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.

Are You Wearing Pink? It Would Be Wrong Not To.

While some people collect stamps, teacups, guns, or coins...I collect mothers.

Decades ago, I was in a crisis situation. I was young, I was alone, and I was scared. My future and my safety were uncertain, and I didn't know where to turn. A mother opened her heart and home to me, knowing little more than my first name. From the moment I came through her front door, she enveloped me into one of her classic big warm hugs, and I knew that everything was going to be all right.

Late nights talking. Special meals made just because she knew they were my favorite. Phone calls. Birthday cards every year for not only myself, but my children and spouse, too. Little gifts here and there. A shoulder to cry on if I needed it. Being able to flop down on the couch in her living room any old time...these are what she gave me. In every sense of the word, this woman has become my mother. She had nine natural children of her own, but she tells everyone I'm number ten.

She is the reason I'm wearing pink tonight.

I'm sure that there are millions of stories similar to mine, of women whose lives made a difference to us. The flood of pink that I saw when I was walking up to the Idaho Center for Stampede For The Cure night, the second evening of the Snake River Stampede, attested to that.

Otherwise manly-men were in their pinkest shirts, with no apologies. They jokingly teased each other that they looked like 'Pepto-Bismol nightmares', but no matter. They were wearing it for 'her', whoever that 'her' was to them. And getting dressed up in a pink shirt once a year was the least they could do.

Show me one person who hasn't been touched in some way by breast cancer...I just dare you. If that person even exists, they're a rare breed. The truth is, unfortunately, I'm in the majority. We almost lost my adopted mother about ten years ago to this insidious disease. It was hard to watch her go through it, this person who'd spent her whole life giving so much. It didn't seem fair. But this disease has nothing to do with fair. Tonight we were trying to even the score.

So we might get a little crazy on this night. We might wear temporary tatoos and pink ribbons on our faces and spray paint our bulls and sheep pink. We might wear pink sequined cowgirl hats with feathers and paint our toenails in a neon color; just to show how very much we care. On a night like this, it would be wrong not to.

No small portion of the proceeds from this evening will go toward payment for mammograms for under-insured women right here in the Valley that otherwise wouldn't be getting checked. Early detection is the key, and the mission is to save lives. Tell the women you love in your life that there's no excuse for putting it off anymore; it's covered.

The second night of the Stampede was different than the first.

They still had the mutton-busting to start things off. Hayden Gibbs, who got a score of 85, rode a sheep that ran him right into the ground. The true country kid got up and dusted off and walked away like it was nothing. Miya Pharis got a high score of 88, riding right upside down all the way down the arena.

I'm learning that you can just never predict what an animal is going to do. One of the sheep, not feeling like running that night, trotted around in a circle very slowly. When its rider fell off, it went berserk and ran off at full speed.

Some sheep would throw their riders, then leap into the air, like a gazelle, as if to say, "Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah." (Or, would that be 'Bah, Bah'?)

The announcer said, "In forty-eight states they call this child abuse. We call it 'mutton busting'." The kids get banged up pretty good, but they seem to do it of their own free will, and they smile a lot. Curious.

They still had the lone rider with the flag come into the center of the darkened arena, with the spotlight on her and our Nation's emblem. When the soloist sang the Star Spangled Banner, however, this time the audience not only stood, but joined in. Maybe it was because we had so many of our mothers with us, and they've taught us to be respectful and patriotic. Maybe it was because on that second night, that deeper feeling of community was beginning to soak into our hearts a little more. At any rate, it was wonderful to hear the voices all around us in the dark, singing together. This was no time to let America down. I am happy to report that She still has a heartbeat; and it's a strong one. I heard it.

The Stampeders were next, the lighted equestrian drill team, with their lighted outfits and horses. They are consistently good. I noticed the amount of wind they generated as they ran past us, mixed with that famous Oregon Trail dirt. It was awe-inspiring to be that close to those powerful horses as they flew by.

The Rough Riders Drill Team, another performer of the evening, had pink ribbon decals that were sequined attached to the backsides of their horses. Pink and Proud. The Team had been placed first in the Drill Team competition earlier in the week.

The evening wouldn't be complete without hearing from the Country Junction band, with the Snake River Stampede Theme Song. I asked the cowgirl sitting next to me if the line 'he'll have to loop 'er faster than Cooper' was the same family we were seeing currently. She said that Roy Cooper was a great roper years ago; and that she thought these Cooper boys we were seeing were family. So, after all these years, that line in the song is still relevant.

There was the usual giving of each other a hard time. The friendly jabbing often came from the announcers. To be wearing pink left the door wide open for fun.

"He looks like a bottle of Pepto-Bismol on a horse!"

"He looks just like a Mary Kay salesman!"

But it was all in good fun. I have no doubt that these men didn't mind.

Later in the evening, one of the announcers asked the other,"Are we getting older, or is that event looking tougher?" And the other replied, "Heck, I never wanted to do that, even when I was twelve!"

Radical Rudy Rodriguez and his son did some show-stealing. When they both threw their hats on the ground, they were told by the announcers that they must wear hats at all time, due to the dress code regulations. They both said, "Okay...!" And then the dove forward, head-first into their hats, and did handstands in them. What could anyone say? They were wearing their hats, after all.

It was nice to see the other clown, the one that had gotten thrown in the air by a bull the night before, up and running tonight.

When one bareback rider got a decent score and gave a visibly impressive ride, the announcers said, "Now that's just showin' off right there!"

Some of the barrel racers didn't have the best night; racer after racer was knocking over barrels. The announcers tried to make light of it by saying, "Hit all three and you win a pizza!" or, "We've just turned the barrel racing into a demolition derby!"

This was also the night of the passing of the crown from one Miss Rodeo Idaho to the other. The outgoing queen did the honors, and the new queen was presented with a gorgeous new horse trailer with the words, "MISS RODEO IDAHO 2010" across the sides. There were flowers and silk and glitz everywhere.

Then, the event we'd all been anticipating. The bull riding. I hoped that I wouldn't do what I did the night before...inadvertent exclamations of "Wow. Wow. Wow." But to no avail...I caught myself doing that again. Who wouldn't, with what we were seeing. It was nothing short of astounding. Those bulls were nothing to mess with. Case in point: just get a load of some of their names. 'Devil Duty', 'Velvet Revolver', 'Death Warrant', 'Back Stabber', and 'Triple Threat'. Not to mention the bull that won't be ridden, the infamous 'Johnny Ho'. Johnny Ho, incidentally, got the distinct honor of being the pink bull for this year. He was perfect for the part, being beige in color. I don't think he cared. He was certainly tough enough to wear pink, or any other color for that matter.

Rad Rudy once again took great pleasure in taunting the beasts. He stood atop his clown's barrel and yelled, "Your mother's a cow! And your sister's a heifer!"

When he got down into the barrel and asked the two announcers, "Does this barrel make my rear look big?" the reply was, "Rudy, my friend, you are living proof that we shouldn't clone humans."

The bulls stir everything up. Heart rates increase to a dangerous level. At one point, when a bull knocked one of the clowns off their barrel and almost 'got' him, I thought I was going to pass out. After a bull attacked Rudy's barrel, the announcers asked him if his barrel was okay. Rudy peered into the top and yelled, "My furniture's missing!"

I also noticed while the bull riding was going on that my palms were sweating. It made me as nervous as a job interview where the boss doesn't talk.

These men do this willingly, I told myself. It's sport to them. And they love it enough to keep coming back, year after year, and to do rodeos back-to-back during the entire month of July. It's the age-old "Man Versus Beast". Our ancestors did it, and some of us are still doing it. Some genetics don't ever die out, and thank goodness for that. I can't imagine any one of these cowboys backing down, in a case of needing to defend those they loved. Not a one. They were as tough as the animals they rode. And tonight they were doing it for others who've had to be just that brave. If their mothers, sisters, daughters and wives could stare death in the eye, so could they. The cowboys did it every day; and so do these women.

They are all Tough Enough.

This year the Stampede For The Cure presented a check to be used toward mammograms for our own loved ones, right here at home. The check was in the amount of three-hundred-thousand dollars.

God Bless America.
God Bless Idaho.
God Bless the Snake River Stampede.

Snake River Stampede: Opening Night

I'm not going to lie. It was really cool using my press pass to 'cut' in front of the line of people that was already forming outside the Idaho Center on opening night of the Stampede. I just showed the laminated card that was hanging around my neck, and the side doors opened... and voila! I was in the arena. It was like magic.

I came upon what could only be described as the calm before the storm. The Concessions People were grouped for one last pow-wow on how to handle the impending crowd. I saw my friends in the green aprons; the now-familiar 4-H gang. Heavenly scents hung in the air...glazed and roasted almonds among them; a long-time favorite of mine.

A group of people were seated on the floor, just beyond the entrance, a pile of Stampede booklets near them. They'd soon be on their feet for quite a while, and they were enjoying this brief reprieve. They were from a sorority that volunteered in the community, like so many of the other people milling about, getting ready for the throngs. The gates were going to open soon.

I walked into the humongous arena, and I could smell the dirt just a little bit. How many tons had they hauled in for this? That was another question for the Stampede people. Dirt trivia.

As the people began to file in, I noticed to my dismay that there was the Governor of Idaho again, in jeans and hat. I'd embarrassed myself last Saturday at the parade by blurting out, "Hi Butch", as he'd ridden by on his horse. I had not meant to call the Governor by his first name. The sun must've been getting to me that morning. A couple of days later I'd seen him and found the nerve to apologize, and he'd graciously 'pardoned' me. But I wasn't going to take my chances this time by saying something else that was equally 'brilliant'...so I walked the other way. No offense, Mr. Governor.

Before I knew it, I'd spotted my 'media' party, and we'd been invited on a 'behind the scenes tour' by our host, Jeff Agenbroad. We walked back out of the arena, down the long concessions hallway, past a helpful Stampede worker who saw my questioning gaze and said, " Oh,the restrooms are right over there." I told him I was actually taking a tour, but that the restrooms would be my next stop, and thanked him for directing me. Very helpful.

Long, broad hallways for almost as far as the eye could see, down on the lower, lower level. Out one door and through the next was the way to get to the LifeFlight helicopter, should anyone ever need it. Jeff said that in the thirteen years they've been at the Idaho Center, they've only needed it once. But it's there if ever they should need it again.

We passed the common area where the cowboys were preparing for their next ride. They were a relaxed bunch; chilling out before they had to perform again. A bit of talking between themselves here and there, but not much. Jeff Agenbroad explained that this hadn't been their first rodeo this week; most of them go from one rodeo to the next during the entire month of July, a month they call 'Cowboy Christmas'.

We walked outside and saw the bucking horses and the bulls. One of them, a white-ish colored bull, had some pink hairspray across his shoulders and neck. He was the revered Tough Enough For Pink Bull, to be seen on Wednesday Night, the Stampede for the Cure Night. The proceeds go toward helping women in this Valley get mammograms, even if they cannot afford it. I would not question whether this bull was tough; he obviously was.

The Justin sports medicine trailer was parked nearby, and it was a busy place on the inside. Cowboys lying on padded benches, nursing knees and ankles with ice packs. The white wrapping tape was visible on almost all of them there. Everyone had an injury. Jeff said in this business, it's not a matter of 'if', it's a matter of 'when'. It is a given that you are going to get hurt. Justin supports the rodeo by donating the trailer, the staff, and the supplies. Pretty big of them.

We walked back into the arena through another entrance and suddenly there we were; the coveted 'behind-the-chute' location. I instantly knew I'd worn the wrong shoes, because my back heel kept falling into the slots of the metal stairs, while climbing up the stand overlooking the chute. This being right near the chute business was too cool; but my shoes were going to make me stumble in front of this crowd; which was not too cool. I removed them. Immediately I looked up and a few cowpersons were watching me with what appeared to be a new respect.

"That must be similar to walking on glass," they commented. I was standing on the bumpy, corrugated, slatted bars of steel.

"It is," I said calmly, very uncomfortable but wanting them to see that even a 'townie' like me had a little 'tough' in her. That was a great moment. As soon as they looked away, I quickly got off the stand.

They opened with mutton busting, which is basically this: a little kid with a helmet on tries to ride a sheep for several seconds. This is beyond hard to do. They are, however, cheered on by the thousands that are in the stands, and that's heartwarming. One five-year-old girl decided that maybe this wasn't her year. The crowd gave her a huge cheer anyway. Again, that community thing.

Jeff introduced us to the man who was in charge of the sheep for the mutton busting. I believe he was one of the Cervi brothers, but it was too loud in the arena for me to hear his name for sure... however I found him to be humorous.

"You know that smell that sheep have? It doesn't wash off." He told us. I suddenly remembered my husband saying that those workers that help to load wool said their hands were soft as could be for the next week thereafter. Ahhh, lanolin.

We got seated close to the famous dirt. So grateful to the Stampede Association for the good seats they gave us, in exchange for our reporting duties. I noticed right off that we were going to get dirt clods flipped at us. As the riders ran by, carrying the flags of all of the sponsors, one flew up and hit the wall behind me, bounced off that and hit me on the back of the head. I loved it. Others around me were not so thrilled. I said, "What, you don't want to get hit by the dirt?" The next time it flew, I exclaimed, "Yes! DIRT!" and the reply, "I only HOPE it's dirt!" made me laugh out loud.

I actually liked the dirt. It enhanced the experience. A dirt-spattered pair of jeans after the rodeo was like a badge or something. Secretly, I was hoping to take a little of it home; it was, after all, historic dirt from the Oregon Trail. The Stampede people may keep their dirt in a vault at the end of the rodeo...but maybe not all of it!

They announced the Mayor, who was atop a horse far down the arena from us. I laughed as I thought, "It's the Mayor on a mare." But really I was too far away to tell if it was a mare. It was a gorgeous horse. And our Mayor, Tom Dale, has mentored my children in golf; not a bad guy, in my book.

A band played the 'Snake River Stampede' Theme song, and we were officially underway. You have to be careful with this song...it's catchy and you'll find yourself still singing it a week from Sunday. I knew every word of it now, my favorite part being 'under the Idaho moon.'

Then, the moment I'd been waiting for: The glorious Stampeders, the brain-child of my friend, Jimmie Hurley. I'd been to their practice, I'd learned all about them, I knew a few of them personally...but I'd never seen them perform in all of their luminous glory. The lights were dimmed in the arena, and one lone rider came out, carrying a large American flag, with the spotlight on Old Glory. The announcer gave a moving speech on the freedom we enjoy, and those that have fought to preserve that. How lucky we are that our daughters can choose what they wear, and who they want to be. The liberty that must be maintained, and the respect we ought to show for the flag and all it stands for. And just as we had all developed large lumps in our throats...the Star Spangled Banner was sung.

Then...the rest of the Stampeders came racing out into the arena, lighted in red and white. The horses' hooves lit up when they hit the earth, like little kids' lighted shoes. It was like nothing I'd ever seen. I could hear Jimmie's voice in my ears, saying, "I just dream, that's what I do" and seeing the fruition of her dreams right in front of me. I heard Leslie Todd's voice once again, like I'd heard at that practice, telling the girls to get just as close to those walls as they possibly could. I literally could have reached out and touched them, they were that close. Their spacing was perfect, their timing impeccable. And all in the virtual dark. You need to see this to believe it.

Before we knew it, the lights were up, and it was time to start the rodeo-ing.

The first thing I noticed was a bronc that wouldn't be rounded up after his ride. The announcers, Bob Tallman and Boyd Polhalmus, had fun with this. As the bronc avoided the gate, they said things like:

"It's like trying to get Bret Favre to retire..." or "It's like trying to get Rosie O' Donnell to leave the View...."

I learned something new about myself as I watched. I knew of my strange habit of laughing uncontrollably on certain carnival rides. What I did not know was that when I watch someone being bucked around on a bronc, the inadvertent words, "Wow. Wow. Wow," escape my lips...and I can do nothing about it.

I found the expressions on the faces of the riders to be interesting; a mixture of complete concentration, perhaps some fear, and what can only be described as, "Wheee!" Although I found myself being very concerned over those riders, I realized that they were probably having the time of their lives, and began to relax. They wouldn't do it for years and years if they hated it. Besides, some of these riders were making it look like a dance or something, they were so good at what they did.

The names of the bucking horses were colorful; names like 'Angel Dust' and 'Hustlin' Lady'. I wondered what the stories were behind the names, but then quickly retracted that thought. Some things are just plain better left a mystery.

I noticed Dave Tester, the former TV sportscaster from years ago, set up at a table beside us. I'd heard that he'd gone to radio. No sooner had I had that thought, than he said into his mike, "Rodeo on the Radio." I thought that was clever.

The announcers were really quite good. There wasn't one quiet moment of wasted air, except to allow room for applause. If the audience didn't applaud when they thought we should, they'd repeat what they'd said again for us to 'get it'.

"We said, he's from IDAHO!" And the crowd would oblige with cheering and applause, finally.

They especially liked to give one of the clowns, Radical Rudy Rodriguez, a hard time. When Rudy said he wanted to be introduced to a pretty blond, the announcers told him, "You've already got a family!....And you've wrecked three others!"

When a rider was from Utah, one of them said, "I like Utah. I also like iced tea." (Giving Utah a gentle jab on behalf of their non-tea drinkers.)

They were nice to the ropers, too. I respected that. Instead of the terrible phrase, "No time," they'd call them 'No catch 'um's."

When the both the announcers and the audience didn't exactly love the judges' scoring for a rider, they said, "You guys make Simon Cowell look good!"

One of their antics really got us. They asked for everyone to cheer that was over forty. Not many did. Hey, being over forty isn't always that fun. Then they asked for those under thirty to cheer. I cheered, and got a stern look from my husband because for one thing he knew I was lying, and for another it made him look like a cradle robber. When they asked for those under twenty to cheer again, of course I cheered again. I'm not even going to describe the look I got that time. But to those under twenty, they had a special message. It was:

"Pull your pants up!"
As we all cracked up, thinking of our favorite youngster with baggy jeans, or that girl with the mega-hip-huggers, the one announcer added:

"Yeah, we're not s'posed to see that stuff till we marry ya!"

When there was an intermission, a shiny new Ford pickup truck was driven out onto the dirt. They did a really nice promo for them. It went something like this:

"Can I just say something for a minute? They didn't take any money from the Government. They just kept selling! GOD BLESS FORD!" And then they added, "If you don't have one, GET ONE."

The variety of events made it impossible to get bored with the program, mixing up already-exciting events couldn't help but to keep the attention of the spectators. But they didn't mix up the bull riding. They saved it for the very last.

I watched the clowns, often getting just inches from the bull's hooves. 'Rad Rudy' stood balanced over a barrel, wiggling his backside. One of the bulls got under another clown and lifted with his horns, throwing the man into the air. The clown, already wrapped with white sports tape in places, went off limping. These guys are themselves professional bullfighters and are certainly heroes in their own right.

The comments that were made regarding the bulls were things like, "A phenomenal bloodline" and "Got some amazing genetics happening..."

There was one bull I'll never forget. I big, black-ish colored one. I'm not sure of the name, but I myself might dub him something like 'Spawn of Satan'. He chased everything in the arena, knocked over and attacked the clown barrel, and attacked once again for good measure on the way out. He was a mean critter.

At the end of the evening, a herd of horses were let into the once again darkened arena...dozens of mares with their colts. The announcers told us that the Cervi Rodeo, who were the livestock contractors, were, after all, all about family...as is everything. They explained that there were some who were of the school of thought that rodeo stock are abused and treated poorly, but that each of them had wonderful lives where they got the finest of care...and most of them only worked for about eight seconds a day, doing what they were born to do; run, kick and buck. They'd come from a long line of high-spirited animals, and that high-spirit had been passed down through the bloodlines, just as we might wear our grandmother's smile, or our father's hair color.

Doing what they were born to do. I thought about that a lot. Isn't that what we all want out of this life?

The announcers went on to say that these horses' children would be able to perform for our children and grandchildren, and the tradition would continue. I hoped that was the case. I hoped that my children and grandchildren would keep going to the rodeo, whether I was around to take them or not.

The horses exited, and we heard again the Snake River Stampede theme. The Stampeders went racing by, holding the flags of the many sponsors. And just like that; the Snake River Stampede was over.

Until tomorrow night, that is.

The Stampede is here.