western.” No one fools around or talksnor opens a Coke or a beer; all eyes arenstraight ahead, all hands over a heart.nThe smallest children play quietly. Wenapplaud after the anthem, and then, innwhat is almost but not quite a prayer,nthe announcer reminds us that we arencelebrating today a way of life we lovenand the freedom that only this greatnnation of ours can offer, and we shouldngive thanks to our Heavenly FathernWho has seen fit to be so generous withnus. There is a moment of silence,nunbidden, from these people, some ofnwhom lost their farms this year. Annancient VFW member plays a prettynrespectable taps. The arena clears.nSitting on a blanket on the hill, wenare surrounded by solid, youngishnmen with farmer tans and hard arms,nolder, rounder men in string ties,nwomen in tank tops or ehambray shirtsntucked into tight jeans. My husband’snfive-year-old nephew is with us, determinednto hate the rodeo, his first (henchanges his mind before it’s over);nSteven looks silly in a blue surfer shirtnand shorts, sandals, and sunglasses,nsurrounded by kids in down-at-theheelsnTony Lamas and serious-lookingndark felt hats. What will happen first?nhe wonders. Calf roping, his mothernsays. Cat roping? he asks, only mildlyninterested, and we fall all over eachnother on the lumpy hill. Tie thatnsucker fast, Clem, or the claws’llngetcha. . . . And here’s Bill Sorenson,nfolks, on a big brown tabby namednMuffy that’s never been rode. But ournsilliness seems out of place, shallownand a little mean, somehow, in thenmidst of all this hearty camaraderie.nMiss Rodeo North Dakota’s dazzlingnbuckskin bulldogs the calves backnto their pen after every calf-ropingncontestant; the duo are not a merenshowpiece. In every event, the hometownnboys get a big hand—the announcernasks for it, but he wouldn’tnhave to—regardless of how they score.nSeveral bowlegged teenagers in snugnjeans and chaps fail to stay on theirnbroncs; they’re local heroes, headednfor the Nationals later in the summer,nand toe the dust and blush when wenapplaud their good tries here today.nOutlanders get applause, too, for nicenrides on broncs or bulls or winningntimes wrestling their steers to thenground. So do horses who outwit theirnriders (the livestock racks up points fornorneriness and grit just like the humanncontestants do). Let’s hear it for ToddnSplonskowski, ladies and gentlemen—nhe’s one of the best, and he gave itneverything he’s got. And while you’re atnit, let’s give a big hand to Old Ironsides.nHe had a job to do and he donenit. Todd limps out, and Old Ironsidesnditches the pick-up men for one lastnspry cowboy two-step around thenfence.nThe smart cowponies, who, with ornwithout a rider, can counter everynmove a calf or steer might dream up,ndraw admiration from the announcernand the crowd, but the bovine stocknisn’t given much credit for quickwittedness.nOther than to whistle lownat the big old bulls’ slow-motion twistingnand bucking—imagine a refrigerator-sizednblock of cement rollingnend over end down a mountain—wendon’t respond to the cattle with muchnadmiration. I’ve seen a wily, ring-wisenlittle calf outwit a big man on a horse,nthough, by hightailing it to the far endnof the arena and then sliding under thengate to mama, slick as Lou Brocknstealing home. Everybody comes herennnto work.nThere is some money to be won,nbut not a lot, especially after gas andnfeed and entry fee bite into it. It’s hardnto think of a harder way to make andollar. Yet there are riders up here—nthis is North Dakota’s oldest rodeo, butnit’s not a particularly big one—fromnIowa and Kansas, Wyoming and evennTexas; these fellas aren’t hobbyists.nEach one will stay on that bull or getnthrown, loop that calf or lose him, flipnthat steer or miss by a hair and fallnopen-mouthed into the dirt at 30 milesnan hour — and then pick up hisncrushed hat, dust himself off, amble tonthe trailer, pack it all up, and drive 30nmiles south to Dickinson for thatnrodeo three hours from now. Tomorrownit’s South Dakota, maybe, ornMontana.nI never go to a rodeo without somendread; softhearted about animals, Indidn’t grow up using them. Always innthe back of my brain is the fear that I’llnwatch a horse break a leg or see a calf’snneck shattered by his own speed after angood throw. (I’d hate to see a hurtncowboy, too, of course, but part of mena • c • tnJANUARY 1987141n