Over the course of my professional career, I’ve spent more time away from my family than with them on the Fourth of July. Covering rodeo necessitates it. It’s one of the biggest weekends for the sport. I’ve seen fireworks in St. Paul, Ore., the parade in Greeley, Colo., hung out along the streets of Red Lodge, Mont., and just this past weekend was in Cody, Wyo.
The weekend in Cody was nice. I met an old friend, Chad Hooker, in Billings and we drove down. We went to the rodeo, ate at the Proud Cut, caught the tail end of Dan Miller’s Cowboy Music Revue and then went to watch the fireworks. It was a great show. We were perched on a bluff overlooking the Shoshone River and the fireworks went off down in the bottom and at times seemed to be eye level. All this got me thinking about what it means to be an American. For me, being an American means being a Westerner. I suppose if I had my choice, I’d be perched horseback with my family on some bluff watching fireworks go off, but my actual Fourth of July wasn’t a bad second. Fourth of July in the West—for a lot of people—means rodeo. People in St. Paul and Mollalla, Ore., Livingston and Red Lodge, Mont., Cody Wyo., Greeley, Colo., Window Rock and Prescott, Ariz., Santa Fe, N.M. and even Springdale, Ark., all know what I mean. In the old days, the Fourth of July brought Westerners to town more than anything besides a hanging, and if there wasn’t an organized rodeo, there be some form cowboy competition. In the short history of our nation, many in the West have celebrated our independence the same way. So, even though I don’t get to be around my family every year, at least I’m almost always assured the company of a good friend, an entertaining rodeo performance and some fireworks. Just like old times.
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