I don’t care much for rodeos.

There, I’ve said it. Now before you run me out of Montana and call me unworthy to live in a state where cowboys long have shaped the Western way of life, hear me out.

I blame my indifference toward rodeos at being forced to wear a cowboy hat and fringed vest during my formative years.

The city fathers of my hometown, Hawley, Minn., decided many decades ago that a rodeo is what this Norwegian-infested burg needed to promote the growing town. Not a Nordic Fest or Scandi Fest, but a rodeo.

And so it came to be that Hawley declared on its billboards that it’s “Where the West Begins!”

I’m not sure the moniker is correct. Located between the lush lake country and the more urban Fargo-Moorhead area, Hawley did have somewhat of an identity crisis, I suppose. It’s not a resort town and it’s not a big city. What it always has been is a farming community that historically served the surrounding dairy farmers.

Hawley did host Dairy Days some years, during which 4-H members like me gave demonstrations on how to make things such as cottage cheese salad (not my finest moment), but big surprise — Dairy Days never really caught on in a big way.

Anyway, once the rodeo took hold, the Hawley High School band was tasked with marching in the rodeo parade.

Our uniforms were tan fringed vests, cowboy hats and black shorts.

Soon it wasn’t enough to simply participate in the annual parade. The band was packed up and sent to neighboring Detroit Lakes every year to march in the Water Carnival parade as a way of promoting the Hawley Rodeo.

The band also had to play “pep” tunes at every rodeo performance, which meant suffering through what seemed like endless rounds of barrel racing and steer wrestling.

In short, I got my fill of rodeos at an early age.

That’s not to say I haven’t taken in any rodeos through the years. As a reporter, I’ve done feature stories on rodeo clowns, local cowboys at the top of their game and bull riders who narrowly escaped serious injury. I’ve seen some nasty spills off bucking broncs and wild-eyed bulls, and I guess that’s what keeps the spectators coming back.

I don’t imagine I’ll convince anyone that rodeo’s time has come and gone. It’s a sport that seems quintessential American West, but it’s interesting that history books note the sport actually took root among Spanish ranchers and their Mexican ranch hands.

In its early days, rodeo was a mix of cattle wrangling — some rodeo events such as calf roping mimic the real-life chores of ranch life — and bullfighting that dates back to the 16th century conquistadors.

I’m sure rodeo will continue to be an icon of life in the West and a big drawing card for county fairs and other community gatherings.

Maybe I need a change of heart. But first, I need to dig up my cowboy hat and fringed vest.

Features editor Lynnette Hintze may be reached at 758-4421 or by e-mail at [email protected]