Ellington

After seeing the Columbia shuttle tragedy unfold on television, I walked out the door and felt the sun on my face, and smelled the warm winter air that only the South knows. I felt all the more grateful for everything I have. I decided to clear my head, and, remembering there was a Paint Horse show at the Fairgrounds, I hopped in my truck. I've been a horse lover ever since I paid my way through summer camp by feeding and saddling horses, cleaning the stables, and working the chuckwagon during overnight pack trips. I must say I was a bit overwhelmed when I arrived at the show.

More than 300 head of livestock and 800 horses represented ranches from all over America. There were Palominos, Sorrel Geldings, Arabians and Quarter Horses with braided manes, floor-length tails, and stunning hides of buckskin, chestnut and autumn harvest gold. As I walked toward the arena, I passed the massive beer tent equipped with six pool tables and a sound system blasting Skynyrd's "Sweet Home Alabama."

Inside the arena, fresh-faced 8-year-old cowgirls in sparkly rhinestone outfits showed next to weathered old wranglers in worn jeans and work boots. As different as they were, they all shared the same individual soft-spoken instructions and gentle touches that inspire these beautiful creatures to perform.

After a couple hours of watching, admiring and wistful memories, I had a hankering for some fair food. After chowing down a Mississippi beef burger, some haystack fries, a funnel cake and batter-fried corn on the cob, there was only one thing left to do: go visit Big Edd.

I wasn't quite prepared for this awesome site, even though the mini barn stated the facts. Over 6 feet tall, 11 feet long and 11 feet around, Big Edd the bull is a powerful, yet good-natured fella, allowing children on his back, and this reporter to do a feature on him. When our interview was done, I thanked Joe, his manager, and Big Edd quietly returned to his backstage lounge of sawdust and dirt.

As the afternoon sun started setting, I began reminiscing about my own pseudo-cowboy experiences. I've seen teams of wild horses running free on thousands of open acres in Wyoming. I've ridden down into the wind-shaped desert-red Hoodoo Spiers of Bryce Canyon in Utah, past forests of blazing autumn yellows, reds and golds in northern Wisconsin, and in stirrup-deep snow in the mountains of Colorado.

I love Jackson, but I do miss My West. It was nice to think about that stuff again—funny how smellin' saddle leather, diesel and dust, and walking through mud and manure can do that. As I made my way back to my truck three hours later, I again passed the beer tent, still blasting "Sweet Home Alabama."
— C. M. Live