Cowboy Up! (Part Two...)
the opening ceremony
We didn't notice the band of black thunderclouds following us across the plains. We drank Hawaiian Punch from a community paper cup and passed around a plastic bag of kettle corn my sister bought at a farmer's market. 10 and 8 stared at the herds of antelope dotting the open range, at spires of chipped red rock rising from green pasture.
"Mom. This isn't like California." 10 stared out his window, his older cousin pressed against him, both staring into the New Mexican air, and I stopped gossiping with my sister long enough to watch a faded red falcon match our speed, extend curved talons with a flat rise of his wings, grab something wiggling from the grassland.
I am that bird, I thought. My sharp hands ache to find something still alive, something to feed our growing hunger.
We saw Wagon Mound from a distance. It sits on the old Santa Fe Trail, a mountain shaped like a rumpled covered wagon resting in green dirt, overlooking the tiny Bean Day Festival. The sky grew heavy and dark as we drove through old vacant streets in search of the rodeo. We found it, a circle of cattle wire and pickup trucks on the outskirts of town. I pulled my Saturn into the entrance line, behind three farm trucks, all hauling livestock.
"Mom, I don't think we should go." 10 unrolled his window and the earthy smell of fresh manure wafted into the car. "It's all cowboys, mom. We don't fit in."
I looked at the lines furrowing his forehead, to his Star Trek U.S.S. Defiant t-shirt to my other boy's Hubble Telescope t-shirt, to my own "Klingons (Heart) Me" t-shirt and short skirt. My sister wore plaid Bermuda shorts and a black halter top. Her girls wore simple matching short sets. The people bustling into the rodeo looked nothing like us suburban refugees. They all wore jeans, boots, button down shirts or faded work t-shirts, straw and leather cowboy hats atop every woman, man, and child's head.
"Well. Different is good, man. Hey! Look at the cattle dogs!" I tried diverting 10's attention to a group of four straggly heelers. They ran along the fence, back and forth, each in line with the other, chasing cattle into a side pen.
I paid a few dollars each for our admission and we made our way into the wooden stands. Maybe thirty other people sat in the bleachers with us, all rodeo folk, most waiting their turn in the games. A tiny girl in pigtails and jeans stared at my rhinestone-studded Avon flip-flops. I wiggled one foot at her and winked. I rummaged through my purse and pulled out a few more dollars, gave them to the kids for the concession stand below us. They returned with nachos, burritos, a serving of Frito pie - an unusual layered bowl of Fritos, red chili, beans, lettuce, onions, and jalapenos. We ate, watched the rains begin to fall as a parade of children and horses sauntered into the area. They carried two American flags and a bright yellow state flag.
I rolled my eyes as everyone stood for the Pledge of Allegiance, and I watched my youngest boy, 8, mouth his own Star Trek version. We continued to stand through the national anthem and then for an opening prayer in which Jesus was asked to spare any rider from harm.
Nice sentiments. I slapped a mosquito biting my arm. But geeze, how uncaring about other spiritual practices. What a hick town. I continued itemizing all the faults with the rodeo, with the people, the rain, the scrawny dogs, a litany of liberal righteousness in my mind, as my boys started wrestling with each other, bumping me, my purse, until CRASH! My purse slipped through the bleachers and hit the ground. The scent of Avon's newest fragrance, Extraordinary, rose to the sky, and every seated cowboy and cowgirl turned to stare and smell.
To Be Continued...
11:09:39 AM 
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