respect

"Respect"

            Growing up in rural Oklahoma I learned the meaning of the word ‘RESPECT’, a word that was applied to all things, no matter what they were.
      I learned how to ‘RESPECT’ guns; always carry it with the muzzle pointed up. I learned to ‘RESPECT’ women: always open the door and always walk on the curbside or outside of her.
            I leaned to ‘RESPECT’ above all other things the flag, Old Glory. This was understandable because my father was a World War II veteran. You were to remove your hat when the flag passed by. You took it down each night at dusk. It was folded just so each time. And more important than all the others you never, I repeat ‘NEVER’, let it touch the ground.
           I leaned other things too, like how to do chores and how to ride a horse, though I was never good at the last one. There in lay the problem.
            Our FFA, Future Farmers of America, chapter was approached by the riding club to run the colors at their next roping. The offer was that if we would park cars, run the colors, and help when needed that the chapter would get one-dollar out of every ticket sold and every entry fee.
           The first problem was who would ride? Those of us that rode, and I use that term loosely, put our names in a hat. Two would be drawn, one to carry the state flag and one to carry the Stars and Stripes. Mine was the second name drawn.
           We then put two pieces of paper in the hat, one blue for the Oklahoma flag and one red for Old Glory. I drew the red one.
           Until now, I had had only one problem when riding, staying on. Now I had two, staying on and not dropping the flag.
           Now we all know that certain tools are suited to certain jobs. The saddle I had was an old saddle. It fit me but not the situation. With a few phone calls I had the problem solved, a borrowed saddle with a boot on the stirrup for the flagstaff.
           I loaded up old Sid and the borrowed seat and went out to the arena to practice.
           With an old shirt tied to a staff to simulate the flag, old Sid and I flew around the arena as if something ugly was after us, the chain link fence and steel post on the outside, passing by in a blur.
           All was going well until we added the second rider.
           What Sid and I had thought was break-neck speed was not. Sid was an older horse and the other rider would get to the end of arena where we were to make the pass before Sid and I did. No mater how hard Sid ran we were always late.
           That was when the FFA teacher stepped in.
           “Dale,” he said, “Sid is a good horse but he is not a rodeo mount. I know how much running the colors means to you so I have an idea.”
           The next day, mounted of a different horse in a borrowed saddle I learned to ride all over again with the roping only two days away. The only thing left of what I started out with was my ‘RESPECT’ and me!
           The first time we practiced was not good at all. The FFA teacher yelled go. I touched the horse to start and he left. With out me! It was sort of like being on a motorcycle, hitting the throttle, and dumping the clutch. The front end when up in the air and I just rolled off the backside. It took a few tries for me to master the art of hanging on.
           Then there was the speed. The difference between Sid and this horse was like the difference between a bicycle and an F-14 Tomcat! The fence that went by as a blur on Sid was still a blur, but the bleachers were now the same. Before the sequence was, get started, settle in, check the flag, see the bleachers, look for the end of the arena, and get ready to make the turn. The new sequence became, get started and TURN, DAMN IT TURN!
           Next the president of the rodeo club got involved.
           “Dale”, he said, “I am impressed with all the practicing you are doing to get this just right. However, you flagstaff and your flag are not the same weight as the one we use. So I brought you this. It won’t hurt if you drop it a few times.”
           What I now had was a flagstaff the correct length and a flag of the same size as the one I would carry. Both were the correct weight.
           On the first try I found that instead of the flagstaff being vertical, it was laying back against my shoulder. A leather strap looped around the staff and dropped over the saddle horn helped but did not solve the problem. Try as I might I could not hold the flag upright with one arm due to the wind resistance.
           That night a friend dropped my house with an elbow brace that he wore when playing football. It solved my problem.
           Everything worked and with the addition of a new pair of jeans, some polish on my boots, and fresh haircut I was ready. Now if I could just stay aboard and not drop the flag I would be all right.
           The big night finally came. I was dressed in the new jeans, a white shirt and tie under my FFA jacket, and mounted.
           As I sat there, I watched them take the flag out of the casing and unfurl it. I saw my dad standing there with a smile on his face as the handed me the emblem of our nation, the flag he had risked his life to defend. I was so full of pride and honor to be carrying it.
           I can still remember the word the public address announcer said: “Ladies and Gentleman with you please stand as the local FFA Chapter presents our colors, rodeo style.”
           As we had planned, the count from the word style was, “one, two, three, GO!”
           Boot heels hit horseflesh and the ride of my life was on. It lasted a full thirty seconds. All I could hear was the pop of that flag in my right ear. All I could see was the head of my mount. All I could feel was wind in my face.
           We tore down the right side of the arena. Made the turn. Made the pass without a hitch. Then rocketed up the left side. And out the gate!
           I led the contestants back in for the grand entry. The feeling I had as I sat there with spots lights on me I will never know again. I watched as each contestant removed his had as he passed by, out of ‘RESPECT’, not for my horsemanship but the flag that I carried.
           As the last contestant passed me and I followed him out of the arena I cold hear the roar of the crowd.
           Out of the bright lights, I pulled the horse to a halt and looked around. I still had the flag and it was upright. I was still seated and breathing. Sitting there with that flag, I was a feeling I can only describe as ‘AWE’.
           Our flag has been through two world wars and too many conflicts to count. How many lives had been lost defending it? How many times had someone shown it disrespect? On this night, I had done my best to show it the ‘RESPECT’ it deserved.
           The FFA teacher walked up and shook my free hand. I pulled the staff out of the boot and handed the flag to my father who was beaming like the sun. Everything had gone off without a hitch. I turned and looked back at the arena, savoring the moment and the memory I would have. Then I fell off my mount into a large pile of very fresh used horse feed!

           The moral of this story? Well, no matter how high you get or by what means, you always have to land on the ground. Just be careful what you land in!

Essay Page

Hosted by www.Geocities.ws