Grandson wins busting ribbon

“Jacob rides at seven,” read the terse note.
Rides what? Is he leaving town?
“I hope he doesn’t chicken out.”
Is this a preschool version of the fight at the OK Corral? What has he gotten into this time?
Once I realized that grandson Jacob and his family were at what they call a rodeo, I relaxed. We were fortunate enough to go with them one time a few years ago. It was like no rodeo I had ever seen. Instead, it was a county fair gone wild.
The midway covered a larger area than our entire local fairgrounds and was jam packed with rides catering to every age and degree of bravery. Vendors sold everything from wax sculptures made by dipping human hands into wax, photographs, jewelry, cowboy hats and any number of other things. Food booths sold the usual shaved ice concoctions, an assortment of tasty delights and even alcohol.
Barns filled with animals seemed to be an afterthought.
The highlight of the day we spent there was an arena filled with children and their families.
And sheep . . . calm, placid sheep. Harmless sheep in need of a haircut.
I like sheep. We had two when I was growing up. They were both the runts of the litter and had been given to us because their owners didn’t want to invest the time to take care of them. We kept them in a box in front of the stove until the weather warmed enough for them to occupy one of the horse stalls. We fed them from pop bottles fitted with long, black nipples.
We named them Woolly and Nellybelle. We thought it was cute to rub Woolly’s emerging horns. This resulted in his chasing us anytime we dared to enter his pen. Nellybelle never chased us. That was Woolly’s job.
The sheep at the rodeo had Nellybelle’s easygoing personality - until a small child was attached to their back. Then they ran as fast as their fuzzy legs could carry them, until the child slipped off.
This was what Jacob had been signed up for. He anxiously watched the proceedings. His mom was convinced he would chicken out. The closer it got to seven, the more anxious he was. He finally asked, “When is it going to be my turn?”
Eventually he was ushered into place. He sat on a bench with the other potential cowpokes. He was outfitted with a well-padded vest and helmet. He was draped over the back of his sheep and told to hold on tight.
The gate opened and the sheep flew out of the chute. Jacob held on and slowly melted off the side of his mount. It appeared as if he was clinging to the sheep’s belly before he finally let go. A hired hand immediately scooped him off the ground and held his hand up in victory. He proudly wore his blue ribbon the rest of the day.
This was mutton busting at its finest. I have read that some places have actual completions. At this venue it was all about the fun. Each child was declared a victor. Each was a hero to his or her own family. Each sheep walked away, glad to be rid of the small creature on its back.
There are rules as to the age and weight of the rider in these events. Jacob’s little brother, Nicholas, was extremely disappointed that he was too young to take part. I have no doubt that he would have had as much fun as Jacob did. His turn will come in a year or two.
Mutton busting is a relatively new creation. It is the preschool version of bull riding. At this rodeo only four and five year olds within a specific weight limit qualified for the activity. Other places allow younger children to participate although the youngest are whisked off shortly after leaving the gate. Girls are more coordinated than boys at this age and tend to stay on longer, although almost nobody stays on for more than a few seconds.
Jacob is now an official mutton buster. What a great way to begin his fifth year of life. Jacob rode at seven. He didn’t chicken out and he has a blue ribbon to prove it.

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