Grand Entry

This repost from Ring Around the Basin tells stories of pride and history and how a special event can infuse the mundane day-to-day life with dignity and excitement.

Small town rodeos not only provide entertainment for an afternoon, they show some of the skills used in ranching. There are different kinds of rodeos, from the National Professional Rodeo Association events to ranch rodeos and the Californio Rodeo, which displays specifically the Spanish horsemanship of the western American vaquero, or buckaroo. Visitors to northern Nevada and southern Oregon and Idaho might catch a glimpse of this iconic variety of cowboy plying his trade in the dusty sagebrush sea of the Great Basin.

Grand Entry

Banners snap! Two lines of riders canter into the arena, ringing left and right and converging in the center. Horses sidle together head to rump, one horse struggling with the form until they all stand neatly in a row. Then she explodes from the gate, sprinting on her white horse, spangled with blue, red and silver. The Flag ripples over her head as they circle past the crowds, the horse keeling over in the turns. Finally they stop in the center of the arena. Amped by the crowd, the horse prances in place as the announcer follows the Anthem with an ode to a Young Girl on Horseback With Old Glory.

A little boy exclaims, “Mommy, look at the dancing horse.”

I don’t know why this stuff always smacks me right between the eyes. My sternum vibrates ready to shatter. This time, that Young Girl is my daughter, her mount an elderly dude horse. She carries that flag with a pride I’ve never seen in her before. No matter how disgusted I am with the clowns who run this country, a rodeo grand entry always gets to me especially when I think of those little girls galloping at full tilt on huge animals that frighten little boys.

And the Flag, that flag is mine, quite separate from any ruler. It waves over the ground that buries my ancestors. It draped the coffin of my father who lined up with hundreds of men at dawn to push up and jump jack until breakfast, all stripped to the waist -- except him. His religious garments raising ire in a sergeant who called him forward eager for the lucky chance to humiliate this Mormon bastard until the captain tapped his shoulder.

“Remember what you’re fightin’ for, Sergeant ... and it ain’t Betty Grable.”

The announcer drones to the climax as the riders follow the queen back through the gate and the games begin. Visiting queens join her in herding calves and steers out of the arena. Little girls talk to the royalty through chain link, dreaming some day to become like them, aglitter with tasseled shirts, silver crowns gleaming around their hats, and horses carrying them against the wind.

At the end of it all, my daughter declares, “Okay, I’m over it.” She returns to work the next day along with her sterling mount to guide dudes through the aspen grove where it is said that if you touch their trunks and make a wish, it will come true.

First published in my poetry book, When the Horses Come and Go, this poem was included in a Ring Around the Basin Archive Post, Truckee Life in Poem, on July 13, 2023. It was edited into prose form August 13, 2024.

Happy Fourth of July to all my American readers.

I know it’s hard to celebrate a country in chaos, but it’s still our country and we will take it back.

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