Yee Haw, We're Going to the Rodeo

I grew up going to the rodeo. My dad loved the rodeo and as a result he took his children whenever possible. Though I loved riding horses, I was never adventurous enough to try my hand at riding in the rodeo myself. My sister, Laurie, did dabble in barrel racing ever so briefly, but I have never had the drive for competition. I may have gone to a rodeo or two after my father died, but I never enjoyed it as much.

Flash-forward 30 years and it dawned on me that my children had never been to a rodeo. I was determined to change that. My boys were not going to go another year without see and experiencing the wonderful spectacle that is “The Rodeo”. We planned a long stop-over in Cody, Wyoming to right this wrong. In my exhaustive research, I learned that Cody, Wyoming is the rodeo capital of the world. They have a real live rodeo every night June through August. This is the real thing. The kids competing have to pay an entry fee and no doubt many have dreams of going to the National Finals Rodeo. Hot dang, my boys are going to the rodeo.

I was in heaven when we pulled into the parking lot. It was dusty, it was smelly and you could hear the bulls snorting and the cows mooing. We walked in and there stood a giant bull. For $10 you could sit on the beast. I thought about it. Figured the boys would love it, but didn’t want to spend $30 for the privilege. I’m cheap. We found great seats, a few rows up and dead center. The bull chutes were below us and we could see the animals as they were penned and prepped for riding. We could see the young men wrapping their hands and psyching themselves out to take on their formidable opponents.

The rodeo started like any good rodeo. Two golden haired girls wearing red sequenced western blouses rode into the ring holding the American flag high. They rode around in circles a couple times before coming to a stop in the center of the ring as we said the Pledge of Allegiance. They rode out and a raven haired beauty, slightly older, came riding into the ring holding a much larger flag and we sang the National Anthem. I always get chocked up at events like this. I love standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers, united in love of our great nation.

Time to rodeo. Our MC/clown came out to introduce the events and to tell a few jokes. He was really funny and the kids got a kick out of him. Then the bull riding started. The first kid was fantastic. He held on to the bucking bull for the required eight seconds before being tossed off like a rag doll. The bull came frighteningly close to stomping on the kid, but he was able to scramble out of the way, just in time. What a sight. As the event continued, most of the cowboys were thrown off well before the eight seconds were up, but they all went down in style.

After the bull riding there was calf roping, bronc riding, team roping and a few other events, but my all time favorite event is Barrel Racing. I love watching barrel racing. There is just something so very exciting about seeing those kids race around the barrels at break neck speeds. I have always loved barrel racing and I’m sure I always will. The barrel racing at the Cody rodeo did not disappoint. There were two categories, 12 and up, and under 12. Most of the 12 and up crowd were kids in their late teens, early 20’s and they were fast. You could tell they had been racing for a long time and they were comfortable in the saddle. There was one little girl, who just turned 12 who quickly became the crowd favorite. She flew around the barrels with her little braids flapping in the wind. She didn’t win in her category, but she came awfully close. The 12 and under competition was cut-throat. These little kids were amazing. Fast as lighting and not a single disqualification in the group. One little girl stood out. She was six. Long blond braids under her pink cowboy hat and the biggest horse I have ever seen. She was so tiny that her little legs just stuck straight out. The crowd was on their feet, cheering this tiny little wisp of a girl. She blazed through the barrels, her little legs flapping, her braids flying behind her, bobbing up and down on the saddle like it was nothing. Honestly, I don’t know if she won or not. I think she did, but I was so stunned by her talent and fearless attitude that I proclaimed her the winner in my mind. Fortunately for the other competitors, she was last on. I couldn’t imagine having to follow that act.

The highlight of the rodeo for the boys was when they were allowed to run into the ring with all the other children and attempt to pull a bandana off the tails of three calves. The MC/clown called the kids down got them all lined up in a straightish line and proceeded to explain the event. In the course of explaining the event he told the kids to reach down, pick up a handful of dirt and put it in their pocket. Most of the kids realized the clown was joking, but I saw Reid and Sean reach down and pick up the dirt. I’m yelling from up in the stands “NO! NO!”, but it was no use, they couldn’t hear me. They both put a handful of rodeo dirt into their pockets. There were about 75 kids in the ring, and Sean came very close to getting a bandana, but no, victory was not meant to be. He was disappointed, and I was afraid he wouldn’t snap out of it, but by the time the rodeo ramped back up the disappointment was forgotten.

The rodeo ended with a second round of bull riding. The second round was much more exciting than the first. One of the bulls kept trying to jump out of the chute and the rider was never able to get on him. Another rider got banged into the gate as soon as it was opened and granted another try. One of the bulls quickly dispensed with his rider and went after the clown in the barrel and the brightly dressed dummy in the middle of the field. Dummy parts went flying much to the delight of the boys.

Much too soon it was over. We got back in our car and drove back to the RV. Not quite ready to end the perfect night we sat outside for a few minutes and looked for constellations. The Wyoming sky is almost free from light pollution and the stars seem to sparkle a little brighter there. Sean was delighted to be able to find the North Star on his own and then it happened… a shooting star. The perfect ending to the perfect night.

Flying Pigs

After much planning and anticipation, the day of our horseback riding/white water rafter adventure was upon us. We got up and out crazy early because of road construction in Yellowstone National Park. The most direct route from our campground in West Yellowstone, Montana to Gardiner, Wyoming was through the park. The morning before it took us almost two hours to go 30 miles because of the aforementioned road construction, and we weren’t going to take any chances the morning of our adventure. Of course, there was no construction that morning and we were way early, which is fine with me. I would much rather find ways to kill time than stress out about being late.

We checked in with Flying Pig Adventure Company, got directions to the ranch and took the 30 minute drive, six miles straight up a mountain on a dirt road. We got to the ranch, met our trail leaders and were assigned our horses. I was shocked when they brought out a giant horse and called Sean over. They put him on the behemoth and he didn’t seem fazed at all. I on the other hand was slightly freaked out. I started riding horses when I was younger than him, but the horse I rode was tiny compared to Sean’s mount.

Glenn got his horse next, then Robert, Reid and finally me. I was assigned a horse named Curly. As soon as I got up on him, he started trying to nose his way to the front of the pack. As we started riding we ended up in the middle of the group and Curly continually crowded the horse in front of me and seemed very agitated. I’m sure he started to settle down, but honestly, once my knee started aching I didn’t care. All I could think about was the time and the fact that we had signed up for a two hour ride. I was fairly certain I wasn’t going to last two hours. It has been thirty years since I’ve ridden a horse and my joints were not prepared.

Sean was able to distract me from my aching knee by his screams. I looked ahead and saw him riding into the brush and through the pine trees. His horse decided it was done and wanted to take a more scenic route. Unfortunately, Sean has no riding experience and didn’t know what to do other than yell for help. After what seemed like ten minutes one of the trail guides galloped up from the back of the pack and got him out of the wilderness. Sean took it all in stride and seemed unfazed. He continued to ride, often looking back to talk to Robert.

Finally, when I thought I could take no more, the ride ended. I could barely stand, and walking was a painful endeavor. Once done with the ride we were served lunch. Can’t say I loved the lunch, cold, overdone hamburgers on dry, just this side of stale buns, baked beans, tortilla chips and hard, overdone peanut butter brownies. I was expecting more… I was definitely expecting hot and tasty, not cold and dry.

We finished lunch and headed back down the dirt road to the river to start our whitewater rafting adventure. We parked on the street across from Flying Pig and Glenn noticed the car behind us looked familiar. He thought it looked like my mom’s car. I was doubtful. I had invited my mom and her husband Herb to join us but they had declined. Surprise. It was my mom and Herb. They had a change of heart and decided to brave the rapids with us.

After our safety briefing we were assigned rafts. My mom and Herb were with us as well as five young men from Saudi Arabia. English was not their first language, nor was it their second or third. They had apparently lived pampered lives because not one of them knew how to row a raft. When our guide said “forward”, they rowed backwards. When our guide said “backwards” they rowed forward. Rowed is actually too strong a word to describe what they were doing. They were, in essence, dipping the tip of the oar in the water and half-heartedly moving it. It was pathetic, to say the least. I was stuck on one side with three of these men and was trying singlehandedly to keep our raft from turning in circles all the way down the Yellowstone River. At one point these men decided to get out of the raft and go for a swim. I suggested we row away, since the dead weight was gone, but alas our guide, Ford, was a responsible young man and didn’t want to lose his job.

The kids, in the meantime, were having a blast. They got to sit at the front of the raft and allow the spray to wash over them. I’m not sure what the water temperature was, but it was cold. Every time it lapped over the raft and onto me it felt like someone poured a glass of ice water down my shirt. When our Saudi friends started swimming, in wet suits I might add, Reid and Sean begged me to let them get in. I warned them that it was cold and reminded them that they didn’t have wet suits, but they wanted in. I finally relented and let them get into the frigid waters. Reid was the first to cry uncle, but Sean refused to ask to come back in. I had to drag him back into the raft, his lips were blue and he was shivering. The next opportunity to get out, he declined.

In spite of our raft mates, we had a great time braving the rapids of the Yellowstone River. It was eight miles of twists, turns, rapids, still waters, bone chilling spray, a kidnap attempt by another raft and lots of laughs. Flying Pig Adventure Company delivered on their promise to give us fun-filled afternoon. If the opportunity came again I would probably skip the horseback portion of the day and opt for a longer raft trip. The horseback riding dragged on, but the rafting was over too soon.

We topped our day of adventure with a soak in “Boiling River” in Yellowstone. It is an area on the Yellowstone River where the scalding hot waters from one of the thousand hot springs/geysers runs off. It was incredible. Take a small step to one side and you are in scalding waters, step the other way and the water is ice cold. I found a spot that had a good mixture, with just the occasional hot spot/cool spot and soaked my tired achy muscles.

Finally, we dragged our tired selves back to the motor home. There was no push back when I ordered everyone to shower and go to bed. We were all exhausted. In very short order, snores were heard coming from the Anderson’s RV.

Digital Dream

I'm not a huge fan of technology. Not to say I'm a technophobe, I'm certainly not. I'm not afraid of some weird I-Robot threat, and I'm not overly concerned that "the man" can track my every move when I have my cell phone on. I use the ATM whenever I can, pay-pump is my friend and I prefer self-checkout at the grocery store. I just don't get the point of some of our latest technological advances. I've considered getting an e-reader, but still don't feel compelled. I have an i-pod only because I won it at the Frederick Home Show. Yes, I use a laptop, but it is pretty basic. I have no intention of ever tweeting, don't get the point whatsoever. I have no illusion that people are waiting with baited breath to find out what my latest thought is while I wait in line at the MVA. Our GPS has managed to get us into trouble from time to time, so I still keep an atlas close at hand when we travel. However, there is one technology I absolutely love. I didn't want to love it. I fought off getting it until I was forced to do so. But now that I've got one, I do not wish to ever give up. The digital camera.

Getting a digital camera was hard for me. I loved my 35mm. It took clear, true color photos. It wasn't complicated and it always worked. I began to realize I was going to have to consider getting a digital camera several years ago when we were vacationing at the Outer Banks and Myrtle Beach. I couldn't buy film. I went from drug store to drug store, department store to department store, nobody had film. I thought I had brought enough film with me, 10, 24 print rolls, but as I was happily snapping away at the boys playing in the surf I could see my stash dwindling to dangerous levels. I ended up rationing my film the last couple days of vacation and didn't get all the shots I would have like to have gotten. That wasn't the tipping point for me. No, I just stocked up on film at Costco the next time I was in there. The final straw was when my beloved 35mm camera started having issues. The pictures were suddenly less clear, a little dark. It made a funny noise when the film would advance from time to time, occasionally it wouldn't advance at all. The camera was a simple point and shoot, I probably spent less than $150 for it, I wasn't about to spend big bucks to get it fixed. That's when I started earnestly looking for a new digital camera.

I have to say, I love it. I really do. I love being able to snap away and not worry about processing fees. I love that I can download a picture or two or ten and send them to my mother, or post them on Facebook. I love the instant gratification of taking a picture and seeing exactly what it looks like. We have been in the Mount Rushmore area of South Dakota for the last several days and I have taken at least 100 pictures of the sculpture. Many straight on, but many more from different vantage points. In some of the photos you can only see Washington, some you can only see Lincoln a few you can only see Jefferson and Roosevelt. If I were still using my 35mm camera the fees to develop the film would be astronomical and I wouldn't know if I had good pictures until after I paid for them. But with my digital camera I can download them to my laptop every night and relive the day with my family. How fantastic is that?

Gone are the days of dealing with stacks and stacks of photos, storing them until I get a chance to put them in a scrapbook. Now I print out only the photos I need for the pages I will be scrapbooking. I'm even dipping my toe into the world of digital scrapbooking, so who knows where that will take me. I am excited to see what the next advance will be in the world of digital photography. I will watch QVC for hours when they have all the digital gadgets for sale. I've not bought any yet, but I'm sure it won't be long. I've felt my hand twitch a few times when they've flashed the phone number on the screen. I'm even considering the purchase of a second digital camera. I like mine, but it's a little bulky and has a few features I don't use. I want something a bit more sleek and, of course, idiot proof. I'm sure I would use all the features on my current camera if I bothered to read the 500 page manual that came with it. That's just not going to happen. Even if I had the time, the inclination isn't there.

I don't want a cell phone capable of taking motion picture quality movies, I don't want to Twitter, I'll gladly trade in my GPS for a good atlas, my digital HD channels on my TV are always screwed up, thanks Comcast, I don't mind holding a book and flipping the pages and I wouldn’t mind weaning my kids off the X-Box and Wii, but go back to a 35mm? No thank you.

Thirty Years

It has been thirty years today since my father died. The day almost got away from me without even realizing it. I guess that's a good thing. The last time I saw my father was at the Will Rogers World Airport in Oklahoma City on July 4, 1981. I was heading off to Girl Scout Camp in Ten Sleep, Wyoming for two wonderful weeks of horseback riding. I don't remember the last words I spoke to my father, or the last words he spoke to me. I'm sure we both said "I love you" no doubt he told me to be careful. I'm sure there was a hug. I didn't commit our good-bye to memory because it wasn't supposed to be the last time I saw him. He was supposed to pick me up at the same airport on July 18. Little did I know I would be coming home on July 11 with one less parent. There is no good way to learn your father has unexpectedly died, but when you are a 14 year old girl, far from home, finding out on the phone is the worse way possible. I was all alone. The people around me where, for all intent and purposes, strangers. They tried to comfort me, but I wanted to be home with my mother, sister and brother. I yearned to be held by a loved one. On my way home from Wyoming the following day, my Grandfather, making his connection from Washington, caught up with me at the Denver airport. As soon as I saw him down the corridor I broke out into a run, flung myself into his arms and clung to him sobbing. At last I had someone to share my grief with. Within a few hours I was home surrounded by the ones I loved with a large gaping hole in my heart. As these thirty years have passed the hole has gotten smaller, though, if it hasn't closed up yet, my guess is, it never will. I suppose that's the price we pay for love.

Cell Phones

I’m not old by most standards. I’m solidly stuck in the middle of my forties and I’m okay with that. I can remember life before touch-tone phones, answering machines and cordless phones. I remember when long distance was based on how far you lived from someone, so if you had to call someone out of state, you only hit the highlights in your conversation. I’m glad I have flat rate long distance now. I enjoy being able to call my friends near and far and not have to worry about how long we talk. I’m glad I have a cordless phone. I can’t imagine getting anything done if my phone was tethered to the wall. I do most of my talking while gathering up a load of laundry, sweeping the kitchen floor, making a meal. If I was stuck in one place I would have to decide between housework and socializing. I don’t want to imagine which one would lose. As far as those old rotary phones are concerned, I don’t miss those either. It seemed like everyone had all nines in their number when you were in a hurry. All that said, there is one thing about phone technology I could completely live without… cell phones.

I hate cell phones. When did we become so important that we couldn’t be away from the phone for a couple hours? I periodically forget to stick my phone in my purse, and usually when I do it is either off or the battery is dead. It used to bother me. I was plagued by “what if there was an emergency?” I’m not discounting emergencies, they do happen, but most days go by without one. When I turn my cell phone on after several days I usually have a missed call or two but they are almost always from a number I don’t recognize or a telemarketer. On a very rare occasion I have an actual message. Never of the emergency variety.

One of the reasons I don’t get many calls on my cell phone is that I don’t give my number to very many people. My husband has it, the boys’ schools have it, a few friends have it. I don’t give it to my dentist, or hairdresser or anyone else who doesn’t need it. I have a home phone with unlimited local and long distance, why do I need to use up minutes on my cell phone verifying I have an appointment?

Texting? Don’t get me started on texting. I don’t get it. My children don’t have cell phones yet, and I’m told when they do I will find texting the best way to keep in touch with them. My parents didn’t have texting and I was always where I was supposed to be, when I was supposed to be there. Parents, physicians and educators are wringing their hands because it seems our youth can’t communicate effectively, are unable to spell and their social skills are atrocious. The answer is obvious to me. Am I the only one? Furthermore, our children are getting slaughtered on the highways because they are trained to believe they can’t miss a single text from their friends. What’s it going to take?

Do cell phones have place in our lives? Yes, of course they do. It is comforting to know I can reach Glenn when I need to. But could we live without it? Sure. Before we got our cell phones we had an 800 number. That’s how Glenn called me when he was on the road. It worked great for a number of years. I think it’s important to step back and ask the question “Am I too reachable?” Maybe our children would learn to make decisions if they couldn’t call and get our opinion at a moments notice. Heck, they might even become more independent and responsible too. If they are tasked with remembering where to be and when to be there without a reminder, they might just surprise us.

That’s my rant for today. It’s been building for quite some time. Whew, glad to get it off my chest.

Happy Birthday Reid

Ten years ago tonight I became a mother for the second time. Reid Glenn Anderson came into this world at 10:37 pm weighing a whopping 8 lbs 8-1/2 oz and, get this... 23-1/4 inches long. Is it any wonder I was incredibly uncomfortable at the end of my pregnancy? He was almost half my height!

Reid was another dream baby. Well, sort of. As long as he was being held he was a happy as can be. He hated being put down and he absolutely hated riding in the car. As a result, I became adept at doing my daily activities with a baby strapped to my body. Though, unfortunately, I had to put him in his carseat while we were in the car. Our car rides were a bit of a nightmare for about the first 9 months of Reid's life. I was so used to his screaming while I drove around that it unnerved me if he suddenly stopped. When Reid was five weeks old he was diagnosed with RSV and his pediatrician ordered me to take him directly to the hospital. Already upset about having to put my baby in the hospital, I was a bit of a nervous wreck as we drove the 3 miles or so to Frederick Memorial. As per usual, Reid started the drive screaming as soon as I strapped him into his seat. I'm zipping down the highway when he suddenly stopped crying. I whipped that car onto the shoulder, jumped out of my seat, flung his car door open and screamed his name. His eyes flew open and he was so startled he screamed louder than he ever had before. The poor thing was so tired from being sick he has fallen asleep. I was both relieved and remorseful. I showered him with kisses and apologies and we got back on the road.

Reid has always had a zest for life. He loves to laugh and learn new things. I call him my "stop and smell the roses" child because he doesn't do anything fast. He loves to take his time and soak everything in. This can be very endearing. He notices the world around him and as a result he has made me slow down to see what he is looking at. In many ways, this is maddening. Occasionally you have to get moving. We don't always have the luxury of watching where the squirrel is going.

Reid loves to be the center of attention, in a good way. He likes to do presentations in school. He was recently in the school play and tomorrow he will be performing a magic act at the school talent show. He's a natural and is very confident in his abilities. The unfortunate partner to creativity seems to be sensitivity. Reid is incredibly sensitive and gets his feeling hurt easily. Glenn and I noticed that when Reid was a toddler he could take a spectacular tumble, jump up, brush himself off and keep on going, but if you raised your voice to him he completely fell apart. Tears would actually shoot out of his eyes. Still to this day he can brush off physical pain, but emotional pain turns him into a sobbing mess.

It is this sensitivity that worries me most as his mother. How do you teach a child to harden his heart? I want him to be sensitive. His sensitivity makes him a more caring and tender individual. He always roots for the underdog and he has such a big heart that he hurts when those around him hurt. That's a good thing, right? Not always. He wears his heart on his sleeve and it makes people around him uncomfortable. We live in a society that doe not encourage tenderness. Our society says that boys need to be tough. Reid is not tough and he knows it. He knows that he is different and it bothers him. All I can do, as his mother, is encourage him to be true to himself, but at the same time, choose his battles wisely. I am helpless. I can't hang out in the fourth grade and run interference. He is going to have to figure some things out on his own. That kills me. I yearn for the days when all I had to do to pick him up, hold him close and all would be right in his world.

We are ten years into this adventure with Reid. I can't wait to see what the next ten years bring.

Milestones

Today is a milestone in my life. My father lived exactly 44 years 3 months and 8 days. Today I have lived 44 years, 3 months and 9 days. I was 14 when my father died. I knew at the time that he wasn't old, but I don't think I ever realized how young he really was.

My dad lived in a different time, different culture. He left home and joined the Navy when he was 17. It was his only chance to escape the poverty of his family home. The Navy gave him stability he never had and taught him that if he showed initiative he would be rewarded. He became an Electricians-mate and completed his high school education. He married young and started his family while he was in his early 20's.

He was functionally illiterate when he joined the Navy. When he retired 22 years later he was an avid reader and loved going to the library with his children. He relished learning interesting, yet useless facts. He used to call himself a "warehouse of worthless information". He passed that loved onto me. Very frequently he would challenge us to trivia contests. At dinner he would say something like, "The first one of you that can tell me who invented the toilet will get $1." This was long before the internet, so I would race to the library to find that little nugget of information. In the early years of our contests, my sister, Laurie would be right there with me, and would usually win. Once she moved out it was just my brother, John and me. I could never beat John in feats of strength, but I mopped the floor with him in these trivia contests. Maybe that's the way it was meant to be. He and John had sports. But he and I had the library. When we first moved to Altus, OK, the library was in an old house on Broadway Street, about three blocks from our house on Commerce. He and I walked those three blocks time and time again. I remember we once had an encyclopedia salesman at our door. The man was passionate about the merits of encyclopedia ownership. My father listened to his whole spiel, then politely said "I've got a whole library around the corner and it's free." That was the end of that sales-pitch.

When my dad retired from the Navy as a Senior Chief Petty Officer he was only 39 years old. So this young retiree and avid reader started the next phase of his life. He became a part-time college student. His dream... become an elementary teacher. The first few years he worked full time as and electrician and took a couple classes per semester. He and my mom decided it would be better for him to go to school full time so that he can finish up and start working. So that's what he did. In the fall of 1980 he became a full time college student at Southwestern Oklahoma State University. He was gone a lot and we missed him, but somehow we all understood it was for the greater good. In the spring of 1981 he started his student teaching at Wilson Elementary School in Altus. He loved it and was offered a teaching job to start in the fall. All he had to do was finish his last two classes over the summer session at SWOSU. He never did. He started feeling sick at the end of June but pushed through it. By the ninth of July he realized he was very sick and checked himself into the hospital. He died the next day. It was that sudden and unexpected. What we thought was pneumonia turned out to be end stage lung cancer.

As my own life passes this milestone I have to compare my life to his. I wasn't born in poverty. It was an unspoken expectation that I would go to college. Seeing my father work so hard and fall short of getting his degree made me that much more determined to follow through on mine. I even entertained the idea of being a teacher. Somehow I felt like I owed it to him. When I changed my major from Elementary Education to Journalism I feared I was letting him down. Then I realized he would want me to find my passion and make a career out of it. Educating young people was his passion, not mine. My dad influenced almost every aspect of my life and I think about him all the time.

He died a young man, but in his 44 years, three months and eight days he changed lives. He made the most of his life and he always pursued his dreams. I have to think that each day I live from now on is a gift that I should cherish. I owe it to him to pursue my own dreams. His life and untimely death taught me to take opportunities as they arise. You never know how many days you have left.

John Henry Weatherly, April 2, 1937 - July 10, 1981