Rodeo Queen Wanna-be

Photo by Diana Burnette

There were only three candidates for the Laramie Jubilee Days Queen, Princess and Lady-in-Waiting competition, the organizer told me. That was no competition at all. Would I please consider putting my name in the mix, just so the competition wouldn’t be just about who was going to be queen?

Was I hallucinating? I had known the organizer for years. She knew very well that I had abandoned all pretense at western riding when I discovered the joys of jumping and the comfort of riding breeches. Me, a rodeo queen? But I had the main qualifications for the position – I was a girl, I was the right age and I owned a horse.

The horse was a big jumper, half Appaloosa and half Saddlebred, 16 hands of nerves and spots. I was quite certain that he had never seen a cow, let alone the flags, dust, and noise that were a rodeo. In fact, I was dubious about his ability to handle a rodeo. Even the starting box of a cross country course stretched his fragile psyche.

As for me, I had seen maybe five rodeos. The last one, at the ripe age of twelve, had been less than enjoyable when I had gone into hysterics during goat tying and had been escorted in disgrace from the audience. Goat tying was a pointless activity in torturing a terrified goat.

When I didn’t collapse in gales of laughter or turn her down flat, the organizer went on. The rodeo queen and her entourage would travel the west, attending rodeos, dressed in spangles and all I had to do was compete in four different categories: modeling, poise, public speaking, and riding. I had grave doubts about three of the four categories. No swim suits? I asked carefully and was reassured that we would have clothes on for all four events.

For a brief and wild moment, visions of me dressed in spangles and a big hat, poised and confident, attracting cowboys and more importantly, the stock contractors (sons) with my sheer rodeo queenly-ness overcame my good sense and self preservation. Why, yes, yes I would love to compete. I was now a rodeo queen wanna-be.

The modeling posed two major obstacles. The first was a complete lack of fashion sense. I did own cowboy boots so I paired them with a prairie skirt; a plaid, ruffled, marginally western shirt; a borrowed black cowboy hat and my English show jacket. The second was physical. I had grown long legs like a colt, but had yet to master them in a graceful manner. The modeling involved walking down an aisle, then taking off the jacket while turning, throwing the jacket over one shoulder and moseying back down the aisle. I practiced the turn and mosey for hours. During the event, the jacket sleeve caught on my gloves and refused to come off. I struggled like a netted fish to remove the jacket and staggered back down the aisle, dragging the coat.

The poise was an interview in front of a room full of people. For someone so shy as to be inarticulate in school, unable to meet people’s eyes and so soft spoken as to be silent, poise was a major obstacle. Voluntarily talking to an adult was torture. I felt like the goat in goat tying as the horse barreled down. All I needed was the cowgirl running toward me, tie in hand. I clearly recall that my hat hurt my head. My boots made my knees ache. And I had no idea what PRCA stood for. Cowgirl with tie, anyone? My rodeo queen dream slipped from queen to princess.

Oddly enough, the public speaking segment was the only one I was confident about. Give me a prepared and memorized speech and I was golden. Mine was a lovely combination of humor, self-deprecation, and horses, guaranteed to draw a laugh. The organizer had told me to tell about my most embarrassing moment, which up to that point, had involved a clumsy horse, a cute cowboy, and a spectacular fall that landed both of us on our backs at his feet. I went last. One by one, the other girls got up and gracefully described how honored they would be to represent Laramie Jubilee Days as queen and how much they looked forward to the opportunity. Unable to change a word of my prepared speech, I set my mental horse at the fence and clapped both heels into my story. It went off wonderfully with giggles from the audience in the right places. Unfortunately, like the cowboy in my tale, the judges were hardly impressed. I placed myself at Lady-in-Waiting.

The ride took place on a brilliantly cold day at Parker’s Palace, a long, narrow indoor arena. I did own a western saddle, several sizes too small and decorated in what was called Mexican at the time. It had been on sale, my mother’s favorite condition. My horse wore an English bridle and bit. Fortunately because neck reining was a mystery to him and I would be riding with one hand, he was trained to respond to my legs. Taller, thinner, and spottier than the other horses, we minced into the arena, him looking for jumps. Instead, he was asked to do sliding stops, roll backs and spins. Never in his life had he been asked for such a thing but he tried. It was not pretty. As we galloped madly around the arena, waving in best Rodeo Queen fashion, my hat blew off, tumbling end over brim to lay forlorn in the dirt. Good queens’ hats never fell off. My dreams of spangles and rodeos faded into nothingness. I was destined to remain a rodeo queen wanna-be.

The judges handed out lovely carnations to all of us and announced that they would make their decision momentarily. I shook hands with the future Queen and her entourage and went out into the cold afternoon where my horse ate the carnations.