Sometimes we wander because we’re curious. Sometimes, because it’s familiar. And sometimes, because we’ve been moving in the same direction for so long, we forget to ask who chose the path in the first place.

When I was growing up on the farm near Barrhead, the rodeo was one of those events stitched into the fabric of prairie life. Everyone went. Families packed up the car or truck, brushed off their boots, and headed into town for a weekend of dust, noise, and cowboy grit. The rodeo wasn’t just a sporting event — it was a community gathering, a place to meet neighbours, eat mini-donuts, and watch the bravest among us strap themselves onto animals’ intent on throwing them into next week.

Back then, the rodeos were held outdoors. One year, the sun baked th...

Please subscribe to keep reading.