SOUL SAP

Rodeo Chicken

When you grow up in Oregon, there are three simple rules, and yes I just made them up, but hang in there.

Number one is you learn how to pronounce the state. It is not "Or-e-gone", because there is no "e" at the end. And while I realize that "Tarragon" is a bit of anomaly, we aren't cooking up a French delicacy here.

Number two is you never walk around with an umbrella. We Oregonians relish in our suffering. If you have an umbrella, you are from California.

Number three is you must attend the Sisters Rodeo at some point in your life. And if you're lucky, graduate to the Pendleton Roundup. My rodeo career started and ended in Sisters.

I was eight when my time came to attend the rodeo. We loaded up our Chevy Blazer and headed out East knowing it was going to be hotter than Satan's house cat. The air conditioner was broken, so my brother and I sweat through our clothes in the back seat of the car while playing Mad Libs.

"I need a noun."
"Penis!"
Uncontrollable laughter that my brother just said "penis".
"I need an adjective."
"Sweaty ballsack!"
I was heaving. "That's an adjective AND a noun, you idiot!"
"You guys, cut it out." Mom was irritated and using the July issue of Home and Garden to fan herself.

We rented a cabin about thirty minutes from the rodeo, so we just had time to unload our bags, and then we were back on the road. The objective was to snag some seats in the shade.

As we drove through the town of Sisters, it reminded me of a 1940s set you might see in Hollywood of the Wild Wild West.

Each building on the main strip had murals of vintage advertisements or cowboys roping cattle. The boxy parapets and saloon doors made you feel like you just exited the Delorian in Back To The Future III (arguably the worst of the franchise).

When we arrived, the friends we were sharing the cabin with saved us some spots in the bleachers, and everyone made it into the shade except my brother and I. While my brother's skin turned into dark molasses in the sun, my Swedish genes always had other plans.

The rodeo folks put on quite a show, though admittedly, I was obsessed with how the animals were being mistreated. I cringed during the roping of the calves, and wished terrible things on the cowboys riding pissed-off bulls snorting, "Get. This. Thing. Off. Of. Me."

While my love for critters knew no bounds, my innate competitive nature was a driving force in my life. I was known to not talk to my family for an entire day because I lost a game of Candy Land. "This game was rigged!", I'd declare at the top of my lungs with a defiant finger jutting up at the ceiling.

"Hey there all you guys, gals, and tiny tots." The announcer had a southern twang even though he probably grew up in a small Oregon coastal town.

"Hurry on down to the center arena and line yourselves up against the wall for a chance to win a big prize!"

"Big prize" was all I needed to hear and I knocked over half of my family trying to get down there.

"Where on EARTH are you going?" My mom's hair was partially blowing in the hot breeze, while the rest was spackled to her face with sweat. The hands on her hips said, "You are not participating in any rodeo events. Period."

"Mom, all the kids are going down there. I have to. This is my big shot!" I said while running away from her, tumbling down stairs and saying "Sorry, excuse me, sorry" about fifty times.

I lined up on the wall and what I saw in the center of the arena nearly made me stroke out.

Chickens pecked at feed, bunnies hopped around absolutely terrified out of their minds, and right in the very center ... a person holding a dog. A DOG.