A few minutes ago a bug flew up my nose. It never flew out. It might be redecorating my sinuses and hooking up cable.
My back is cricked and I'm experiencing several degrees of pain depending on what awkward position I bend my body into. The sun is at eye level, burning a hole in my retina. I just ate a lukewarm greasy hamburger. I'm having the time of my life!
I'm sitting in the grandstand on the first night of a weekend of Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association rodeos — the perfect way to enjoy the outdoors, competition and community. This is the only place I would willingly eat cheap corn chips topped with a neon cheese product. This is the only place where men can compete for fame and glory by chasing down a wild cow and milking it. This is the only place where the wild cows are allowed to pummel said men, and all the onlookers do is take pictures and wince.
For some reason the warm air, livestock and cowboys make the world slow down. This is a show where children are welcome. They can yell all they want and the dirtier they get the better. This is where grown men can live out childhood fantasies.
While I sit with my family around me, I take a moment to record the smell of dirt and hamburgers; the click of my husband's camera; the feel of my son's head on my shoulder. I take a mental picture because, though we will have photographs from this night, they will not record how I feel.
This is Americana. This is the West — small town, hot summer, snow cones and cotton candy. Norman Rockwell could not have imagined a more perfect scene.
E-mail: foolishmortal@iveracity.com