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Having grown up in, truly, the best of times, my memory stands clear of strapping on the two-holster belt that held my cap pistols, putting my Tuff-Nut knife in my pocket with the ammo for my Red Ryder, BB gun then straddling my (saw)horse and Ride! Ride! Ride!

For us, children, rodeos were things talked about but seldom experienced.

For, us, the little rascals taking cows to market, was Rodeo Time!

The catch pen was the arena, the wide-board fence was the chute and the cows were our buckin’ broncs.

If, and when, Pop came to the “rodeo” swinging his walking stick, we, the cowboys, left the area before our chaps got tanned.

In time, picture shows and drag races replaced the rodeo. Then, before long, the teen-times gave way to formula, Gerber baby food and flushing dirt diapers in the toilet. Little boys grew up and played Little League and girls took dancing.

And, for a short time, the ladies had a heyday-shopping, playing Bridge and reading cookbooks.

Then, along came… grandbabies!

M grandbaby was a sweet, adorable little boy and I just knew he had my cowboy blood running through his veins. So, no teddy bear for him. I gave him a stuffed Horsy. Soon, it was rodeo time.

I happily took the little wrangler to the Cattlemen’s Rodeo … right by myself. I just knew he would almost jump out of my arms when he saw all the horses and cows. However, being a city baby, he was more interested in the kids in cowboy hats.

“Let’s go see the horsy,” I said in baby talk. “Look at the horsy -horsy.”

People were looking at me so I moved down to the cows. “Moooo! Moooo!”

My little grandson was jumping in my arms and laughing, jumping and laughing. Suddenly he wanted to squeal so he jerked his “pie-pie” out of his mouth and slung it in the catch pens with the cows and all their “busy business.” And he started to howl!

What to do?! What to do!”

Right in the middle of a baby fit, a man opened the gate and went down among the cows. He found the pacifier and, before I could look for rinsing water, and forgetting, or not caring, I stuck that fertilized pacifier in the little rascal’s mouth and, within a wink, the little angel was fast asleep.

“Rascal” has grown up to be a fine young man, but one with no interest in rodeo or horses. But, as for cows, he does enjoy a big T-bone steak.

(Thanks to B.B. Palmer for his gallant rescue of my grandbaby’s pie-pie.)