Finishing

Last Sunday I found myself out at Last Chance Raceway straddling my Honda CRF 230 bike on the start line of the Grand Prix.

"I must be crazy!" I thought.

Last year was the first time I actually rode on the track and it was terribly nerve-wracking to say the least. I also had one epic crash during my final lap of last year's Grand Prix that left my handlebars so cockeyed it's a wonder to me still that I was able to finish. Due to some personal issues and the busy nature of life I was unable to ride in any other races over the summer. I kept looking for excuses to bail on this Grand Prix too. I secretly hoped that it would snow or pour rain so I could respectfully pull out.

I was scared--I'll admit it.

I was nervous as hell last year too. But last year I was also blissfully unaware of what being in a race with other, substantially faster, riders is like. I remember finally connecting with Will Ferrell in the movie "Talladega Nights" when he goes back on the race track for the first time after a major crash and kept yelling out, "What was that? Were those the other drivers?!" Everyone was going so much faster than him that he felt completely left out.

A few days before the race I realized that my fear was making me try to back out. I have this rule in my life where if I realize I'm trying to avoid doing something I know deep down I want to do simply because I'm afraid, that I have to make myself do it anyways. I have learned that fear is usually a pretty good indicator that something is actually worth doing.

So there I was back on the start line. My dad had chose to ride in the same race that day as me but was in a different class. I searched for the red, white, and blue of his gear in the lines of rider lined up in front of me. Then I looked to my left and to my right at the other girl riders I was lined up with. There were only about 5 or 6 of us but we were still out there. We were still demonstrating, while in the minority, there are still girls that aren't afraid to get out and ride right alongside the boys.

When the flag was finally dropped for my class to take off, my bike wouldn't start. This didn't terribly worry me at first, until I kept feeling the seconds tick off and still my bike was dead. I tried choking it, not choking it. Giving it throttle, no throttle. Nothing. The minutes crept by and I stood alone on the start line as all the other riders had left. So much time had passed that my only thought was to push the bike off the line and be done. But finally my engine revved and I was good to go.

With tears welled up in my eyes I sped off around the first corner of the track. There was no way I would ever catch the other girls and have a shot at actually beating one of them. It was devastating to know I was done before I'd even began. But I wasn't raised to quit things so I knew I had to keep riding.

I rode the fastest I ever have in that race. Which made knowing how far behind I was even harder. I think the only thing that really kept me going was an article I just had published in Distinctly Montana magazine about 5 things women should know about motocross. It wasn't quite the article I'd pitched to them or the one I really wanted to write about. But I wrote it anyways because it was still an opportunity to write about a highly underestimated category of riders. As I rode I kept thinking about the article and about the girls I sat shoulder to shoulder with on the start line minutes earlier. None of us may be the fastest riders on the track today or ever. That's not the point. The point is that we are out there. We are pushing ourselves. We are raising the bar for what women are capable of. And perhaps most importantly, we are raising the bar in men's minds about what women are capable of. We are a small breed of women, but I feel privileged anytime I ride beside them.

There was only one other girl in the junior women's class I rode in so I got a defaulted 2nd place trophy. I wasn't exactly pleased because I truly believed I could've brought home the 1st place one. But I just kept reminding myself, you finished. You rode alongside dozens of men who have been riding far longer than you and who at one point in there lives probably rode in races where not one single girl rode. The times are changing and I feel proud to be one of the few leading the way in that change.

 

How I Became a Writer....

With my Editor’s announcement a week ago that he was ceasing production of the print version of the Helena Vigilante, I found myself reflecting on all the many blessings I have received in regards to my writing in the 5 years since graduating college. While I have been bestowed with numerous writing opportunities, the blessing I am most grateful for is all of the amazing people I’ve stumbled upon and who gave me the only thing I could ever really ask of anyone—A CHANCE.

In the first 6 months after graduating, I struggled desperately to find a job….any job really.  

I landed my first freelance writing gig with the now disbanded Queen City News. One random afternoon that first summer after college, I picked up the phone and dialed the paper’s number and put in a desperate plea for any writing work they could divvy out. Cathy Siegner was the editor. She was the first person who believed in me. I wrote some extremely fun pieces for them—one of my favorites being an article on different business owners in town who bring their pets to work with them. From the typical dog and cat to a stoic iguana, I certainly had my share of interesting subjects to interview with my first writing job. 

As the months ticked by and no other full-time jobs presented themselves, I became increasingly desperate. I found myself sitting outside on my parents’ deck one afternoon flipping furiously through the phone book hoping some job idea would jump out at me. Towards the tail end of the yellow pages, I found a listing for a technical writer named Hugh Ambrose. The name held no significance to me whatsoever and I’ve always hated the thought of technical writing, but I picked up the phone and punched in his number. After several rings all I was left with was that lonesome beep of the voicemail signaling me to say something worth listening to.

Cue the most random and awkward voicemail I have EVER left!

To this day, I can’t remember exactly what I said but it was something along the lines of, “Hi. My name is Lacey. I’m a writer. I have a degree…..in English. I’m poor….I mean I am really passionate about writing and am looking for work. Call me.” 

It took a couple of days but I did finally get a call back from Mr. Ambrose. That phone call turned into perhaps the most unique job I’ve had to date. Turns out Mr. Ambrose is truly a writer…..as well as the son of highly esteemed and recognized historian and writer, Stephen Ambrose. You might recognize titles like Undaunted Courage (book about the Lewis and Clark expedition) or “Band of Brothers” (10-part HBO mini-series about WWII). Well Mr. Stephen Ambrose wrote Undaunted Courage and was the producer and one of many historical consults on Band of Brothers. His son, Hugh, became my temporary boss in the fall of 2009.

The call I received from Hugh Ambrose that day started out with praise for my moxie. Apparently my awkward voicemail scored me an A+ on his interview scale. He told me he did have some work he could use help with. He was writing a book called The Pacific, which was a non-fiction piece on WWII. This book was also the basis for another HBO mini-series by the same name that was already in production. And get this, Steven Spielberg and Tom Hanks were the producers!!! Apparently he had recorded a bunch of interviews with WWII veterans and needed the recordings transcribed. “Hell yes!” I said. Well, maybe not those exact words. 

I met Hugh a few days later and he handed me a box filled with cassette tapes. I spent the next several weeks in front of my computer typing as fast as possible. I never thought I would make it through them all in time to meet his deadline. Somehow I did though. A year later, I met Hugh again at the library for a book signing of his completed work. And several pages in, in the acknowledgement section, my name was listed. He signed a copy of his book that day for me and told me he knew I was going to go on to do great things….he said he knew that from the moment he first heard my voicemail. 

After my transcription gig, I went back on the hunt for work. My now-fiancé, Andy, suggested I place an ad in the newspaper basically advertising myself. I thought it was crazy but I was too desperate not to try it. I got several interesting calls and some that were just plain strange. But one in particular hit the mark. It came from Shawna Swanz, head of special projects at the Helena IR. She opened the door for me to freelancing for the IR, and 5 years and dozens of articles later, I still write for her from time to time. The opportunity she handed me allowed me to meet so many amazing people in the Helena community and truly confirmed my belief that I have what it takes to be a journalist.

Then about 3 years ago I landed one of my most special writing jobs. Just like with Hugh, I sent out a desperate message to Shane Castle, the editor for the Helena Vigilante. My mom had showed me the monthly paper one day and told me I should contact them about work. After submitting a bunch of my clippings, I met Shane one day for coffee to discuss writing for him. I liked him immediately. And one of the few things I’ve always remembered about that first meeting with him was him paging through my clippings in front of me and saying that “There’s no question that you can write.” It was such a small comment, but was the kind of reminder I think all writers need from time to time. 

For the past 3 years I have written some of the neatest and best pieces of my career, in my opinion. I wrote articles about such interesting people as a boot maker, wedding photographer, sushi chef, figure skater, unicyclist, snow plow driver, skateboarder, and midwife. And that, my friends, is only a small sampling. I had the opportunity to sit down, like a big time journalist, and interview past governor of Montana, Brian Schweitzer. I got to interview my ballet teacher of 13 years, Beth Barry. I even got to document my 137 mile bicycle ride to Lincoln, Mont. and back as well as my first game of hockey. 

 Looking back, every single one of those pieces makes me smile. They gave me a respect for the beautiful variety of individuals we have in this world and the unique passions each of them has.

In February of 2012, a dear friend lost his 32-year old sister, Theresa, to Leukemia. He asked me to help him write her eulogy. That event, alone, I could devote 6,000 pages to talking about. And even though I’ve tried a few times, there aren’t enough words in all creation to explain how that request forever changed me, not only as a person but as a writer. I still can’t talk about it, or even write this, without tearing up. The words I eventually turned over to him with blood shot, puffy eyes, was far from my best work. But it is the work I am the most proud of to date. It opened my eyes to the true good that can come from mere words. And it confirmed in my heart forever that my calling and purpose in life is to be a writer.

One year ago, I landed my next biggest writing accomplishment by having my first article published in a magazine. It was a humble piece on the Montana pronghorn in Distinctly Montana. I hounded the editor, Valerie Harms, for months to let me write a piece. Guess that’s just living proof that the squeaky wheel really does get the oil. I’ll never forget the day I walked into Safeway and picked up a copy of the magazine, opened it, and saw my name and picture in print. It was AMAZING!

While I was still in high school my cousin’s husband, at the time, asked me what I wanted to major in when I got to college. I told him English. I said I wanted to be a writer. He just laughed and told me good luck. He told me that I would never get anywhere with that. Well I just wrote over a 1,000 words explaining just how much I HAVE accomplished with the very thing he told me I’d fail at. And if I saw that man today, all I would say to him is, “Watch it, I’m just starting to spread my wings.”

I chose to become a writer for many reasons. I realized I was meant to be a writer after completing my senior honor’s thesis in college. I came to understand that I need to do something GOOD with my writing the day I helped my friend write his sister’s eulogy. And all of this…all of this was made possible because each of the people I’ve mentioned here and countless others believed in me and were willing to give me A CHANCE. For that I am forever indebted to and grateful for.  

Refusing to Give Up

“A true relationship is two imperfect people who refuse to give up on each other.”

I stumbled across that line the other day and found myself smiling as I read it. Last week, on September 12, I celebrated my 9 year anniversary with my now-fiancé, Andy. This date also marked exactly one year until we take our vows and begin our forever together finally.

9 years.

Sharing your life with anyone for that amount of time, in any capacity, is an enormous accomplishment. And it takes so much more than love to do so. It requires learning to see someone for who they truly are--scars, flaws, vulnerabilities and all—and to still want them in your life at the end of the day. It means committing yourself to someone even knowing you might want to walk out on them more often than you want to stay. You have to do the seemingly impossible and learn to love them unconditionally. You have to be absolutely stubborn in your refusal to EVER give up on them. And perhaps most importantly, you have to put all your trust in God and know that if you don’t give up on him, he will help make sure you don’t give up on yourself or your relationship.

In 9 years, Andy and I have seen more than our share of ups and downs. We have walked through dark places and fought demons together that many married couples don’t survive. When we attended our first marriage prep session with our priest and he asked why we thought we were ready to get married, I wanted to burst out laughing. I don’t think it was his question so much as his implication that the biggest step was still before us that seemed so funny. It’s just that when you’ve been with someone for 9 years you’re more than married—even without the rings. You’ve already made the commitment in your head and in your heart. And I think even God knows that. 

I used to feel bitter sometimes when I’d attend weddings and see the youthful and ignorant bliss of couples that were so in love. I knew that I would never have quite that look about me on my wedding day if I married Andy because we were simply too far past the honeymoon stage. But when I was forced to sit down and process Andy’s MS diagnosis earlier this summer, I realized something that changed my unpleasant disposition. 

I realized I will be even happier on my wedding day than most because I know all the way through to my bones that our marriage will make it. Not because we are so passionately in love, but because we have been through hell and back together and never once gave up on each other. 

When Andy proposed, I knew immediately when to say our vows---our 10 year anniversary which to no coincidence in my mind fell in a perfect timeframe and on a perfect Saturday during one of the most gorgeous months of the year in Montana. It was meant to be and foresaw long before by God I have no doubt. What better way to ring in a decade together than by committing ourselves to each other publically before all of the family and friends who have helped see us through so many trying years. 

It will be a beautiful and blessed day…..10 years in the making!

Our first adventure together in Lincoln, MT

Our 1st Valentine's Day together...boy oh boy he must really love me!

Fabulous New Years!

 

Drive in movie night in Butte

   

4th of July celebration

Great day of sledding in Lincoln, MT

Does Montana get any more beautiful than this??

Fabulous Las Vegas!

A Summer of Grit and Grace

The days are growing shorter. The temperature outside is cooling. The leaves are hinting that they are ready to trade out for a more colorful wardrobe. Summer, it seems, is coming to an end. I normally welcome the descent of winter. Snow is one of my favorite things in the world and I love playing in it. I love the world being blanketed in white and giving everything a clean slate. But this year feels different.

A few nights ago I watched the movie “Miracle” about the miraculous triumph of the United States hockey team over the Soviets in the 1980 winter Olympic games held in Lake Placid. I love that movie, and not just because it’s about hockey, but because it truly inspires me each time I watch it. I’m sure the film doesn’t even begin to convey how hard the team had to work in order to overtake what was at the time considered the greatest hockey team on earth. Herb Brooks, the renowned coach for the U.S., pushed the players harder and further than anyone thought was humane. He even went so far as to tell his team that they didn’t have the talent necessary to win on talent alone. They had to train harder and simply want the win more than the soviets in order to conquer them. And that’s exactly what they did. They believed in a dream everyone told them was impossible....and in the end, their dream became a reality. 

By the time I reach the end of the movie each time I watch it, I too feel like I’m on top of the world and am capable of achieving all of my dreams. I guess that’s the beauty of sports films based on true stories like that and why I’ve always been drawn to them. 

Four summer ago, I had the privilege of experiencing a similar moment of achievement when I rode my bicycle 65 miles to Lincoln, MT. It was a feat I never would’ve dreamt possible, especially when a few years before that I couldn’t even jog one block down my street. The next summer I did the ride again via a slightly different route. The third summer I rode to Lincoln and spent the night and then rode home the next day for a total of 137 miles. Last summer I rode 70 miles in one day to Butte and two months after that I rode 101 miles in a single day to Great Falls. I pushed my body to its limit. And by the end of each ride, I could feel that something inside me had shifted and left me a better and stronger person. 

After each ride I always had people ask me why I wanted to do it, or more specifically, what had possessed me. I always tried to explain, but there came a point where I realized that if they had to ask, they would never understand. I did my rides for a lot of reasons, and after each one I had a bunch more reasons to continue with them the next summer. The best way I can explain is to say that they were a spiritual retreat. They were 6, 7, or 10 consecutive hours with just my thoughts, my heart, and God at my back. Somewhere along all those treacherous miles, I made peace……with life, with myself, and with God.

I fully intended on doing another long ride this summer. I was welcoming that high I felt each year after my ride. It was a feeling I not only love but physically and emotionally need. But God had different plans for me. I had one gloriously happy day in May when my boyfriend, Andy, of 8 years proposed to me. Then 8 days later, he was diagnosed with MS. My world got shattered for a bit…..and even 3 months later I find that I am still incredibly bitter about things and the way they always seem to play out in my life. Even when the pieces of my life seem to fall into place, they are handed to me with fractures already in them. Dealing with his diagnosis and all that came with it forced me to become a wife before I was even a bride. And in the weeks that followed, two of my cousins also became engaged and I witnessed the joyous pictures and words pop up on Facebook. I wanted to be happy for them. But all I found inside was anger and bitterness. For that, I am truly ashamed. 

I am a firm believer that God delivers the hardest battles to his toughest soldiers, but sometimes I wish He’d made me weaker and would give me one easy win. This summer has drained me of what some days feels like all my time, strength, love, and energy. I’ve given everything I have to Andy and to making sure he is taken care of. And I wouldn’t have had it any other way.  But I feel exhausted and angry about it all. The worst part for me though is that it caused me to give up my annual bike ride. I just didn’t have the time to put in the training necessary and I lost my drive to do it. Now I feel hints of fall in the air and it makes me sad because I didn’t get that spiritual boost from a ride that I’ve grown accustomed to carrying me through the winter. I so needed it.

One of my cousins and her boyfriend embarked on a 3 month bicycle trip along the Continental Divide from Canada all the way to Mexico earlier this summer. There isn’t a day that’s passed this summer where I haven’t thought about them and wished I was turning pedal strokes all day long right beside them. I can’t even imagine how they will feel at the end of that journey, but whatever feeling it is, I know it will only surpass the feeling I’ve experienced. It’s the kind of feeling, like I said, that you can’t really explain but it’s the kind of thing that carries you through the next year and all that life throws at you along the way.

This year I didn’t get to ride. I didn’t get that feeling. But I like to believe that when summer rolls in next year that I will be renewed for a bunch of new reasons. Not long after Andy’s diagnosis, I met with my past dance instructor of 13 years because her husband has lived with MS for many years. I don’t remember a lot about that meeting because most of what she told me frightened me. The one thing she said though that has never left my mind pertained to her, not her husband. She laughed saying she has spent most of her life saying that she can handle whatever God throws at her, and sometimes she realizes that He is clearly seeking to challenge that belief. When she told me that, I remember thinking that I do the same thing. 

I don’t run from challenges---I face them head on. When people tell me I can’t do something, I go right out and do it just to prove them wrong. My bike rides were a way of challenging myself, physically and mentally. But I never doubted that I would succeed. I don’t think God doubted me either. And I do believe that’s why He decided to put a greater challenge before me this summer. He wanted to give me something I wasn’t sure I could handle. He knew all along I could handle it, but He needed me to realize that too. And He prepared me well by helping me come to the decision to be baptized into the Catholic Church earlier this spring. Without His spirit within me in a new and profound way, this challenge would have been much harder. 

I still feel angry about things and I won’t ever try to hide that fact. But I know now that at the very least I am at peace with God about things. And in the final analysis, I believe that peace is the only one that really matters. 

Playing Dress Up!

When it comes to playing dress up, let’s just say I’m an expert.

Most kids go through some phase of fantasy play growing up, but for me, it was daily life. My parents probably felt blessed beyond words at bringing a little blond hair blue eyed daughter into the world. What they didn’t realize until later, however, was that I would transform into so much more than that. 

For my mom, who stayed home with me most of my childhood, everyday must have been an adventure to see which costume I would come barreling out of my room dressed in. Unlike most little girls, I was never content being just a pretty princess in a billowing gown with tulle and rhinestones everywhere…..although there was still plenty of that. I was simply never content playing any one character. My imagination was ever expanding and I never stopped dreaming about who I wanted to be next. 

Some days I was a pioneer traveling across the prairie in a covered wagon. Other days I was a dancing doll in the Nutcracker Suite. There were days I’d dawn a straw cowboy hat and boots and play a tough cowgirl and then others when I was dressed head to toe in bright green in my Ninja Turtle costume. 

And of course, the crème da la crème of my get ups was the custom made Little Mermaid costume my mom had made just for me. Growing up, The Little Mermaid was my absolute favorite Disney movie….well, still is actually. According to my mom, I wore that Ariel costume everywhere---even the grocery store. I’m smiling right now thinking about what an amazing mother it took to take her daughter shopping for milk and eggs dressed as a mermaid, especially when Halloween was months away. Thinking back on it, Ariel was the perfect character for me to assume. Ariel was a mermaid stuck in one world and identity but she was always dreaming, and reaching, for more.

As I got a little older and started taking ballet lessons, my favorite month of the year was May when our spring performance was held. I’d sit on the floor in my frilly tutus and leotards looking longingly through the blue velvet curtains at the older dancers pirouetting across the stage. They were such lovely creatures and I wanted to look just like them when I was older.

This past weekend, I finally became one of those beautiful creatures that little girls look up at and oooh and aaaah over. I went bridal dress shopping for the first time in Bozeman. It probably came as no surprise to my mom and grandma, who accompanied me, that all I wanted to try on were the big poofy dresses. I’d been trying on dresses in the shop for a while when another group of ladies walked in. Accompanying them was a little girl about 3 or 4 years of age. I slipped in the dressing room to put on another gown while they continued browsing. When I came out, the women were right outside the dressing room admiring a dress one of them had tried on. But when the little girl turned her head and saw me floating by in my yards of tulle to step up onto the pedestal, her reaction was priceless. She had the biggest smile on her face and kept saying “Look at her! Look at her!” 

I didn’t find the dress of my dreams that day, but I do recall smiling from ear to ear when I saw that little girl’s face. To her, I probably was a real princess…..the real life version of everything she imagined herself being when she played dress up at home. Her reaction was the only one that mattered to me that day. And if I’d hung around her a little longer, I probably would’ve been convinced into buying that first dress she saw me in. 

Despite the fact that I’m all grown up now, I still love playing dress up and taking pictures of myself. Even if just to spawn laughter from my best friend, and fellow dress up pal for life, Jamie. But on that day in the bridal shop, I played dress up for the first time when it wasn’t make believe. I finally realized that I was looking for the perfect costume for the one day I get to be a fairytale princess in real life. And that’s why finding the right dress….”the one”…..is so very important to me.

Here’s to the continued search for the ultimate dress up gown!

   

Galen Family Camping Trip

This past weekend I ventured up to the Seeley area for the annual Galen family camping trip on Placid Lake. I’ve lost track of how many years I’ve been going camping with Andy’s family but it’s something I truly look forward to now each summer.

Even though I somewhat despise sleeping in a tent, swatting at bugs, and being without running water most of the weekend, camping always seems to relax me somehow. It forces me out of town where work, chores and errands keep me running non-stop all week. And while we still had modern amenities like cell service at the campground, I found myself not even wanting to look at my phone. I wanted to just be. I wanted to wake up each day and know that my biggest concern would be when the next s’mores session was beginning.

With the campground right next to Placid Lake, we normally spend most of the day boating and polishing up on our wakeboarding and surfing skills. This year, however, strong winds blasted us for most our first day there. The water tossed about with caps of frothy white and rocked all of the boats tied up at the dock. On top of the wind, the sky was doused in concrete grey from wildfire smoke drifting from the west coast and Canada. Our summer blue skies had all but disappeared. The rough waters and smoke were disappointing but allowed for all of us to have a calm and relaxing day together at our campsite instead.

For a good chunk of Saturday afternoon, the six of us were crowded around the picnic table playing the board game, “SmartAss,” which had all of us busting up laughing. In between the chuckles we crammed our faces with popcorn, chocolate chip cookies and licorice. We may not have been out on the water, but we were having just as much fun. In between rounds of the game, Andy and I strolled about the campground and down the road……taking goofy pictures in between. 

 

Before I knew it, it was dinner time. As I sat next to Andy dishing up some delicious shrimp pasta his mom had prepared, I kept looking around at his parents and sisters. For the first time since our engagement, it really hit me that I would officially become part of his family in the next year. And even though I’ve known all of them for nearly a decade and they already feel like family, it still feels different now. But it’s a very good different.

By the time we were done with dinner, the wind had somehow miraculously disappeared. And it seemed to have tugged the smoke along with it. The skies were clear and the lake finally echoed the “placidness” of its name. It was time to hit the water! We spent the next two hours cruising back and forth across the lake with an orange sun illuminating our backs. We boated until there was hardly a speck of light left in the sky. We were all wet, tired, and ready for s’mores.

We did a bit more boating the next day and then it was time to pack things up and head home. I’m always craving a hot shower at home by the end of our camping weekends, but leaving still makes me sad. Another family camping trip down, and by the time next year’s rolls around, Andy and I will be just weeks away from saying our I Do’s! 

A Memorable 4th of July

The 4^th of July holiday in my family has always had more of a “small town” feel about it. My parents and I usually attend an annual holiday parade held on the main drag of Lincoln, Mont. It’s a quaint little parade but one that I anxiously await all year. I was shocked to hear that this year was its 62^nd running of it.

Since Highway 200 runs directly through town, traffic is actually stopped from passing through for nearly an hour. I always laugh when I see the line of cars building on either end of town. Drivers at the front often get out and angrily confront the police officers directing traffic as to why their holiday travels have been halted. Their utter cluelessness to this Montana tradition tickles me every year.

As if shutting down the highway for its progression doesn’t make Lincoln’s parade unique enough, there are also the tasty handouts. Unlike many parades, that have started prohibiting the throwing of candy, Lincoln’s parade kicks it up a huge notch. Since High Country Jerky, distributed in stores statewide, is produced in a factory just outside town, jerky samples are tossed to eager bystanders. There is also the much anticipated handout of chilled cans of Bud Light and Busch.  In between all the snacks and beverages are bagpipers, vintage cars, baton twirlers and Montana themed floats. A grand time is always had by all.

Unfortunately, this year I did not make it to Lincoln for the parade. Although I did enjoy myself at another small-town Montana tradition: the Livingston Roundup!

In prepping for both the 4^Th of July and the rodeo, I decked myself out Friday morning with red cowboy boots, faded blue jeans and a white tank top brandishing blue hearts and red strips in the shape of the American flag. I got in the car with my fiancé by my side and we were off!

When we finally rolled into Livingston a few hours later we made our way through town to meet my fiancé’s family at Marks’ In-and-Out drive in for an early dinner. Hardly anything seems as American in the summertime as eating burgers at a drive-in. Once we got our burgers we walked across the street to a park to eat at a picnic table in the shade. I think I almost could’ve skipped the rodeo and basked in that little shady patch of heaven the rest of the day.

We eventually made our way over to the rodeo and secured some front row seats. I must admit that I’ve never been a huge fan of rodeos. I like watching all of the horses and such but after 3 hours or more I’m usually ready to bolt. But something about this rodeo….maybe with it being on the actual 4^th of July….was not only more enjoyable but it really made me stop and appreciate being an American.

As the rodeo commenced, a bunch of girls carrying different flags ran full force on their horses into the arena in a dizzying circle of dust and color. Other riders eventually joined in and a group of veterans carried the American flag out into the center of the arena for the National Anthem. I reached up and pulled down the cowboy hat from my head and held it in front of my chest with my right hand. It’s funny because right about then I paused and tried to remember when the last time was I even said the National Anthem. Apparently too long! Saying it though on the day our nation declared its independence certainly felt special though.

Three hours later all of the high-adrenaline events concluded and the cows finally breathed a sigh of relief knowing they were done being chased. The grand finale of the rodeo was a fantastic firework show. A bunch of patriotic songs were played while the fireworks lit up the clear Montana sky and then trickled back downwards like electric rain.  The first song, “God Bless the U.S.A.” by Randy Travis, actually made me tear up a bit. It made me reflect on just how damn lucky all of us here in America are. Sure, things are far from perfect, but they are far better than elsewhere.  And being a woman, I am especially grateful for the privileges I am able to enjoy. I have the freedom to vote, to drive, to marry whomever I desire, to dress how I want, to compete at sports right alongside men, and to speak my mind without fear of retaliation. Being an American, especially a American woman, and even more especially an American woman from Montana is an incredible blessing. Being part of a small-town rodeo in the Big Sky State reminded me of just that. I may have missed my annual parade, but I was all too content for the change up this year.