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| photo taken from poconorodeo.com |
Downtime is precious, downtime with family infinitely so, so engaging in activities has to include things that we're all willing to play along with - else the whole project suffers. Problem is that our lifelong exposure to public service has made us anti-social, almost ferociously so at times. This does create obstacles in taking the children out for activities on occasion. So ... how to balance our natural aversion for crowds and especially obnoxious urbanites (or people in general) with a need to keep our children socially adept?
Last week's sociology experiment? A rodeo.
Rodeo? You mean with like ... cowboys and cowgirls and flags and bulls and stuff? I thought you lived in the Poconos!
Yes, a rodeo.
Let's face it, while the Northeast has their fair share of horses - one does not equate the wilds of Pennsylvania on the same scale as the Badlands in the Dakotas. We have country, but it's like ... country lite, you know - tastes great, less leather. We play the theme songs but somewhere down the road the line between cowboy and redneck gets dangerously blurred and it's less John Wayne and more Freebird. Still, mixed in among the pedicured feet tucked into $200 boots and Confederate flags are the vestiges of the West from which it came and the presence of authentic competitors and showmen and women, reflections of this proud and unique culture.
After a mostly rainy morning the clouds broke and we headed up to check out the Pocono Rodeo at Memorytown. It's a pretty drive, even for us. Yeah yeah, you can get to it off of 80, it's the Poconos - you can get to everywhere off of 80 but considering this is a Race Weekend (if you know, you know), why would you? It's much nicer to meander through the woods, past shuttered barns with beautiful hex signs on them, sun-dappled pavement undulating out in front of you between walls of the variant shades of green from a pallet only true forests possess. The same treeline opens like a curtain and now you get glimpses of rolling hills and white steeples nestled in valleys not very far away. It's beautiful, it's distracting and it's totally why SOMETIMES it may not be good to drive with your husband who is suddenly convinced that you will careen off the road every single time you swivel your head to "oooh" or "aaah" at yet another bucolic farm.
Parking is free and the "venue" spills over both sides of the road - it really does not matter where you park. We opted down by the Memorytown Tavern, where they had BBQ going, open air seating next to a small lake that had some ambitious paddleboaters taking in the sights. Dogs were welcome, kids ran through the wet grass and the smell of mesquite rolled out from the restaurant. There was a free bouncy house set up, I say "was" because before the Diva and the Head could even give it a go it died a glorious death, the inflated pony head at the top collapsing in on itself without so much as a final squeak.
A small, somewhat sad little petting zoo and pony ride occupied to oval structures on the tavern's lawn. In the pony ring there was one small speckled pony, done up with his shiny black saddle and dutiful taking little ones on endless circles in the small ring. Following right behind him was a much larger version of the same pony, similar white and blonde markings simply twice the size and sans saddle. Yet he followed the little one every ... single ... turn around that ring. I'm not sure if he's the slower cousin in the family or what, but for the little ones on the pony it was sometimes like being chased by a large dog. With hooves. And teeth.
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| Being photobombed by Thumper! |
The petting zoo consisted of little more than a goat, a miniature horse, a sheep and a bunny. All terribly patient and none in poor condition, but trapped in the small ring being manhandled at will by sticky-fingered darlings must be tough on the nerves at times.
They advertise vendors, and by vendors they meant two. (Two is plural so that counts.) One for hats, one for leather goods, pleasant folks trying to make a buck. Pamphlets offering instruction on mounted shooting on a table, "We provide everything except the horse, the gun and the guts." Quite possibly the most awesome thing ever right there, sign me up! By the time I get to the gate my inner Annie Oakley is waking up and having a look-see.
Front row seats equates to metal bleachers with prime view between the bars of the fencing, but the kids wanted to be right up front. Riders are warming their horses up in the ring and let's face it, cowboys may be the stereotype but really who can resist pretty girls galloping around on feisty horses. Snorts and banging metal draw your attention to the far end of the ring, and you realize they weren't kidding - thar be bulls here, and they have issues. (This by the way, is conveniently also where the ambulance is standing by.)
Concession stands are just that, concessions to the fact that people will eat because they are bored and focus on quality versus convenience will weigh toward the latter every time. People are pleasant, prices are fine, but if you restaurant-quality then walk back across the road to the actual restaurant, this is snack food people. Still, nothing says traditional Americana fare quite like funnel cake and deep-fried Oreos.
The stands are starting to fill and the Emcee is beginning his show, warming up the crowd along with the requisite rodeo clown. I watch my kids swinging their feet along the gravel, ignoring the mud in the ring and watching the riders with rapt attention, all while inadvertently coating themselves in that unique paper mache that saliva and powdered sugar makes.
The sound system is tinny and squawks at odd moments, making the emcee sound vintage - he works in tandem with Bull the clown, coaxing cheers from an initially reluctant crowd (which is growing by the minute). Finally it's time to begin, the riders charge back into the ring to cheers. There is the Star Spangled Banner and the Cowboy's Prayer (I'm going to wager there are few atheists on the back of a ton of Prime USDA beef actively trying to kill you.), but the part that caught me off-guard was the flag ride. You know, where the pretty cowgirl rides around the ring, an American flag billowing spectacularly above her? They do not play "America The Beautiful," "My Country 'Tis of Thee" or even "Yankee Doodle Dandy." Instead they play the complete passage of "America - Why I Love Her" by John Wayne. The Duke was my late father's favorite actor of all time, and honestly if you can sit and listen to him read this entire thing without at least feeling the slightest bit of pride in our country, it's time for you to go - regardless of personal politics.
Speaking of politics, don't expect a lot of interest in them here - nobody was immune to good-natured ribbing. Whether you were a visiting New Yorker, a local, Amish, or a Democrat, there was a jibe for everyone.
Bull riding evokes a lot of primal excitement, wiry combatants perched atop a ton of flesh-driven horns and hooves is thrilling on a basic level. Eight seconds, that's all they need - it sounds like practically nothing, it plays out as an eternity. With each gate release time slows down and getting to the buzzer seems practically impossible. We cheer for the cowboys, we cheer just as loudly for the bulls. There is something uniquely satisfying about the way they jog back out of the ring, head up, fully aware that they are the masters here. Only a couple make the time, the bulls are the winners here.
Slate grey clouds roll in and as the evening wears on we are intermittently subjected to summer rains, my children have no interest in seeking shelter now, they might miss something. So we all huddle under an umbrella and keep on cheering while the warm water runs down our backs. Now they know why cowboy hats are designed the way they are ... suddenly one of those vendors outside becomes very popular and now the Diva and the Head both sport "authentic" hats now, the kind that funnel the rain back off of your head.
The barrel racers are up and these are the girls I want my daughter to see. We are right by one of the barrels, close enough to duck the clods of mud coming from the wheeling horses as the riders push them around the barrels. Her eyes are huge as she watches each one come through, our throats are starting to get scratchy from all the cheering as we scream each girl home - no favorites here, just a girl, her horse and the clock.
There are trick riders, sharpshooting and trick roping, the kids gallop through the mud on hobbyhorses in a filthy debacle of a race. Other children do some "mutton wrangling" - attempting to cling to the musty fleece of an irritated sheep who promptly dumps them at the gate. There's relaxed laughter and lots of applause and we are treated to at least one spectacular rainbow as the skies clear, colors splashed across the sky over the damp trees, children's laughter and the faint sound of country music rolling up from the lakeside tavern next door.
The riders are done, the bulls have won, the girls are cooling off their horses and the stands empty, nobody's in a hurry and the crowds meander out of the lot. Some go to the adult "after party" at the tavern, others wend their way to their cars as the last shreds of daylight begin to thin out. I load my family back into the car, they are sticky, wet and chattering happily about the riders - proudly wearing their cowboy hats.
Thanks for the memories Memorytown. We'll see y'all again.
The sound system is tinny and squawks at odd moments, making the emcee sound vintage - he works in tandem with Bull the clown, coaxing cheers from an initially reluctant crowd (which is growing by the minute). Finally it's time to begin, the riders charge back into the ring to cheers. There is the Star Spangled Banner and the Cowboy's Prayer (I'm going to wager there are few atheists on the back of a ton of Prime USDA beef actively trying to kill you.), but the part that caught me off-guard was the flag ride. You know, where the pretty cowgirl rides around the ring, an American flag billowing spectacularly above her? They do not play "America The Beautiful," "My Country 'Tis of Thee" or even "Yankee Doodle Dandy." Instead they play the complete passage of "America - Why I Love Her" by John Wayne. The Duke was my late father's favorite actor of all time, and honestly if you can sit and listen to him read this entire thing without at least feeling the slightest bit of pride in our country, it's time for you to go - regardless of personal politics.
Speaking of politics, don't expect a lot of interest in them here - nobody was immune to good-natured ribbing. Whether you were a visiting New Yorker, a local, Amish, or a Democrat, there was a jibe for everyone.
Bull riding evokes a lot of primal excitement, wiry combatants perched atop a ton of flesh-driven horns and hooves is thrilling on a basic level. Eight seconds, that's all they need - it sounds like practically nothing, it plays out as an eternity. With each gate release time slows down and getting to the buzzer seems practically impossible. We cheer for the cowboys, we cheer just as loudly for the bulls. There is something uniquely satisfying about the way they jog back out of the ring, head up, fully aware that they are the masters here. Only a couple make the time, the bulls are the winners here.
Slate grey clouds roll in and as the evening wears on we are intermittently subjected to summer rains, my children have no interest in seeking shelter now, they might miss something. So we all huddle under an umbrella and keep on cheering while the warm water runs down our backs. Now they know why cowboy hats are designed the way they are ... suddenly one of those vendors outside becomes very popular and now the Diva and the Head both sport "authentic" hats now, the kind that funnel the rain back off of your head.
The barrel racers are up and these are the girls I want my daughter to see. We are right by one of the barrels, close enough to duck the clods of mud coming from the wheeling horses as the riders push them around the barrels. Her eyes are huge as she watches each one come through, our throats are starting to get scratchy from all the cheering as we scream each girl home - no favorites here, just a girl, her horse and the clock.
There are trick riders, sharpshooting and trick roping, the kids gallop through the mud on hobbyhorses in a filthy debacle of a race. Other children do some "mutton wrangling" - attempting to cling to the musty fleece of an irritated sheep who promptly dumps them at the gate. There's relaxed laughter and lots of applause and we are treated to at least one spectacular rainbow as the skies clear, colors splashed across the sky over the damp trees, children's laughter and the faint sound of country music rolling up from the lakeside tavern next door.
The riders are done, the bulls have won, the girls are cooling off their horses and the stands empty, nobody's in a hurry and the crowds meander out of the lot. Some go to the adult "after party" at the tavern, others wend their way to their cars as the last shreds of daylight begin to thin out. I load my family back into the car, they are sticky, wet and chattering happily about the riders - proudly wearing their cowboy hats.
Thanks for the memories Memorytown. We'll see y'all again.
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