I was happy to go to ACC to get away from all the farm work. I spent freshman year changing majors every six weeks or so. By sophomore year, I had tried nearly all academic emphases except agriculture. I still needed a major so I tried Agriculture, figuring 18 years on a working farm would give me a head start. A new faculty member taught Intro to Ag. He made up for his ignorance of farming by forming a rodeo club. "Join the club or drop the course," he announced. I elected to drop but discovered it was too late. Our first project was to sponsor a rodeo. "Do you like a bucker or a twister?" Jock or Jake or Jack--I forget his name, sitting in front of me--turned to ask. I should have said "neither," but if you were in the club you had to ride something. I said, "Oh . . . a twister." "Me, too. I'm putting us both down for twisters." Five weeks later on a Saturday night I was in Clyde, 20 miles east of Abilene, sitting on a bull named something like "Awful" or "Devil" . . maybe it was "Awful Devil." I was to follow Jock who was on his twister in the chute behind me, making adjustments as he waited to ride. Some anonymous cowboy had helped us put on chaps. He had tied with rawhide the big rowels on our Mexican spurs so they couldn't turn. "When the chute gate opens, dig your spurs in and hang on," he advised wrapping the rope around Awful Devil's chest, then round and round my gloved right hand as he poured resin on to keep it from slipping. Jock signaled; his chute gate swung wide. His bull exploded into the arena. Jock hung on with dedication but something was wrong. He began slipping to the right with every jump. And with each thud, Jock rotated more. Soon he was under the bull, still holding on, dirt and hooves flying as the big animal bounced him against the ground. The 8 second signal blasted--two seconds after the bull's left back foot struck Jock in the solar plexus and slid down to the ground between his legs. Whirring red lights as the ambulance lumbered into the arena. Jock lay motionless, eyes closed, no sound as medics rolled him onto a gurney, hoisted and slid it like an ice tray into a freezer. Ambulance flashing and leaving, I nodded yes.
The chute gate opened. Stetson high in left hand, spurs pressing hard, I gripped the rope as Awful Devil jumped higher and came down harder than I thought anything could, knocking the breath from me with every crash landing. Still I thought to hang on, thinking 7 of the 8 seconds must have already elapsed. Then the left spur rowel cut through its rawhide. As my body rotated the bull went up again, twisting to the right. I pictured Jock carted away lifeless, and relaxed my right hand. Awful Devil dropped away like a spent booster at Cape Canaveral as I rocketed upward . . . then floated. . . and . . . floated. Hat still waving, grin permanently lockjawed, I sat there on a cloud, looking at individual faces in the crowd, watching the clowns tempt Awful Devil further away.
The photographer's second snap showed me high in the air, both legs extended parallel to the ground, right hand between my legs as if still gripping the rope, Stetson salute extended, my face wearing a broad grin. Then I hit, in seated pose, legs stretched parallel to the ground. I was scrambling out of the arena adjusting my Stetson when the 8 second buzzer honked. I decided it was safer to read about other people's adventures than to participate, so I changed my major to History.
Four decades later a physician studied x-rays of my S-shaped spine: "Looks like life's road had some pot holes," he said……… by Glenn Smith
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Okay, all you storytellers out there, send me your stories! They don't have to be very long. A paragraph or two. Let us hear about some event in your life. Something from high school or growing up in Ballinger...something funny that happened during the intervening years...a highlight of your career...anything you wish to share with us!In the meantime, remember "GOOD STUFF HAPPENS"
Marilyn
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