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.