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He was big and goofy; 16 hands high with a gait that made my fillings rattle, but I was in heaven astride the old roan horse headed for the starting line. It was the annual Fourth of July rodeo in 1968 and I was about to race for the first time ever. The crowd, the colors, all the sights and sounds; still vivid in my memory all these years gone.

The race was over in an instant despite the fact it took forever to cross the finish line. No matter how much I cajoled or pleaded that old horse just trotted along like we were taking a stroll. He wandered hither and yon and stopped once or twice to look at the crowd, all the while my tiny legs floundered like velvet on a brick wall. Somehow, we managed to cross the line ahead of three other competitors; a Shetland pony, a pale gray mare, and the black gelding that had bolted at the start of the race. He might have won it all, if only he'd gone the right way. Of course all the children were given a ribbon, mine was white instead of blue.

Well, of course I was mortified when I saw Daddy's face, not that he was disappointed, but that he was smiling ear to ear. My pride was injured and I feigned offense when he offered me a hand to dismount. Though I pulled away at first, he just scooped me off my horse, and held me close while his thick black hair dried the last of my tears. He carried me on his shoulders while we checked out all of the events. Weaving in and out of the crowd, two spots of color in a human rainbow. There was a parade and a wagon race, clowns and old cars. He bought me a belt buckle that said "Rodeo Queen". We ate chicken and biscuits on a blanket that Mom spread out on the ground. Later came fireworks and America the Beautiful blaring from trumpet shaped speakers. I was still excited and restless even while the snake made of headlights lead us out of the fairgrounds.

Learn more about this author, Jeanette Mcdonough.
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