Save A Horse – Ride A Cowboy (Or So I’ve Been Told) Don’t squat with your spurs on. – Cowboy Saying The warm, pungent odor of animal feces that stung my nose was the first indication that the next few days would be out of the ordinary. Despite living all of my thirty-plus years in Nebraska, one of America’s most rural states, I do not think I have ever spent time on a farm. Livestock, corn, and hay bales – all of that was a mystery to me. I knew how much I loved steak, corn, and all those delicious foods of the Heartland that made its way to my table in restaurants and at home. However, the stories behind those foods remained veiled. The livestock had personalities. They had histories. They had lives, most of which are spent penned in manmade cages, fed grain mixed with God-knows-what, and poked with sharp objects, leading them to their eventual, collective, and delicious demise. Do not take me for a vegetarian, though. That social choice could not be farther from the truth. Steak, hamburgers, bacon, and ham are the not-so-delicate delicacies that make my soul sing. But 11
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back to the smell of animal feces. A few years ago I found myself at the River City Roundup and Rodeo, a celebration of all things agriculture that makes its way to downtown Omaha every fall. In a sleek, modern space where I have witnessed live performances by U2, Simon and Garfunkel, and AC/DC, now sat two hundred truckloads of brown dirt (caked with animal droppings, I was certain) and colorful advertisements for Wrangler Jeans. It was an American rodeo, all right, and I could not have felt more out of place had I been walking nude through the cavernous exhibition halls. Dressed in a short denim skirt, bright green T-shirt, and sassy pink scarf, I looked nothing like the other women who walked by. Something about these women looked tough. They wore low-cut, tight-fitting, Western-style shirts on top, and skin-tight jeans on the bottom. One (or more) articles of clothing were adorned with silver or sparkle embellishments and they had a swagger about themselves, the likes of which I had not seen before. Some wore cowboy hats with lots of ratted, curly hair flowing below the brim. Even the children running about mirrored the adults, wearing miniature cowboy hats, vests, and chaps with lots and lots of fringe. Very few of the women carried purses, but almost all of
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them wore cowboy boots. I glanced downward to compare my footwear: five-dollar, Mary Jane-style, canvas tennis shoes that I picked up on sale at Payless. They were comfortable, cute, and practical. Wasn’t that enough? I would be lying if I said those triedand-true Western beauties only gave me friendly glances in passing. The truth was, I felt more like a city slicker who should not have been allowed on the farm. I could hear the women’s imaginary comments in my head: Giddy up, cowpokes. No, that’s not animal feces you smell. It’s rural America’s most familiar odor. Take it in and savor it, my friends. I found myself at the River City Roundup and Rodeo because my better half, Matt, works on-air for a country radio station in Omaha. Hailing from a background thick with the sounds of AC/ DC and Led Zeppelin, his transition to embracing country music hasn’t been terribly challenging. Many of his adolescent years were spent in small towns, and, today, he owns a handful of cowboy hats. It is something I have learned to look past, me being a City Girl and all. For the next three days, Matt broadcasted from the River City Roundup and Rodeo, promoting the radio station and meeting listeners. Always up for a new experience, I tagged along. As we walked through the main entryway, I smelled that unmistakable odor.
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It stunk. Badly. I honestly thought for a few, brief seconds that I would be sick, covering all those shiny cowboy boots with the Jimmy John’s sandwich (Turkey Tom, no sprouts, please) that I had for lunch. I breathed through my mouth and forged ahead. Matt seemed at home as we walked past the countless vendor booths selling Western jewelry, animal photographs and prints, and, yes, even cowboy hats (for kids, too!). We snaked our way upstairs to the food counters, downed a few hot dogs and some beers before heading inside to catch the rodeo. Of course, my experience would not be complete without good seats to a rodeo. I had never been to a rodeo, let alone understood what this sport was all about. I quickly learned that eight seconds is all it takes to become a winner, so long as you stay atop the animal. (“Oh, eight seconds. Like the Luke Perry movie, right?” I asked Matt, my query laced with complete honesty. He shot me a questionable look, no doubt embarrassed given the seasoned spectators nearby.) Steers? Cows? Buffalo? I really could not distinguish what these petite men were riding and why the animals were kicking so powerfully. After a few rounds and close examination at the battles before me, it appeared the animals were let loose from their cages wearing their
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uncomfortable saddles. As they ran about the dirt-covered floor, they kicked their hind legs, while the riders held on for dear, sweet life. Audiences cheered, as the animals writhed in anger. The colorful commentators, clothed in only the finest Western wear, made quick barbs after each ride, egging the crowd to cheer louder and louder with each rider. They reminded us rodeo-goers that these men were “the true athletes” of the world. Little was spoken about the history of the sport. The word “rodeo” in fact comes from the Spanish word “rodear,” which means to surround or encircle. In tracing back the rodeo’s origins, Spanish conquistadors and cowboys, living in modern day Mexico, organized rodeos that were merely cattle roundups. These cows were often raised for money and sent to Mexico’s thriving cattle market, creating a need for skilled horsemen to handle and manage the herds. After the Civil War, cattle moved westward, upping the status of the American cowboy, but soon the railroad replaced the need for cattle drives and open range; cowboys now searched for a new way of life. Recreational competitions often took place at farms and stockyards, allowing cowboys to display their talents while taking in a bit of friendly competition. Iowa native Buffalo Bill Cody began organizing such events as entertainment, and the country’s love affair
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