Hey, did you know I still have approximately a kafillion rodeo pictures to share, even though the rodeo is over? Aren’t you glad this only happens once a year?
We now return you to your regularly scheduled Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo blog!
I believe my first rodeo was in Wyoming, where my grandparents had a little fishing hideaway, when I was 9. My grandmother walked me around the holding area to see the animals. She insisted that the kid wrangling the calves had been ‘making eyes’ at me, which was highly embarrassing and most likely not true (since I was NINE). We met a bull rider, whose autograph she insisted I get (it stayed pinned to a bulletin board amongst other personal mementos for many years — like, until I bought my own house). I can still picture that little scrap of paper, which said ‘DAN [something], NORTH FORTY RODEO’ in scrawled, black handwriting.
My grandmother then tried to introduce my sister, who was 14 or 15, to Dan the Bull Rider. I don’t remember much about that part, but my sister recounts spending the rest of the rodeo in the car, where she hoped nobody would try to set her up with grown men. So do I love the bull riding event because it’s so impressive, or because just the words ‘bull rider’ are still enough to get a giggle out of anyone in my family? Probably a little of both. :)
The guys in the lightning jerseys have the unenviable job of running toward the bull when a rider falls off (one of them had a helmet-cam!):
I thought this was the prettiest bull:
You won’t see me running toward any bulls. Except maybe Ferdinand.
