In my sixth summer my cousin Raymond and his older brother Ronnie introduced me to calf riding.
We’d sneak into the rodeo grounds and while two would chase the calves used in the roping contest through the chutes. The third waited on top of the chute to jump off and straddle the beast for a quick ride. Usually the rides were not very long as there was nothing but ears (If you could grab them) to hang on to.
Being the youngest I was resigned to going last. My first try ended in failure as I misjudged the rate of speed, windage and elevation of rocket calf tearing through the chute. Instead of calf I landed face down in the fresh leavings of thousands of cow critters. Jest call me “Green Boy”. Didn’t have many who wanted to be around me except flies. Had a poopy outlook on life.
My second time around I landed in front of the calf. Didn’t bother it much. It just ran over me again putting me face down in the muck. A million flies applauded my efforts.
But the third time I got it, boys! I landed right in the middle of a rock hard spine traveling at Mach 1. Needless to say that is not the best thing to happen if you are male, but I am machismo boy (I’m lying. I was screaming and crying, but afraid to fall off) Had the calf not made a hard left turn and that kind oak board corral stopped me I may have had a great career singing soprano in a choir somewhere. The final result of all of this was after I returned home being with me my million pet flies, my grandmother telling all of our relatives that she thought I might be a bit off as apparently I liked to wear cow poop.