' the chicken's eyes'll git real glassy-like..." She ran her finger in the dirt repeatedly. I was skeptical; waiting for the punchline....I just knew it was some sort of a joke she was playing on me, Penny was like that.

But after a moment, she stopped drawing in the dirt and took her other hand off the chicken's head. It stayed there. It wasn't moving. I could see that it was still breathing, but other than that; still as a statue. One of the more amazing things I've seen in my lifetime, really. She stood up, rubbing her hands together, proudly.

"See, I told ya I could do it," she said, "NOW, it's very important to know how to 'snap' them out of it...er else y'all will just have this zombie chicken runnin' around yer yard..."

And with that, she leaned down close to the chicken's head again, and suddenly clapped her hands loudly together, while simultaneously shouting out, "YOU'RE A CHICKEN!"

The chicken 'came to', shook its head a few times, and walked away like a drunken sailor.

I tried it again, on a different chicken, once Penny drove away. I just had to see if I could hypnotize an animal. I could.

But my rathermost large mistake was that of sharing my newfound skill with the kids, who began hypnotizing chickens left and right. When we got our chickens, we had twelve. After the hypnotizing tutorial; we had two.

It seemed that one fateful night when I allowed the kids to sleep out in the yard on the trampoline in the delightfully warm summer weather, TJ got the bright idea to hypnotize them, all at once. Jordan and Sis were accomplices. They did very well, hypnotized ten at a time (they couldn't find the other two)...they just forgot that one little detail of waking them back up. By morning, there were feathers and beaks scattered all over the lawn....the foxes must have thought they'd died and gone to Heaven when they happened upon our yard. There were ten sitting 'ducks' (chickens, in actuality) for them to 'feast till they couldn't feast no more' on.

"HOW could you have slept through the slaughter of TEN animals, just a few feet from where you were?" I asked, bewildered. "What, are you ZOMBIES or something?"

".....no, we were....hypnotized!'

Oh, good grief. Who is your mother again? Didn't you say her name was....Penny?

Love That Dog!

I've heard it said that of all the things a person misses, they'll miss their dog the most.

I miss my dog.

Callie is an Australian Shepherd. She's black and white and looks more like a Border Collie, but isn't.

Some folks at church were selling their dog's latest batch of puppies for a few hundred apiece. I wanted a dog in the worst way. It seemed to put an exclamation point on a REAL home. A dog meant stability and family and....everything good.

We'd just finished building our country home. It took eleven and a half long months. During that time we'd endured not having a kitchen for three of those months. (My kids would no longer eat hot dogs, fast food, or anything microwaveable.) During the summer months, we lived in a camp trailer behind the house, with the boys spreading out into a tent off to the side. I had no clothes dryer; we dried them outdoors, weather permitting. I did my dishes for a time at the spigot by the well. It had been a tough year. If any family deserved a dog, well, we did.

So I picked up the pup on Christmas Eve, and tried to hide her upstairs in the bedroom, when the kids were fast asleep. The very first thing she did was to make herself comfortable right on top of the ExMan's pillow. The very next thing she did was to urinate all over said pillow. So, for me, it was love right from the start. Who knew that he'd turn out to be a schmuck after all? Callie did, that's who. They say that really young children and dogs have an uncanny ability to judge people. Peeing on his pillow? Sounds right to me, Callie. Good, good dog! Let's see that trick again!

I put an enormous red bow on her head and brought her downstairs on Christmas morning. There are no words to express the elations emanating from my children. They were enamored of her, as was I. She was smart as a whip and had a spunky little personality....and, curiously...she was very....snouty. As in, she used her 'snout' a lot. To unearth things, and almost as another limb. Like an ardvaark. It was funny to watch.

Being an outside dog, and living on a farm, she learned the parameters of the acreage and rarely crossed them. We didn't have fences up yet, and so I was impressed with this. I was irritated, however, when we rode the four wheelers around the track we'd constructed, taking them over the jumps at high speeds, only to find Callie waiting for us at the end of the track, too late to stop sometimes. I ran right smack dab over her, once, and felt terrible about it. It seemed like every time we turned a corner, there she was. It was causing me to take oaths.

It wasn't until the trampoline incident...Callie had leapt up onto the trampoline to join the kids up there, much to their delight... (where she was actually nipping the kids in the leg to collect them into a tight, circular group), that it dawned on me. I smacked my hand on my forehead....of COURSE, of course! She's a herding dog! She was HERDING us!

The appearance of a dozen chickens solved that problem. Callie had her work cut out for her, trying to keep them all confined to one little circle....all the livelong day. We all felt somewhat sorry for those chickens....acres and acres to roam on, and the dog made them stay in just one tiny spot, all the time. She was very O.C.D. that way.

Adding to her joy was the adoption of two turkeys, male and female, named Tom and Girl Turkey. Then, the ducks...also a couple....Daffy and Darla. Callie was in her absolute element.

She was an ideal dog, in every way but one. Scads of room to relieve herself, and she had but one favorite spot. The very middle of the very front of our yard. And not only that...she never failed to squat but at the exact, precise moment that a car was driving by.

It began to be a joke among the neighbors. Need to find their house? Just look for the black and white dog, doing its 'business' front and center of the yard!

I got fed up with it once, and yelled (as if she understood) out the front door while she was in the very act, with an audience driving slowly by in a roadster on a Sunday drive....."WHAT!" I yelled at Callie, "Have you no PRIDE, Dog?"

She merely glanced at me. She was too busy...concentrating.

"We have a BACK YARD, too, ya know!" I hollered. She didn't seem very interested at the moment.

The only thing I could do, after years of trying to dissuade Callie from using the front yard...was to own it. We had a farm with a publicly defacating dog. A ranch, really, with all of the animals grazing and roaming (when Callie wasn't looking). In my mind the idea was forming for an archway at the head of the driveway, with a lovely sign, in fancy letters. Perhaps if we put it into a foreign language....like Spanish...it would sound better.

"Squatting Dog Ranch" was what I'd wanted to name the place. But that was hard to translate out. So, I tried, "Ranch of the Dog that Squats". Which in Spanish is:

"Rancho del Perro que se Pone en Cuclillas".

A bit long, but there you have it. I thought it had a certain 'ring' to it. Not unlike the urination ring that was forming in the dead-center of my front yard. Perhaps we could further assist her, by painting a bull's-eye in her usual spot, I suggested to ExMan. He didn't think that was very funny. Being the private type, this blatant display of Callie's bodily functioning was extremely painful for him. At church and around the area, he'd been teased mercilously. Somehow, that made me love Callie just that much more.

Years later, when the kids and I made a run for it, needing to leave the situation at the 'Ranch', we took our Callie with us. She spent one miserable day and night in the little square, fenced backyard that didn't have any foul at all to chase...and we knew. You can take the country kids out of the country...but you can't take the dog. It would have been animal cruelty. The farm was all she'd ever known. We brought her back and released her onto her beloved pasture, with her friends the chickens, the turkeys, and the ducks....and her favorite yellow spot on the lawn. It was where she belonged, after all.

I haven't seen Callie in a long, long time. I heard that she wore reindeer antlers for Christmas, and had a sweater on last summer. It doesn't seem right, somehow, for such a spunky dog to have been brought so low. Does her 'new' mistress know that if you're not nice to her, she'll wet on something very personal of yours? Does she know that Callie is a passive-aggressive, like me, and will chew up the Italian shoes of the very person you're trying the most to impress, while they're visiting your home? If not, she had better beware...

Love that dog. Always have, always will.

God and Sweet Corn

ExMan and I had an on-going dispute for years about the nature of God and the way He answers prayers.

ExMan thought that God didn't want to be bothered with the tiny little details of everything...that if you needed or wanted something that wasn't that big of a deal, you should just 'get it yourself', or find a way to get it yourself. God, after all, had enough to do without listening to every little whiny need.

I am more of a fairy-tale person, and had the belief that any wish, no matter the size, is important to those who love you, (i.e. God) and, if possible, (and not harmful to you), it will be granted.

And one August day in 1998, I was proven right.

I was seperated from ExMan for the first time. We had been apart since April, and had already signed papers to dissolve our marriage. My children were eight, five, and four years old. I was scared to death. I remember that I cried daily.

I'd wanted desperately to stay home with my children, but the fact remained that I needed to make an income. So I turned our home into a daycare, and took on six little ones, the majority of them under the age of five. Add that to my three and I had a total of nine kids running around the house on a day to day basis. It got a bit wild at times.

They were good children and they all got used to each other and we became somewhat of a family. None of the kids could ever call Dominic by his true name....he was chronically called, "Donimic". His mother seemed to find that amusing, and I got tired of trying to correct them, so the name stuck. Each of my children had a playmate their own age, at any given time. It worked out all right.

I did struggle with not being able to just hop into the car and run to the market whenever I wanted... I'd always been sort of a free spirit... My daycare was open from six a.m. until six p.m. and I was commited to being within my four walls during that time. So I got cabin fever a lot.

One day I was standing at my sink, looking out the window. The field behind my new subdivision hadn't been developed yet, and I could see the rooftop of the Farmer's Market, just over the bend, near the highway. I'm sure I began to salivate because I couldn't think of the Farmer's Market without envisioning their mouth-watering sweet corn. Oh, how I wanted some at that moment!...It would've made such a wonderful dinner.... But there were two immediate problems. Problem number one; I did not have a car large enough to put ten of us into, to drive around the block to get a simple bag of corn.... Problem number two: I wasn't even sure at that time that I had the money in my purse for as much as one bag...I was dirt poor that month. We were barely making it.

So I put the thought out of my head and focused on the task at hand, which was the dishes. Then it was wiping someone's nose. Then it was blood-hounding down someone's unsavory nappy to change....and on it went. There is always something to do when you have a house-full of kidlets.

Five minutes later, the doorbell rang. It was my friend, Linda. She had two bags in her hands, laden with...sweet corn.

She couldn't understand why I burst into tears. As I blubbered, she tried to explain that she was driving towards her home up the hill, and was 'told' by a little voice to stop at the Farmer's Market... and get some sweet corn; so she did. Once the bags were in her car, she asked the 'little voice' who she ought to give them to. My name popped into her head, and without questioning, she drove right over to my home.

After all of the daycare kids and the daycare moms exited the building... I had sweet corn that night for dinner, with my children seated around me. We buttered and we salted and we peppered and we season salted and we added hot sauce and parmesan cheese to our heart's content. It was heartwarming to look around the table and see bits of corn and butter on the corners of each of their cute little mouths. I had a heart full of gratitude. To God, and to Linda.

And I knew why we had sweet corn. Because I had the wish for it, that's why. Not even big enough to be called a prayer, not even enough effort put into it to be called a meditation; just a thought that had flitted across my mind and was caught by God and assigned out to one of his angels; one that was willing to listen and obey the tiny prompting that was planted in her mind.

So DOES He care about the tiniest thing on your mind?

I think He does.

One summer's evening in 1998, He showed me that He did. And I haven't doubted since.

Long Live the King(s)

The day we met Saul Vivas completely changed my life. He was the ultimate performer.

We had just moved in across the street, in a rural neighborhood in Pennsylvania. There weren't many kids around our age. We were dying to play with the herd of boys kitty-corner from us, but Mother said that their dad 'drank a lot of beer', so we weren't allowed to associate with them. Bummer.

But right across the street there was a little kid named Saul...or, Sauly, as his mother called him. Sauly's dad worked for Marx toys. You should've seen our eyes popping out of our heads the first time we saw their garage with the door open. Both bays were full of toys to ride on. Big Wheels and Green Machines and scooters of every kind. Wagons and cars with their own batteries that went all on their own, and that round thing with the swirlies on the handles, where the handles are actually wheels, too, with handles on them...and when you sit on it, it's impossible to steer, but still totally fun...

We thought we were dreaming.

And Sauly's dad said that we could come over and play with his son any old time. Oh, and we were willing. Because playing with Sauly meant playing with all of Sauly's cool toys. His dad was very wise; he knew Sauly would never be lonely with that sort of a deal set up.

Sauly was only four when we met him, but he was a great little kid. We were older, eight and seven, but it didn't matter. He was pretty savvy, and we all got along well. His mother, Netty, had the most interesting hair. It was red-ish....sometimes more on the pink-ish side, and she piled it into a high beehive-style. I was perplexed by it. I liked to watch it. It didn't move. Ever.

The novelty of the toys wore off, but we continued to play with Sauly. He was great at hide and go seek, and loved a good game of Cops n' Robbers. He could yell, too. When he was the cop, and he caught you, you knew it. Many a time I was scared halfway out of my wits when he'd holler, "GOTCHA, YOU BAD GUY!"

Our interests shifted to that of the theatrical. Sauly was welcomed in the drama circles, too, because of his uncanny impersonation of Elvis. His mother was a huge Elvis fan; she had every last one of his records. On rare occasion, we'd be invited into their home to listen to the Elvis records. We'd never even heard of him, up to that point. Why, you ask? Because my mother did not care for the King. Not only that, she even went so far as to write a poem about him while she was in high school. It went something like this...."There once was a man named Elvis. He liked to wiggle his pelvis...."

Whether or not this is an original phrase on her part, there's no telling. That was the poem she claimed to have written. Unbeknownst to her, her teacher was an Elvis adorer, and she recieved an 'F' for a grade...first one she'd ever gotten. So the whole Elvis idea had left a negative impression on her psyche, I suppose. Hence the fact that we had no prior knowledge of him. Add this to my mother's general disdain for rock and roll in general, and, well...you get the idea.

We absorbed the Elvis records. We were learning every song, and went home to sing them loudly around the house. Mother's 'No Elvis' plan thusly...backfired. But Sauly was the best. (It didn't hurt that he was a boy, plus he had Elvis's coloring, too). He could sing, move, and look the most like the King.

We began to have elaborate talent shows in our basement. The whole neighborhood was invited at times. On certain evenings, we drew quite a crowd, seated on our couches and folding chairs down there. Other kids in the neighborhood got involved, too. We did silly little skits and what-not, but the main event was always Sauly and his Elvis songs. I think that's what drew the people in. He was just plain good. Imagine watching a four-year-old perfectly imitate a rock and roll legend. It was really something.

Since we didn't have any rock music around our house, we had to go with what we did have. We played Andy Williams records (my mother adored him!) and sang along. Not extremely hip, but what could we do. We tried. The audience always clapped politely; so we were happy. We didn't know that we were sort of nerds. My husband still teases me about the big crush I once had on Andy Williams. Hey, he looked good on the cover of the album!....AND he seemed like a really nice guy. So there.

We played with Sauly for years. No longer did we need the lure of the Marx toys, nice as they were. Sauly became like kin to us. We were always happy when our chores were done and Mother granted us permission to go across the street to see what Sauly was up to.

The day that Elvis died was a sad day around the Vivas home. I hadn't realized it at the time, but Sauly's mother was literally in love with Elvis Presley. She had fantasized about leaving her husband and becoming his next wife, and had made that clear to her husband, who had loved her dearly and stayed with her, despite her loving another man.

We didn't see any of the Vivas family for days. There were black pieces of material hung on all of their windows. It was kind of creepy. They mourned for almost a week. I wondered what Sauly was doing, stuck in their house like that. I wondered if he was okay. He emerged several days later, still a fairly cheerful kid that was fun to play with, but he toned down the Elvis impersonations quite a bit. He rarely did them after the King's death.

When we moved in the summer of 1978, our little acting troupe was disbanded. But we were great once. The best.

I wonder at times about where Sauly is now, and how he's doing. I hope that every now and then, even if he no longer has the curly black hair, or the hips for it....that he gives it all a shake, and does those moves that only the King....and Pauly...could do so well.

Long live the King(s).

Blue Jeans and God

My sister attends a Very Conservative Church.

As with almost all churches, you have those that really live what they believe, and those that make a big show out of pretending to live what they believe. It's all about the recognition and the glory for the latter set. Unfortunately, a lot of those showier types tend not only to be primarily concerned with their reputations, but they seem to feel the need to police others' behaviors, as well. Whenever I meet up with one or two of these, the phrase, "Mind your own backyard!" comes to mind. I find these people tiresome and tend to avoid being affiliated with them, but there is always that random chance that some of whatever they're suffering from will rub off on you. In a word....Ick.

In this Very Conservative Church, my sister Lillian works in the Nursery. There are several helpers in there, one of them named Janice. Janice does not try to run with the proud little church crowd, she is one of those Real Christians that marches to the beat of her own drum. She cares more about what her God thinks of her than she does of her peers' feeble and fickle opinions.

This Very Conservative Church has a fairly strict unofficial dress code. People are 'allowed' to wear a pair of jeans to the services...but they'll get stared at, and possibly even shunned. Those not of this particular faith, who may be used to other churches' 'Come As You Are' services, are not aware of this initially. Usually, if they continue week after week to attend, they will be, at some point taken aside and encouraged by long-time members to wear a nice shirt and tie if they are male, and a skirt or dress if they happen to be female. This is a well-known 'unwritten rule' among the regular congregation.

So Lillian was surprised to see her Nursery co-worker, Janice, who is a lifelong member, in a nice pantsuit at church. By various and sundry staunch churchgoers, she was getting gawked at. People were wondering if she was 'losing the faith'. Lillian simply asked Janice why she was wearing pants. Janice, seeing that there were other adults around at the time, smiled at Lillian and said she'd tell her 'later'.

When 'later' arrived, she related this rather amusing, yet all-too common (for this and other congregations) tale. Anna, another Nursery co-worker who happened to be mentally challenged, showed up the Sunday before in a pair of jeans. She had the mentality of a five-year-old, loved working in the Nursery with the children, was eager to please anyone, and wouldn't hurt a fly. She hated nothing worse than to be told she was doing something wrong, and tried to be super 'obedient' in everything she did. She was a sweet little soul.

But a well-meaning Church Lady approached her last week in the Nursery and told her that it was 'hard to feel the spirit of God while she was wearing pants to church'.

Poor Anna had no idea....all she knew was that, unknowingly, she'd displeased God by throwing on a pair of jeans, versus a skirt that morning. She hadn't been trying to upset God or anything...she'd simply been trying to get dressed. And then go to church services like a good Christian should....Who knew that in the doing of this, she would actually offend... Deity...?

As Janice told Lillian this story, it became clear as to why she was wearing that sporty pantsuit just one week later. She was trying to make a point on behalf of her little friend, Anna. Janice was feeling the 'spirit of God' just fine in her pants at church, thanks very much. And she made sure to make herself very visible to the extremely self-righteous biddy that had made the rather idiotic comment the week before.



There are times that I find it hard to voice what I believe. I struggle with the words. But when it comes to seeing what I DON'T believe, that.....seems to flow.

I don't believe that God's blessings require a dress code. I think He could speak to you, even if you were buck-naked. I've had many a shower-time inspiration, so I know this is true.

I don't believe that you have to have your hands or arms or eyes or head a certain way to pray. I don't believe that knees always have to be bent. I do feel that this is a very respectful, and helpful position in which to worship, but it is certainly not required. I believe you could be standing on your head and still pray, and be heard. God is really kind that way.

I don't believe you have to use correct pronunciation, or grammar, or the proper words to have God hear you. He meets you wherever you are. If, for some reason, language issues or a stroke keep you from being able to form the words, He sees what's in your heart, and He still hears.

Come to think of it, when it comes to wardrobe... I've felt more spiritual in a good pair of broken-in jeans than I have in most other attire. No binding at the beltline or Dry Clean Only labels. I think our friend Anna was exactly right.

And God.....I don't think He was offended at all....or perhaps He was....but certainly not at Anna.

I Want A Wall Like That

I am drawn to the Wirewood's home. From the moment I met them, I just wanted to be a part of their family. Two empty nesters, they'd just built their place on a lot overlooking the Lake; a lovely yet modest dwelling with a great big shop out back for him, and a nice kitchen with large windows for her.

Their peace didn't last long. Just two weeks after they moved in, one of their many daughters discovered that she and her husband and three young boys needed a place to stay while they were between jobs. Of course the Wirewoods couldn't say 'no' to family. Their peaceful haven had just turned into the County Fair.

Right after that, their youngest daughter needed to move back in, having learned that she was bipolar and was struggling a bit. They made space for her, too.

When the daughter with the three sons moved out, another daughter who's husband had lost her job moved in. They had not three but four children, two of them being twins. They were welcomed.

When that family moved out, the daughter with the three sons, upon finding that a divorce was necessary, moved back in and stayed for another year or so. They were glad to have her back.

I got to be good friends with all of them; they were such warm and loving people. I learned to can tomatoes over there, which they shared from their huge garden. My children and I have sung while gathered around their fireplace; they are a very musical family. My son took piano lessons from their daughter with the three boys. One dark night, several of the daughters came to my home and proceeded to 'kidnap' me. I'd just had surgery and they were worried that ExMan was not nurturing me properly, so they drove me up the hill to their home to be nurtured as only the Wirewoods could nurture. I'd needed some emotional nurturing that evening and I talked and cried and they listened and cried. I will never forget that. We still laugh over my 'kidnapping'.

To say that I dearly love these people is an understatement. I am amazed that I was accepted without trying, included without having to ask, and that I've had a standing invitation to anything 'family' ever since I've met them. It's just the sort of folk they are.

My favorite part of their home is what I call the 'Smile Wall'. It has to be said that these people all have the most beautiful smiles. And plastered onto this wall in every frame available are members of the family, enjoying each other. Camping trips around the bonfire. Singing together. Anniversaries. Pure and simple joy within each frame. I could sit and stare at that wall all day long. It is evidence of a life well lived.

In contrast: there is a wall in a small western town at this very moment that is plastered with awards. Volunteer this or that, or Exceptional this or that, or This or That of the Year. These awards are hung there by a man that needs to feel important. He has had a wall like this in every home, every office, that he's ever occupied. He is hungry to be mentioned in the newspaper, or to get himself on tv. Retired, he spends his days not helping his terribly arthritic wife, but being involved in the community in carefully calculated places where he's sure to be noticed.

Years ago, when he had what everyone thought was a terminal illness, his wife and family simply accepted it. When he suddenly recovered, quite frankly, that was harder for them to accept. He had lived his life for himself; none of them really knew or even loved him. They had rarely heard him say, "I'm sorry," or "I was wrong". There had been no tenderness involved in any of his relationships. People were for using, to get into the all-essential public eye. Nothing more. If they were not obediently falling in line to further his importance, they were easily discarded. Hence, his increasingly crippled little wife. She did not fit into his picture of fame, so she got left behind at home.

He will gladly walk you through each framed award, and how he got them. He could sit for hours, talking about himself, without once asking how his listener is doing. Some have been subjected to the hour-plus long explanation. It is, in a word, repugnant. When one of his daughters recieved a prestigious award in her community, that she had not even been seeking, she called to tell him, in a child-like way hoping for some fatherly recognition herself, and was met with a 'that's nice, here's what I'VE done throughout my lifetime....' speech. She was later in the day even sent a list, so that she could view it in its entirety for herself. She was told that this man, her father, liked to keep that list of accomplishments in his wallet, as a frequent reminder of all he's done, all that he's achieved...and the many people that have obviously recognized him for it. The message? "You are not really that important...but I most certainly am."



If the Wirewood father or mother passed away today, that home would be flooded with people that would immediately miss them. I would be one of those people. I would be able to walk right in without even knocking...they've told me I was one of the 'sisters'. There would be tears, I'm sure, but there would also be a lot of those beautiful big smiles, some laughter, and yes, probably even some singing, in honor of Mom or Dad. And no doubt I would need to spend a moment to myself looking once again at the Smile Wall and thinking that Mr. or Mrs. Wirewood really did it right, this life thing. The grinning children with their faces smashed together is proof enough. No one needs to walk me through with a lecture on how important these 'awards' are. If a picture is worth a thousand words, this wall is surely worth a million of them. No one needs to make a list, or carry a reminder of how great they are around with them in their wallet...the proof is walking around in the form of five well-adjusted, happy curly-haired daughters with large smiles, and one musical, curly-headed son. These angel people have been very, very important. They were important where it counts...in the place of the heart.

There are Walls of Fame, and there are Walls of Shame. It's entirely up to us which one we wind up with. Awards....or rewards....?

As for me, I want a wall like that Wirewood wall.

Parting Gift: Pit Lane

I want to leave a parting gift. My version of Pit Lane.

About two weeks before the Stampede, I was driving back from Boise, where I'd just dropped off some offspring for their sports practice. I was tired, and it was only eight a.m. I had a whole long day ahead of me.

Of course, there would be a detour where I didn't expect one. I would've chanced cutting through, but it looked like they were installing a bridge...and my four-wheel drive's capabilities go just so far. So I drove. And I drove. I drove all over creation in order to get me back to the main road that I wanted.

But I wound up on another road that was headed in that general direction, and would do just as well.

I don't know what made me look off to my right. Something did. Maybe fate. Maybe good eyes. Maybe it was a God thing, one never can tell. But my vision caught hold of a peaceful country lane, with no cars or people on it for as far as the eye could see. And right then and there, I decided that my spirit was hungry and needed to be fed.

I needed to take a walk.

I circled back, and parked my car off to the side, near the corner. There was only one person in sight; an older farmer-gentleman directly across from me, setting siphon tubes to irrigate his pasture full of livestock. He was very well dressed for someone out working in the pasture, not your stereotypical farmer. I was impressed. Behind him I could see some prize bulls. I knew these were worth a little something. Quite the enterprising guy.

"Good morning!" he called out to me, "How are you?"

I returned the greeting and explained that I was just going for a little walk; that I couldn't resist this country lane.

He said, "Well, you could walk down to the end of the road to the shopping center, go shop, and then....come back!"

I laughed at the way he said that, and shook my head in the negative. I doubted I'd be walking that far. Not only that, I marveled that at the end of this quiet road, there could be a shopping center; but there was. Idaho is an interesting mix of the rural and commercial.

The first thing I saw when I started off was a white sign, with big bold letters, advertising a lost cat, and a full, very detailed description. I remembered what I was learning about country people and their animals; they loved them. They were like a part of the family. I'd heard of rodeo queens that had worked with their horses for years, and then when the inevitable happened...they got old or sick and either died or had to be put down...these ladies were crushed. Sometimes it took them a while to get over it. I'd learned of how carefully the rodeo animals were cared for. Having seen it for myself first-hand, I understood now that the animal activists had very little to stand on. These people were serious about taking care of 'their own', and that included their 'critters'.

When I looked down, I could see fresh horse-shoe tracks off to the side of the paved road. Another fresh thing was the manure that I encountered not long after. This did not disturb me; rather, I found that it was very nice to see. I was in the country, and all evidence of that was welcomed.

This country lane had no strident codes for dwellings; there were some lovely establishments, blended in with seventies-style track homes, and some late-model single-wide trailers. Many of them had some sort of set-up for horses; some type of barn, shed, or corral. And most of them had found some way to display their country pride, by way of a mailbox made from horse-shoes, or an old tractor cog of some sort, or simply a post stuck in an old metal milk jug, filled with cement. I laughed to myself, pitying the mailbox 'batters' that tried to knock that one down. I doubted there were many attempts.

There were weather vanes mounted atop their barns, with figures of horses silhouetted against the sky. Pieces of old machinery and farm implements were worked into the landscaping, or, at times, an entire old wagons or tractors were parked right in the middle of the lawn, surrounded by rock and decorative flowers.

Patches of sweat peas grew alongside the shallow irrigation ditches that were used to water both pasture and lawns. Foxtail weeds were also in abundance, bordering the pavement. It didn't seem that the residents were too worried about them. Had that been some neighborhoods in town, they might have had to hold a special meeting about them. Not so here. A Home Owner's Association would get the (cowboy) boot, if one every tried to take hold in this area.

I knew that we were near the municipal airport. I heard and saw the same small yellow plane that my children and I had commented on for years. I remembered how excited the kids would get when we'd see that plane. We'd even nicknamed the guy 'Crazy Pilot', because of his stunts. It made me wax nostalgic, and somewhat philosophical to realize that the same plane had flown over us that had flown over them, the people that lived in this community... for who knows how long. These country people and us...we had so much more in common than I'd imagined. Even the 'Crazy Pilot'. The old and new memories were merging as I walked along.

Another thing we had in common became evident, the farther down the lane I got. Evidence of patriotism was everywhere, by way of the Flag. I saw more than one large flag, waving in the wind. Or 'furling', as my friend Jimmie likes to say. They were furling for sure.

I had the road all to myself. The irrigator had disappeared; there wasn't so much as even a neighbor in their yard. Just horses milling around together in their pastures or corrals. In one yard one, two, three, and then a fourth dog came running up to their fence at full speed, as fast as their tiny legs could carry them, with a 'yap' for every step they took. Pomeranians, and perhaps a chihuahua or two. I guessed that my trespassing might be the most excitement they'd have all day, that rare occasion of a passer-by.

This area was a real find. I couldn't believe that it had remained so untouched by time, although there was evidence of encroaching subdivisions. "Progress", they call it...the edge of 'new' neighborhoods, nearly touching the old. What a shame. They weren't there yet, but they were trying. While cows and wooden fences were in the foreground, a large middle school and a church with a tall steeple could be seen in the background, off a busy road in the distance, on which the cars were zipping along. Who knows how much longer this will remain such a haven. I hoped that those who lived there knew just how very good they had it. Katie Leonard's words rang in my ears, "We are a blessed people." Indeed they are. Indeed WE are.

I was delighted to come across a sign that said "FARM FRESH EGGS". Just beyond the sign was living proof of that...the producers were scratching and clucking away. Beautiful specimens, as chickens go. They were surrounded by picket fences and veggies, with chicken wire here and there for a nice accent.

One place that I was dying to photograph had a trailer on it that declared to the world that we were now on "Lazy Lane". If there is such a place, I want to live there. As it was, I was wishing I lived at this one. The homeowner told me, while giving permission to look around, that this was her favorite place on earth, and that she would rather spend time here than at any old park. After taking a tour, I understood why. It was down-home Heaven.


Now I am back at Pit Lane. Not physically, but in my mind, as I sit at my computer, writing my farewell blog for the Snake River Stampede. I am crunching along the gravel once more, with the morning sun shining on my face, as I am reviewing the events of the past six weeks.

I am a different person from the experience.

As one of my blog readers so eloquently put it: "You went in a reporter, and came out a rodeo fan." This is exactly true. I didn't expect that; but I went in with a neutral attitude, and left holding onto a new passion...that of all things country, and a love and respect for the rodeo.

As I take my mental walk, plodding past such houses as the sweet-pea house, where the flowers have grown and grown, intertwining with the chain link fence and reaching for the street toward me...I can hear various phrases, and see certain scenes; my memories of the Snake River Stampede.

The girls at D and B Supply, being so helpful in advising me what I should wear to the rodeo.

Watching little Lillie Yates ride around the barrels at the F Bar Arena, and that scrumptious 'bowl o' meat' that we had for dinner there. My husband telling me why in barrel racing, it's important to 'let the horse have the reins'...a good 'life lesson' in a lot of ways.

The Ride For Joy, at the Pierce Park Arena, where I was told about children who would come out of their shells of autism, for an hour or more after riding a horse, and a mother that takes advantage of that by taking her child to dinner immediately after, claiming that this was the only time she could have a precious conversation with her child. Countless others telling me that horses 'made' their lives, that without them, they were sure they would've been withdrawn and lonely people. Thus, I came up with this conclusion: "Horses heal."

Dennis Parry, sitting at his office at the back of Lloyd Lumber, breaking out into a big smile when he was interviewed about his memories of the Stampede, which had been a part of him, pretty much his entire life. He's the one that first told me about the special dirt at the Idaho Center. Of which I am now the proud owner of one full clod. Hey, the announcers said that if something gets thrown into the stands, you get to keep it....

I thought of Jimmie Hurley, the creator of the famous 'Stampeders', and the way she looked me right in the eye and said, "That's what I do; I dream." How her dreams had become a reality, and all of these years later, the Stampeders are still going strong. I have a poster with the signatures of every one of them, for proof. I am a big, big fan.

I remembered the first of many conversations with Katie Leonard, and how, so determined to be a rider, when her parents wouldn't buy her a horse, she rode her cow named Buttercup. She finally got her horse, and she testifies that there is 'nothing like' the love of a horse for its rider. She also told me that she can give unconditional love at times, because she received it from her horses.

"God manifested Himself to me in my animals," she told me.

In my mind, I am now at the end of the road, near the 'Farm Fresh Eggs' sign, getting ready to turn around. I laugh when I think of my visit to the radio station; how tense I was. Kevin and Brenda Mee were the most welcoming people; there was nothing to be afraid of. It was as if they couldn't wait to share with me everything about this country lifestyle that they loved. They're the ones that told me about a friend's autistic daughter, who upon seeing their horse, put together her first full sentence, which was: "May I ride the horse, please, Mommy?" As if sending me back home with a full heart wasn't enough, they also sent me off with tickets to Nashville Unplugged, a t-shirt, bumper stickers and four dozen Krispy Kreme donuts. Not a bad haul.

Marilyn Vestal took the time to do a phone interview with me, even though she was on vacation. She told me so many wonderful things about the 4-H Club. I'd had no idea it was so complete, when it came to building young character. I became a believer.
She, too, like Katie Leonard, told her non-horse-riding parents one day, "I want a horse." That declaration changed the course of her life.

On my return down the lane, and upon seeing the old wagons in people's yards, surrounded by all the flowers, I think of the four senior gentlemen that I met at the Karcher Mall, while taking pictures of the Stampede's mud wagon. It wouldn't do any good to list their names; I'm pretty certain that most of the names they gave me were fabricated. When I'd asked them if they were at the Mall every day, one of them said, "Yep!" and then added, "Or someone else is...!"

(My regards to 'Harold Hogshead'.)

My stomach growled a bit as I recall the simply incredible steak I'd had at the Kiwanis Steak Fry. It was sheer and total bliss to this beef-deprived writer who lives in a household of chicken eaters. Finally; some iron. I am convinced that the steak is what got me through the next week.

I smile to myself as I remember the Little Miss Stampede and Little Buckaroo Contest, where we heard those famous phrases, "Last time...I promise!" to one disgruntled female contestant, and then when a little buckaroo performed quite well, how the dad swooped him up and declared: "Good job, buddy! Now I have to go buy you a gun!"...and how my friend had looked at me afterward, eyes huge, and said: "I'm not gonna lie. I'm scared right now."

The chili contest and how the second place winner told me she'd tell me some of the ingredients, if I'd 'keep it on the low'...and her praise of the 'meat guy' at Albertson's, whose name she didn't know, but she knew the most important thing...he drove a red Mini-Cooper. Too funny.

The parade where I'd accidentally called out "Hi, Butch!"....to the Governor. It worked out all right, I'd apologized later to the Governor as he was flipping hotcakes at the Buckaroo Breakfast. He forgave me and for the record, I would like to count this as a 'pardon'. My apologies again, Mr. Governor. I think it was just the heat getting to me that day.

And then the actual rodeo. I've tried to do an accurate job of describing what I've seen, experienced, and felt there. I will only add once again that attending a rodeo at least once in your lifetime should be on everyone's bucket list.


I'm almost back to my car on my pseudo-walk. It's time to go home. If I were to finish up with all of my many thoughts and memories, I would say this:

Country-western people were not what I thought. I thought we were different, but that's untrue. We have so much more in common than I have with my Brooklyn roots. It's fun to say I'm 'from' a big city...but I've been in Idaho long enough to be called an Idahoan. There is more of Idaho in me than there is of New York, although there will always be a little of that in me, too. It's the combo that makes me who I am. Idaho has played a large part in that. I didn't feel welcomed at first, back when I was twelve. I didn't like it. I didn't think the people were friendly, and I dreamt every night of going back east, back 'home'.

But decades later, this is my home. My children love the country. They love the culture. They've never known anything else. They would no more be shocked at a cowboy hat and boots as they would at viewing a peanut butter sandwich. They're used to it. It's a part of them, too.

From the very beginning of this little 'mind-venture', the word 'welcome' keeps coming back, again and again. Visit our store. Come to see my daughter barrel race. Come and see our Stampeders practice. Visit our arena and see what we do for special needs kids. Join me on the radio. Sure, we'll post your blogs in the paper to promote the rodeo. Visit with me at the cafe and I'll share all of my fondest memories of the country life and the Stampede.

And it doesn't end there. Even beyond the Stampede, I've received invitations to learn to ride a horse, attend an official 4-H meeting, come to a pot luck-and- performance with the Eh Cappa Bareback Riders, visit another radio station to interview the announcer about his origins in rodeo reporting, and a standing invitation to visit the F Bar Arena, where, for the record, I will be having another 'bowl o' meat'.

I felt badly, though, about one thing. I've developed, over the past few weeks, quite a fetish for the Snake River Stampede stagecoach. I had this silly goal to touch it, to just get one touch, that's all I wanted. On the last night's performance, I suddenly realized that I hadn't been able to do that, and jokingly whined to my new friend, Katie, about it. She just smiled that wise smile and said:

"I think I can arrange that for you. The place where I work houses the stagecoach in their warehouse during its off-season."

I could hardly believe my ears.

'Welcome'. That's been the theme. Come and learn about our culture. Our music and our gear and our dress and our food, and our lifestyle, and what we do for fun. Come to our biggest events, and you will not be a stranger. I wasn't.

When I asked Heather, the lady who's been in charge of publicity for the Stampede this year, if she needed a blogger for next year...just what do you think she said?

"You're more than welcome."


Of course.


My walk is over for now.
And I am a rodeo fan.

Stampede Gold: Finals Night

The gal in the Rumpelstiltskin story spun straw into gold. That would be hard to do.

Here I sit at my computer for one of the last blogs this year for the Snake River Stampede, trying to spin gold into words. Because what I've seen, what I've felt, and what I've experienced was pure gold. I wish that spinner girl was here by my desk right now to give me just a few pointers.

We have the Snake River Stampede website and Facebook pages to bring you all of the stats; that hasn't really been my role. What I had hoped to do was to bring some of the overall experience to the eyes and minds of others, maybe those who couldn't be with us, or who've never been to a rodeo. Everyone's memories will be different; but I wanted to share mine with you...then it can be 'our's'. Possibly this will help to bring our big world just a little closer together.

On the fifth night, I understood what my friend Katie had told me about the 'electricity' in the air. I could feel it from the moment I parked my car in the lot and began the climb up the now-familiar sloping sidewalk to the entrance of my old friend, the Idaho Center. There were more people than there had been before, and they seemed to be more dressy tonight. It was, after all, Finals Night. They were pulling out the stops for this one. I saw boots and hats galore.

The shiny new Ford was out front; they'd been advertising in front of the Center all week. One of those gorgeous trucks always distributed and picked up the barrels for the racing in the arena. And it's been mentioned frequently that they didn't take any bail out money. Go Ford.

The program passer-outers were there in full force. I asked if I could just have a day sheet, I already had four programs...but they ran a tight ship and told me if I took one I had to take all. Thus, my fifth program was acquired. I tried.

I knew right where my spot was, even though the Idaho Center is huge. I'd been there four other times. There were the others girls in the media at their posts. Heather, Nina and Carole had breathed life into the Snake River Stampede website and Facebook pages, not to mention Twitter and a whole host of other things I probably didn't know about (or even understand, let's be honest). Heather's consulting business was in existence for a reason. They knew what they were doing.

Those girls were innovative in other ways. From the first night on, it was apparent that even though we had great seats, there was a little...problem. An open beverage cup would never survive in this dirt-clod laden environment. They took pieces of their programs, tore off a tidy square, and used it as a lid, sticking the straw through a hole in the center. Genius. When I'd first spotted the 'special lid', I'd thought they were worried about some spilling out, and were trying to be very careful; you know, out of respect for the Idaho Center, keeping it clean and all. Eventually I learned that it wasn't what got out, but what got in that was the concern. Don't blame them.

The drinks with the famous lids were in place again on Saturday.

We started off again with the mutton-busting. One kid had such a long ride, he ran right into the wall. The clowns ran to set him upright, and when they held him high above their heads, he put his little fist in the air.

I had a singular experience during the national anthem. As the Stampeder with the flag ran around the outer ring of the arena, I have learned that it is not a great idea to stick your face out slightly and try to greet her, even if she is indeed a friend or partial friend. Because you can get attacked by the flag. In a moment of what should have been extreme reverence, while everyone else had their hands on their hearts, I was making a sound similar to "Aaaaaaccckkkk!" as the flag caught me in the face and whipped around my head and hair, threatening to take me with it. The speed, the horse, and the momentum would've been a tough match. Luckily, the flag mercifully released, flipping around my face and giving me a final warning 'smack' right across the lips. I was glad I got off easy. That might have been bad, and very hard to explain. The flag, in essence, kicked my derriere. I won't be soon forgetting that. Not everyone gets beat up by the flag.

When the Stampeders did their final performance, a dirt clod flew my way. I'd been waiting for this moment. I carefully preserved it in a plastic cup, intending to smuggle it out of the arena. The lady sitting next to me seemed like she might need an explanation, judging from her look.

"It's special dirt!" I stated. "It came from the Oregon Trail!"

She told me that years ago they'd been told that they took some of the dirt from the old green arena, and that's what dirt it was. I was hoping we were both right; if that were the case, you couldn't find much more special dirt anywhere around. I guarded my plastic cup all through the night, making sure it wouldn't tip. It even had a piece of horse, bull, calf, or mutton hair protruding from it. A more perfect specimen, I was sure, did not exist. I had me a little piece of the Stampede. Throughout the performance I amused myself with inward phrases like, "Got DIRT?"

I did.

I noticed something new every night. What were called the 'pickup' men take the flank straps off as soon as the rider is done with his ride. They're in a hurry to do this, to get the horse calm enough to get back to the gate. The flank straps are the thing that annoys the horse enough to buck...it doesn't hurt them, just annoys them...like a blouse that doesn't fit right and rubs under your armpits.

A memorable moment was when Clint Cannon walked right past us. He'd dismounted at the far end of the arena, near where we were sitting. We could see his chest rising and falling, and when he turned his head to look up at the scoreboard...and when that scoreboard said "89"...to watch his face break out into a grin was something else. The ultimate in cowboy joy.

The crowd was rowdier than any other night, very worked up. I realized that this was a place I could hoop and holler, and I wouldn't ever be shushed. I think everyone should have an event that they attend at least once a year where they can cheer and shout and say 'yee-haw', if the mood strikes them. I never 'yee-hawed'...but I probably thought it a time or two. This rodeo-ing, I realized, just might be very mentally healthy. A pressure release.

When bareback rider Heath Ford was up, the announcers lavished on the praise. They told us how he writes gospel music, and what a God-fearing person he was. Summing it all up, one of them said of him (both as a person and as a cowboy, no doubt), "This kid just lands RIGHT."

I for one, appreciated the fact that he's not only religious, but he's fashionable. Those orange chaps of his were a fashion statement if I'd ever seen one. I respected that. Dave Tester had asked me on-air who my favorite cowboy was.At the time, I'd responded that they were all my favorites, but I've come to a decision on that; I would have to answer that I have two. I like Heath Ford. He prays AND he's fashionable. And I like whoever that cowboy was that took the time to chat with that little boy on Friday evening, the one I got a picture of. I want to know who he is very badly, because that man's a real hero and a real cowboy in my book.

When a steer suddenly stopped short and ruined the cowboy's chances at good scoring, the announcers immediately said, "BEEF. It's what's for dinner." Which led them into a whole spiel about beef.

"I guarantee I'll last longer 'n you, you non-beef eaters... and you'll die skinny, pale, and desperate."

I especially appreciated this, and gave a not-so-silent amen. I don't fully trust people who don't have enough iron in their system.

Sometime during the performance, several of my new-found 'cowfriends' surrounded me, taking over some empty seats in the booth. They were party-crashers! That amused me to no end, that they'd risk it for me. The good seats might have had something to do with that, but I'd like to think it was their undying devotion for their new friend...or something. Nevertheless, I sat there amongst them, with a smile from ear-to-ear. Here was the former rodeo queen from the one and only year I'd been to the Stampede before. (There is a long story that accompanies this statement, but that's another blog). And the other lady was one I'd interviewed, and our interview got printed up in the paper, over which we both rejoiced. Her daughter was there, (who has a fabulous cowgirl purse that I've been coveting and teasing her that I was going to snatch), and my fellow blogger and her husband. Down the row were the media friends I'd made, including Dave Tester and his Production Manager Mike. These people had all added to my rodeo experience...and made it for me. I understood that the rodeo couldn't go on indefinitely, and why. But the human part of it, I hoped would continue for years to come. I'd met such really, really great people.

One cowboy lost his time during the steer wrestling. But then he looked up at the audience, made a decision, and wrestled that steer down anyway. Afterward, he let the steer up and patted the critter on the head. These guys were tough, but they were also tender.

The announcers were in full swing, with gems such as:

"Do you know how to tell if a cowboy's married? There's tobacco juice on BOTH sides of the truck..."

The cowgirls around me burst out laughing; so much so that I knew there must be a lot of truth in it. Barely had I had the thought, when my friend Katie leaned over and said to me, "That's true, you know!" A testimonial.

When a cowboy messed up, the announcers told him, "I know you're mad, but you can do it again in Salt Lake tomorrow." This reminded me once again that their schedules are full during the month of July. If they didn't win at the Stampede, there was always several rodeos coming up. What a lifestyle.

The clowns were being their usual courageous selves. One bucking horse was just inches from Cory Wall's backside. He was near us, and in one deft movement stepped right up onto the railing, with a big boyish smile on his face. He was far from concerned.

Every now and then, the announcers had to remind us to clap. I was told by one of the cowgirls that it's a shame that we need to be told; if the audience only knew what went on behind the scenes, we'd be standing on our feet applauding like crazy.

"This audience doesn't understand the lifestyle and the things they go through," I was told.

The cowboys work very hard, and they have it pretty tough sometimes, what with their crazy schedules and the traveling and not being able to attend their church services; a strain on the deeply religious. Many of them were raised up to be very Christian. I understood that a lot of them were ordained ministers, one of the reasons being so that they'd be able to worship together, within their time frames.

One of the bucking horses, named 'Holy Hoppin' Hell', bucked right into the railings when Jesse Wright, one of the 'stars' of this year's Stampede, was riding. When the crowd over on that side ducked, the announcer told them not to worry about that 'green stuff', that it was good for them.

Radical Rudy Rodriguez had some new ones tonight. He followed the Queen around, and at one point got under her horse's tail, using the tail as a wig for his bald head, and walking behind in a swaggering way, claiming, "Look, I'm from the ghet-to!"

When the crowd cheered for Rudy, the announcers quickly said, "Whoever's cheering for that needs to get out of Star, Idaho, more often!"

When that Ford pickup went around to place the barrels in the arena, I was feeling a little sad. Barrel racing led to bull riding, which led to the end of the rodeo. I knew the pattern by now. I didn't want it to end yet.

When watching the barrel racers, I remembered something that was shared with me from a cowgirl earlier: "It's unnatural for a horse to go running full speed, slow down to maybe ten miles per hour, and then run at full speed again."

After the barrel racing, they played a commercial from D and B Supply Stores, up on the big screen. It had the familiar D and B theme music, and showed some touching footage of the western homes and families it carries supplies for. I thought of my first 'field trip', my introduction to the country-western life. I'd gone to D and B for 'research'. They'd treated me royally. I started to do that little deep-breathing/ sniffing thing that I did when I got choked up. I have had one heck of a ride.

As if reading my mind, Katie leaned up with eyes glistening and said, "We really are such a blessed people. I hope you appreciate what you've experienced."

I assured her that I did.

Next, the thing that made my palms sweat, even worse than being on the radio: The bull riding. When a rider got an "85", we all said, "WOW!"

--At least I wasn't the only one this time around saying, "Wow. Wow. Wow." Nice to have the company. I was having so much fun.

The announcers got right to it: "A little inside tip for y'all? This bull ridin' thing....it's not very easy!"

When Katie saw me with my hands over my eyes, she commented, "They choose this. It's the life they love."

I knew she was right. I had been close enough this week to see the expressions on the rider's faces. They were both respectfully scared and having the time of their lives; a strange mix.

When Paul Coppini's bull did an intentional face plant, just to throw him off....and he stayed on, we clapped like crazy.

Then, the bull riding ended. The Cervi mares and their colts rushed out, into a darkened arena. The spotlight was on them, a physical reminder of who the real stars really were. These were, we were told, the promise of generations to come, doing what God made them to do. We were told that we might think we've come just to watch the cowboys, but we've come to watch the animals. They are God's gift to us.

And then the usual send off:

"What we are is God's gift to us...and what we become is our gift to God."

Suddenly the Stampeders were riding out, each with a flag, and that famous 'Snake River Stampede' theme song began to play. I steered way clear of the railing this time, I didn't want to chance it on a rematch with another flag and get dragged off the stands. But I always wait and watch while the girls are riding, because I have a friend, Kat, that makes faces at me as she goes by. At first I thought it was just my imagination, but no. Sometimes she opened her mouth really wide in a perfect "O", sometimes she smiled really crazy, and sometimes she would make a funny noise. On all of those times, I cracked up laughing so hard it made my sides hurt. I don't dare leave before the last time they circle the arena, because I might miss her theatrics. It's just one of the many things that have made my Stampede....gold.

Pure gold.

Extreme Radio...er...I mean 'Rodeo'!

I am convinced that my rodeo experience has been anything but normal.

Of course, this would fit with the pattern of my life; nothing about it has ever been 'normal' or 'average', so I don't know why things should suddenly shift last night. And sure enough, they didn't.

I am well aware that most average people (of whom I am one) do not get to use their 'magic passes' to cut in line in front of hundreds of others, and that while security is checking bags for contraband such as outside snacks and drinks, they'll look the other way because of that laminated card hanging on a string around your neck. I'm not complaining, mind you.

I'm also well aware that all of this is no more than a fluke, or a series of flukes, rather, beginning with the death of a friend. I went to look his obituary up at the local paper's online site. In doing so, I stumbled across an article that was a call for community editorial board member volunteers. I hardly knew what an editorial board was or did, but it sounded interesting and so I wrote up a piece, telling perfect strangers from the paper all about myself and why I might be a good candidate. Of course it was embellished; I'm middle-aged and have nothing better to do than to exaggerate at this point. I did not expect to hear anything back from them. But a couple of weeks later, I was sitting around their boardroom table, nervous as a cat. And when I get nervous, there's no telling what fool thing will come out of my mouth. I believe, if memory serves me well, I may have openly offended a home-schooling mom, another potential board candidate. I simply told her that I'd tried homeschooling, had lasted ten weeks, and that I'd developed a twitch in my eye afterward that didn't go away. I quickly added that I admired anyone who took that on, and I do. But jumble that in with a lot of incoherent mumblings, said too quickly (and no doubt too loudly) to be understood, with some jerky, unnatural head movements (which I do when I'm tense) and that was more what it was like. Needless to say, I bombed.

For reasons I don't comprehend, and perhaps because life in general makes no sense at all...they called me back... and welcomed me to the board. To this day, I still don't get it.

Being on the board means that we get to comment on the current local issues. In order to do this intelligently, it's always a plus if we've actually read them. I have to admit that there are weeks that I 'cram'. Our meetings are on a specific day, and usually on that specific day's morning...I can be seen surrounded by papers at the kitchen table, pouring through the editorials. Because it's good to be thorough, I flip through every page of the main section. This is how I found the article calling for bloggers for the Snake River Stampede. Hey, I thought to myself, I'm a blogger; I'd been faithfully blogging since last September. I could write this up for them. The payoff was tickets to every night's rodeo and full press credentials. I wrote up a piece talking about how very 'not rodeo' (no embellishments necessary) I was, claiming that I'd write up a 'rodeo-ing for dummies' type blog. Weirdly enough, they liked it.

So here I sat, just a foot or two away from that famous Oregon Trail dirt.

I am here by accident...or a series of strange and random events that have come together to create a blogging, reporting, pass-flashing fan. I say again, I am here by accident. But maybe then again, perhaps we all are. Who's to say this isn't all in the grand plan...a series of accidents. Sufficeth it to say that I am beyond grateful for each and every perk. The Idaho Press Tribune and the Snake River Stampede Association are some of those I need to thank in particular. Thank You. So much.

Since blogging is still fairly new to some folks, I've had a hard time explaining what I am doing. An old cowboy I met at the parade, one everyone seemed to know, was told by a nearby friend of mine that I was a 'blogger'. He looked as if he thought his hearing was going.

"A BLOGGER", she repeated to him, loudly. He smiled and nodded, as if he understood. It was very clear that he didn't.

"He probably doesn't even know what a blogger is," she told me, by way of apology. I didn't mind; true to country form, he and his wife still invited me out to their retirement ranch for a visit. They didn't care what I was, I was a human being and that was good enough for them. This has been the norm for each and every 'country' type person I've met thus far.

I have this little comedy act that I do, by way of explanation, when I see people I know who ask me what I'm doing there at the rodeo. I jokingly hang my head and say that I'm a 'lowly blogger'. Most get it, and laugh with me. It is, after all, my secret side. I haven't been able to look anyone in the eye yet when they ask what I do for a living, and tell them with a straight face, "Why, I'm a blogger!"

Blogger is a funny word, and it's hard to say it seriously. Try it a few times out loud, and you'll know what I mean. Try it in the mirror and you'll make yourself laugh.

So, I thought I'd switch to the much more prestigious term of 'writer'.

"I'm a writer..." I told one cowboy that I was interviewing at the Buckaroo Breakfast. He looked at me with new respect and asked me what type of horse I rode, and in what event. That didn't work.

So, I went back to laughingly saying I was a lowly blogger. On Thursday night, after declaring this, one veterinarian's wife looked at me with a look of pity.

"You're a lonely blogger?" she repeated, then patted me on the shoulder.

That depends, I suppose, on the day.

So, you can see that verbal communication is not my strong point. Not by a long shot.

Enter Friday night at the Rodeo. Several media-types...and me, scratching away in my notebook observations and random thoughts. The voice of 'Rodeo on the Radio', Dave Tester of 630 KIDO walks by. He and his wife and kids had been at the booth all week, and it had been nice to see them. His wife's sister was a good friend of mine, so I knew them or knew of them. Graciously, Dave had invited us the night before to listen in to his radio program. I thought this meant sitting near enough to him to hear what he was saying. This would be a great idea; I could get his perspective on the rodeo, and comment about it in my blog.

As he walked past us tonight, he said to me again, "Are you going to listen in tonight?"

I was.

Again, that thing with my communication problem. Apparently both outgoing and incoming. I didn't expect what happened next. When I sat near Dave Tester, he handed me a headphone and told me to put it on. Immediately I was having flashbacks of my visit to that country radio station, whose DJ's I'd interviewed just a couple of weeks ago, and how I'd frozen solid when they'd mentioned my name on air. Reading me correctly, they'd joked over the radio that I was 'a writer, not a talker'. I wasn't offended by that; I agreed whole-heartedly. Some people just need the delay that writing affords; and I am one of them.

'Rodeo on the Radio' was underway. Another radio announcer, joined us. So it was Dave Tester, this other guy, and me at the media table. Too funny.

Briefly and because I am a girl, I wondered just how dorky I looked with the headset on, and what it was doing to my hair, but I did some self-talk and worked it out. This was, after all, no place for vanity. I remembered how I'd found a dirt specks spattered across my forehead the night before, after the fact. I'd been talking to the vet's wife and had noticed multiple specks on her forehead during our conversation, but had been too...something...to have told her. She surely must have noticed mine. It's not hard to be humble when you're covered with dirt. I was. The headset was a secondary concern. That and there is something to be said about being middle-aged; you just don't really care that much about impressing people anymore, and you use the words 'whatever', 'why' and 'so' a lot more than you used to.

All of that aside, I have to say that every night of the rodeo has a different flavor. Just when I think there isn't anything new or note-worthy that I might find, I discover I am dead wrong.

Beginning with the Owyhee Nite Dazzlers, an equestrian drill team. These were women of all ages. Young, old, middle. They were really good, too. Something in me wanted to stand up and cheer when I watched them. Even though I joke about it a lot, age is just a number. And these women were living proof. They ignored their age and embraced their passion. Bravo.

Young Caseyn Pearson was back; the boy that had won the Little Buckaroo Contest. He had his own Caseyn-sized barrel and was working the crowd. I have to hand it to him, each night during the mutton-busting, he's been a really great clown. This kid has a bright future. I especially liked it when he stood atop his barrel and led us all in the clapping.

Morgan Frothinger had a great ride during the mutton-busting. She rode all the way down to the end of the arena. When she was held up for the audience to applaud, you couldn't miss her pink boots. Tough or not, she's still a lady and don't you forget it. I respected that.

One kid on a sheep, rode it down to the end of the arena and right smack into the waiting herd. I only hoped he landed on some wool and not a hoof or two.

When I heard the name of a girl whose family I knew, I got excited. This was different for me, it made it more personal. I'd been to their home with baby gifts when she and her twin brother had been born. I cheered Darci Wilkins on...it's a whole new game when it's a friend's child.

The presentation of the flag and the singing of the Star Spangled Banner were always something I looked forward to. I took my headphones off, so that I could sing along. Although I might think I have a decent singing voice, the rest of the listening world may not. I thought for sure we were off the air, but I removed them just in case.

--Do you want to get someone with a touch of A.D.D. overstimulated to the point of mental numbness? Just stick her in the middle of two radio personalities, with their voices pumping through her headphone, and then, just for fun...stick a world-class rodeo right in front of her for good measure. It's going to take me six months to process all of that. As my eyes and ears were attempting to absorb it all, every so often one or the other of those personalities would say:

"So what do you think, Amy-the-Blogger?"

At which point I immediately short-circuited. Sound effects, had there been any, might be:

"Wellllll, I.......Ummmmm.....Uhhhhhh...." Similar to certain political speeches, but without all the meaningful and important words in between.

They got better at just referring to me, without actually calling for comment, which was wisdom on their part. That's why they call them the 'talent'. It's also why they call me the 'blogger'.

Mr. Tester was good about helping me to know when we were on air. He'd tap my shoulder just a little, and mouth the words, "Back on."

The schtick for the other guy in Boise being in attendance, in Dave's program at least, was that he was 'across the dial' on the radio, and the two had teamed up for the rodeo event. Later on, I did some research on my two radio friends, and learned that this guy was a conservative talk-show host. So 'across the dial' was a great play on words for 'reaching across the aisle' on Dave Tester's part. Very clever. My suspicion was confirmed later when Mr. Tester said, "We're going from 'left' to 'right' on the radio dial..."

Dave described bareback riding as 'similar to taking your suitcase to the airport, that's all the more handle you have'. As for myself, I'd need a much bigger handle to keep me on one of those beasts.

One of the broncs and its rider came very close to our railing, to which it was commented that 'you could reach out and touch him'. When it ended in an impressive fall, and the medics came running out, the cowboy brushed it off with a 'Nah, I'm all right!', got up, threw his fist in the air as if in triumph and limped away. These guys are tough, no doubt about it.

The other guy commented that TV just doesn't do it justice. It was one of his first times at a rodeo. I doubted that any of this, whether it be by blog, camera, or radio was easy to convey. Although they come close,and sometimes make you feel as if you'd been there; you've simply got to see it for yourself. I know many people back east that have 'rodeo' on their bucket lists. You've just got to see at least one.

I noticed that Heath Ford, ranked number twenty-nine in the world in his event, appreciates fashion. His chaps were florescent orange. Apparently he'd seen the movie Legally Blond, where Reese Witherspoon's character declares that 'orange is the new pink'. Classic good taste. Classic.

There were a lot of things that I learned from sitting in on that broadcast. I learned that a steer wrestler is often riding at speeds of up to forty miles per hour when he dismounts. I learned that the 'hazer' (the guy or girl that assists in the event with the wrestler) keeps the steer in a straight line, and for their services gets twenty-five percent of the winning prize money.

The other guy’s questions were interesting; he asked the things I would have liked to have asked, had I not had the aforementioned radiophobia. He also made the comment that while steer wrestling, the cowboy would want to be careful not to get in the way of those horns, and wondering in practicing, etc., just how many injuries happened behind the scenes. Good 'point'. He also commented on the guy that messes with the tail of the calf for calf-roping, calling him a 'tail-er',(which eventually morphed into the name 'tail-gunner') going along with the whole 'header' and 'heeler' theme. It only made sense. He asked about the protective headgear that some of the calves wear...the brace-type gear that I'd found so silly-looking last week, when I'd seen it the first time. So I wasn't the only one that wondered about that. My questioning had just been validated.

He also wondered how these athletes cross-train, which was something I'd never thought about. Again, good question.

Dave Tester mentioned that sometimes the cowboys don't do a lot of talking after a ride; they're often in too much pain to be very chatty. He stressed that they are usually going right from one rodeo to another, especially in the 'Cowboy Christmas' month of July.

Right about that time, there was a public personality that they needed to interview, so this blogger gladly gave up her seat and headphones for a few minutes. When I returned, I found them to be soaking wet with sweat. Not just damp; so wet that they were dripping onto the table. Dave Tester did the familiar tapping of the shoulder to signal me to put the headphones on, because we were back on the air. I motioned to him and said, "Nuh-huh," but he didn't see me, he was reporting the action again. I looked over at the other guy for help, holding up the drenched headset, by way of explanation. He saw, he understood, and he laughed. We then had a whispered conversation about if maybe I could sell those headphones for a lot of money on Ebay, given that it was a celebrity's sweat and all. Finally Production Manager Mike came to my rescue and wiped them off on his jeans, with his pants becoming temporarily stained from the damp. Ick. Celebrity or no, I have my limits to being an adoring fan. I draw the line at perspiration.

Back to the Rodeo.

One cowboy, Sean Santucci, lost his time, but wrestled the steer down anyway, even though it took him way too long. He did it for the crowd. I realized that these are not only cowboys, they're entertainers in their own right. He didn't have to go to the effort, but did as a 'thank you' to the audience.

When it was time to go to another commercial break, Mr. Tester said, "You head 'em, I'll heel 'em" as a temporary farewell.

We were back on the air shortly, and I was learning more and more. Did you know that the heeler has a smaller, quicker horse? I did not, but it makes sense for the role that they play.

They talked a lot about Trevor Brazile, using phrases like 'The Michael Jordan of Rodeo', and 'simply the best.' The man in the black shirt was the man of the hour, that's for sure.

At one point, they had Roger Todd, this year's Stampede President, and the Governor of Idaho, Butch Otter, team roping. Roger was the header and the Governor was the heeler. They didn't make amazing time on that ride, but then again Dave had another point: "How many governors could do something like that?" Idaho is a very unique state, in many, many ways.

When it was time for the bull riding, I found that I was even more nervous. My palms broke out into a sweat. I was reviewing in my mind three previous nights of action and peril. Those bulls, I'll say it again, are mean devils. Fascinating to me were the clowns, who Dave Tester called a 'pair of lifesavers'. That's the truth. I saw one of them grab a bull right by the horns to get him out of the way, so that the cowboy could scramble to safety. The theme of this evening was 'Extreme Rodeo', and there were a lot more close calls this night than there had been on any other night.

Of one clown, Radical Rudy Rodriguez, it was said that he was talented.

"Nuts; but talented."

I was of the opinion that you had to be a little bit of crazy to rodeo at all, after observing this culture for the past few weeks. But it might have been exactly what I liked about the people...a little nuts, but talented. No different than any other sport, really. Maybe we're all just a little nuts by now. Maybe that's what makes it so much fun.

They had the mares and their colts run out again, as part of the closing ceremonies. I loved that. Then, they played the 'Snake River Stampede' theme song...that catchy one that you won't be able to get out of your head until a week from next Sunday.

The fourth night of the rodeo was over.

Tomorrow: the Finals.

Patriot Night and a New Rodeo Fan

There were servicemen galore on this evening of the rodeo: It was Patriot Night. The Stampede Association had given away nearly nine-thousand dollars in tickets to those in the armed forces, and they were now in the arena. Their presence added a different flavor; that of additional strength, and a bit of a tug at the heartstrings. A 'thank you' might have been on the tip of just about everyone's tongue, but it isn't always so easy to say. Free tickets were a way of expressing that.

Mady Alsup was out mutton-buston and got her boot knocked off. The announcers commanded the audience to 'pay her off', and they did, with thunderous applause. You've just got to admire a kid who's got grit like that.

A lone Stampeder once again rode to the center of the darkened arena, carrying the American flag, which had a spotlight on it. She wasn't alone for long, though. On this evening, several servicemen carrying additional flags, had their own spotlight as well. Philip Hurley, who had been our soloist for the week, walked out to stand beside those men as he sang our National Anthem.

I noticed that with each night, the numbers in the audience of those that sang along increased. There was a definite change happening. The lady standing next to me sang with just as much fervor as I felt. It was our country, our song, and our flag, and we were proud.

After the National Anthem, a prestigious-looking Hummer, painted as if it had a furling flag on it, rolled onto that special Oregon Trail dirt and stopped right in front of the announcer's booth. Colonel Sayler of the Mountain Home Air Force Base stepped out, and commanded into a microphone:

"Let 'er buck!"

The announcers quickly added that this was about as official a command as they'd ever had on a Thursday night to get things started. The rodeo was now underway, the Colonel said so.

On to the bareback bronc riding, where cowboy Kelly Timberman, who got a good ride with a decent score, and after jumping off the bronc, circled his arm around in a celebratory move, then ended that move with a strong pointing upward, as if to say, "The glory goes to God." This is not an uncommon theme among the cowboys. They know who keeps them safe. I'm betting those out there in the audience that were in the military understood that sentiment very well.

Every now and then, when the announcers felt we weren't being a gracious enough audience, we were told to 'help him out'...meaning to wake up and applaud. We did, with those not-so-subtle reminders.

My media friends and I heard boots coming down the stairs, toward our booth where we were sitting. The soft padded chairs we had were a scarcity; there never seemed to be enough to go around for all that were joining us in that box. But when we saw that the Colonel and his crew were standing before us, everyone gave up their chairs on the spot. We did it without even thinking about it. That's the kind of respect, and then some, that our military deserves. If they can risk their life for me, I can give up my chair for them. I only wished I could do more. As they were mouthing 'thank you' to me, I was mouthing 'thank you' to them. At last a chance to tell them.

Every night there is some critter that doesn't want to go back through the gate after he's had his run. They were struggling with one as we watched from our new seats. And of course the announcers couldn't resist comment:

"It's like trying to get my wife out of Dillard's!"

The lady sitting next to me cracked up, so I imagined that she could relate. Her male counterpart reacted to the statement, as well.

When it was time for the steer wrestling, I realized with a grin that this had, over the past three days of rodeo, become one of my very favorite events. I wasn't alone; when my sixteen-year-old son attended on Wednesday night, he'd later told the family that he'd like to try his hand at the sport. I actually think I could support him in that.

One cowboy was ready to wrestle, and the announcers let us in on the fact that he had a hairline fracture on his femur. After he performed, he limped away and we were once again reminded to applaud.

"He's not limpin' for sympathy, folks, that boy's got a broken femur. Cheer him on for being tough!" We did.

As I watched, one of the Idaho Center staff that were carting beverages back and forth to us was standing by with a tray and notepad, just in case we needed anything. They were so good to us, especially Jennifer who was in our booth that night. While we were watching, Jennifer couldn't resist saying to me, "You know, you just have to wonder who got drunk and dreamed up this sport? Whatever made them think of that?"

This got me laughing, because another person had said the very same thing to me, nearly word for word, just the night before. I had to agree. It's a crazy sport. And my son wants to do it. You may have to be drunk to think it up (I'll have to learn the history on steer wrestling, because now I'm curious, too), but apparently you don't have to be drinking to want to give it a try.

When a baby-faced roper rode out in front of us, both myself and the lady next to me reacted, saying the same thing, "That guy looks like he's twelve!"

I wondered what the minimum age was to be a participant in the Stampede. Because I think this cowboy might have fibbed.

I noticed that the two people sitting right next to the railing were getting peppered with dirt clods, and had 'protective eyewear' on. One man had his prescription glasses, and the woman beside him just wore her sunglasses. Clever. I myself had found a dirt particle lodged in my lower eyelid just that morning. I considered it a souvenir.

Jess Jones must've not thought his bronc was that challenging, because he rode right past us and waved to the cameras with a big smile on his face. With the announcers prodding, we all began to chant, "Re-ride, re-ride!" Which he got. On the next ride, he wasn't waving quite so much, but the bronc just about threw him into the crowd. The announcers then proclaimed a new rule: If the horse throws him into the stands, you get to keep him.

When a tie-down roper went to stand back up, it was obvious that something was very, very wrong with his leg, and that the only thing holding that leg upright was his boot. With a pained expression on his face, he was escorted down the stairs and out of the arena. I understood now that an injury in July is a financial blow; the rodeos were so closely scheduled, July provided the bulk of their annual paycheck. This was not good.

Radical Rudy Rodriguez decided to give the Queen, who was helping to round up stock, a hard time. He pretended like she'd almost mowed him over with her horse.

"Hey,Lady! Use your horn! That makes TWICE you almost ran me down!"

When the announcers came to Stran Smith, they did so with no small amount of reverence. A brother-in-law to the famous Roy Cooper, and an uncle to the 'young Coopers', who were also competing in the Stampede.

"This man's word, his walk, his talk, and his gold buckle all make him an exceptional person."

When it came time for the barrel racing, the audience gave an audible 'Awwww!' as barrels got knocked over. We hated to see it almost as much as the riders. Tonight they were absolutely twirling around those things.

A bull rider, Clayton Savage, after a rough ride, got down on one knee, took his hat off, put it over his heart and looked upwards. I was beginning to understand the pattern, here: they pray.

I have to think that almost anyone would wax religious when riding or coming anywhere near one of those devils. One of them named, "Zombie Zoo" threw his back end around, the announcers said, 'like a wiener dog on steroids'. But no matter what the bulls were doing, those hero-clowns got right in there, touching their horns with their hands, doing whatever it took to distract the bulls from their thrown riders, in order to keep them safe. Plain and simple bravery.

As usual, one of the bulls didn't want to go back through the gate. So a clown went into the gate first, putting himself in a lot of danger. The announcers tried to lighten it up by saying, "When you use live bait...it just never works out that well for the bait!"

Exactly what we were all worried about.

The man sitting in front of us, the one with the prescription glasses, was our own personal entertainment. Whenever the announcers would say, "If you're from Eagle, make yourself known!" He'd holler. When they did that for the Kuna people; same thing. Same thing with Nevada, Texas, and Utah. Our 'entertainer' cheered for every state and town, as if he were from there. He only missed one, and then we wondered why he didn't cheer.

"I'm not from there," he said simply.

But when the bull chased the clown and nearly got him with a horn in the backside, the 'entertainer' had a lot to say.

"That's the ultimate goose!" and "Say 'goodbye' to constipation!"

Radical Rudy stood behind his clown's barrel with what looked like a shaker for an alcoholic beverage. When the announcers asked him what he was holding, he declared that it was 'bull mace'.

Each night, after the bull riding is over, the audience is asked to stay seated for a special treat. For the past two nights, three beautiful specimens of horses came galloping out into the arena, in spotlight. They were glorious creatures. The announcers usually say something that has to do with their respect for the livestock, and how the animals are doing what they were born to do, always ending with the phrase:

"They are God's gift to us."

And then adding:

"What we are is God's gift to us---and what we become is our gift to God."

The Stampede was over for another night, but not for all of us. I noticed one little boy, who must have been about six or seven, making his way down to the railings. It looked like he was just hoping to catch the eye of a cowboy or two; maybe get to shake some hands, and possibly even talk to them a little, if he was really lucky. He stood there for quite a few minutes, looking hopeful.

Then finally: pay dirt.

The lady sitting next to me and I were watching the scene, our hearts melting a little as this big tough guy stopped and took some time with an adoring young fan. The woman beside me seemed to know who this cowboy was; she rattled off a name, and some titles that I didn't quite catch. Sufficeth it to say that he was the real deal, and that meeting him would be an honor for anyone. The cowboy spent a lot of time with this boy, giving him tips and encouraging him. What a moment for that kid.

The praying, the toughness, the showmanship, and the tenderness of these people never ceases to amaze me. I'm won over.

I'm a rodeo fan.