Tears for Zeb and Munsy

Well, another year has passed (measuring by the rodeo calendar) and my heart is broken yet again by having missed That Famous Preston Night Rodeo. My mom might think I mock her devotion to all things rodeo when I say this, but it really is true: I cried myself to sleep Thursday, Friday and Saturday night, just like last year, when the tears fell in Guatemala. Each night, my sorrow eventually gave way to sleep and with it came dreams of rodeos past: my first (and second, and third) date, marching band, riding on floats, searching the white trash booths at the sidewalk sale for nasty shirts so Mom could request their removal, testing neck coolers with Emily and Lisa, the year of the Jumbotron, dropping popcorn on cowboys' hats, being late to everything because the Larsons' came late/had to get ready/waited to order pizza until the rodeo was almost starting, watching Dad (and later Mom) ride the serpentine, sitting over the shoots, the one Saturday I sat in the "Wild Bunch" and realized that the "Beckstead Bunch" of section B is muhc better, dreaming of being a rodeo queen, steaming my hat with Leonard Ward, meeting (and admiring) Randy Munns and Zeb Bell, dancing to Rough Stock, stealing food from the hospitality room, hanging up posters to earn school clothes money, busting out my Wranglers' and Frye boots, eating fresh strawberry shakes, the Gee Whiz, Emily flirting with the carnie who ran the Gee Whiz to score us free rides, watching the white trash of P-town seep out of the woodwork for the carnival, rodeo burgers, and, most importantly, Mom's favorite part of the rodeo: watching the cowboys change Wrangler's behind the chutes.

At the risk of over-sentimentality, my life has kind of been defined by rodeo weekends. It's the time of year when I felt the closest to Mom and Dad, who are more comfortable on the back of a horse than anywhere else, who would do anything for the community that has been their lives, and for whom tradition and family go hand in hand. Rodeo always marked the end of summer's lazy days and signaled the impending return to school. At the same time, it was summer concentrate, signifying everything that kid summer's were about: fun, family, and freedom.

I suppose part of the reason my heartstrings are so tugged by missing the rodeo is because of the memories it holds and of course, because it means missing a chance to see my family, but there is also more to it than that. I think there's a part of me that sits above the chutes at the rodeo grounds all year long, breathing in the earthy smell of freshly disked soil and imagining all the cowboy's dreams that have been ridden out in that arena, or have found themselves toppled onto that dirt. There's something about cowboys that has always spoken to me of fulfilling dreams: the hours of practice, the relience on family and tradition, the lengths gone to, the grit and, often, sheer stupidity of perseverence, and the glory of that one ride that makes all the difference.

I've never been much of a horseman, but I do consider myself, at least in part, a cowgirl. And I don't think anyone who hasn't seen me as such has really seen me. It's not that there's anything inherently cowgirl about me. But it's in my blood, and it's exhibited once a year, and it's something that feels right somehow.

So, to end this rather soggy bit of rodeo prose, I'd like to quote a prayer that will forever be in my heart (and I consider it the best of vain repetitions):

Our Heavenly Father, we pause, mindful of the many blessings you have bestowed upon us. We ask that you be with us at this rodeo, and we pray that you will guide us in the arena of life. Now we don't ask for special favors; we don't ask to draw around a chute fighting horse, or to never break a barrier. Nor do we ask for all daylight runs, or not to draw a steer that won't lay. Help us, oh Lord, to live our lives in a manner that when we make that last inevitable ride to the country up there, where the grass grows lush and green and stirrup high, and the water runs cool, clear, and deep, that you as our last judge will tell us that our entry fees are paid.