A half-eaten cheese sandwich in one hand, the steering wheel in the other, I’m on the way to Austin, Manitoba to cover my first rodeo. It’s July, and the air conditioner in the car is still coming on. I’m hoping the heat doesn’t turn my dinner into sun cooked grilled cheese before I get the chance to eat it. I think I take better photos with a full belly.
I’m not sure what to expect at the rodeo. I’m a few months into my job with the Brandon Sun, and so far, every day has been different.
Part of me (the part that’s forgotten how terrible writing 2,000 word essays was) wants to go back to four years ago. I would have been carrying my giant teddy bear Snowflake into residence, eager to start my first year of journalism school at Ryerson. I’ve spent many hours in various classrooms since then, but I’m not sure I’m ready to immerse myself in the world of working professionals.
Thinking about shaking hands with someone after an interview still makes my grip turn slippery- the same as it did when I was out working on an assignment in first year reporting class. Funny, I thought those nerves were supposed to disappear when I became an adult, but they’re still there, showing up on the most inconvenient occasions. During one instance, the premier of Manitoba was the victim. It was too late to wipe my hand on my jeans, so I reached forward and wrapped my perspiring palm around his for a hand shake. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said. He smiled, or it could have been a grimace.
I shove the remaining half sandwich into my mouth. These long drives to assignments give me too much time to think. It was a two biter but I took it in one. Pieces of bread spray onto the front of my shirt, but I’m unashamed. There’s no one to see me on this flat, straight highway to the rodeo.
When I get there, I drive the car onto the grass parking lot, pulling up beside a tractor. Grabbing the camera bag, I push one high heeled boot out of the car after the other.
The stands are already filled with cheering fans, waiting patiently for the show to begin. It brings back fond memories of the Rogers Centre, only the entertainment is wearing chaps and cowboy hats, instead of jerseys and baseball pants.
Horses gallop by as I squeeze through the gate and onto the track to take some photos. I’m praying I don’t trip and fall into one of the many scattered piles of horse poop. These high heeled boots were a lot easier to walk in when the terrain was a concrete sidewalk. I’ve sacrificed comfort for longer legs, and now I’m suffering for it.
It’s a different world here in rural Manitoba, one I’ve never seen before growing up on the east coast, and then later moving to school in the city. Over to the left there’s a pen of bulls, waiting for their turn in the spotlight. Grown men wearing hockey helmets take their turns sitting on the back of them, trying their best to hold on for as long as possible. Young kids follow in the older generations footsteps, riding on the backs of sheep. The occasional snort or “baaaa” adds a different kind of background noise to the outdoor arena then the cheering crowd.
When the match is done, the bulls saunter off, looking slightly more ticked off then they did before, and the cowboys return with dirt caked on their clothes and sometimes on their faces. It looks like a rough sport.
For me, climbing a fence is the roughest part of my evening. It’s a better angle for photos. I sit with one leg over one side and one on the other, hoping I don’t plummet forwards into the arena. If I was going to die tonight, I would have chosen a different last meal than a cheese sandwich.
I can feel blisters forming on the back of my feet already. Next time, I’ll leave the high heeled boots at home.
There’s a lot I have to learn in my first year as a journalist, I think, still sitting on the edge of the fence, dirt flying up as another cowboy takes his turn in the spotlight. Some of the lessons are obvious, like don’t lock the car door when your keys are still inside of it. I learned that the hard way, peering through the window at them sitting just out of reach. Thankfully, I wasn’t far from work, and my co-worker came to save me with the spare key.
I try hard to do the best job I can, but sometimes, things don’t go as smoothly as planned.
Earlier this summer, I was interviewing someone over the phone who was upset about potholes in the parking lot of a seniors centre. We agreed to meet in a few minutes outside the building for a photo.
When I got there, an older gentleman was waiting, standing on the sidewalk. I introduced myself, and asked if I could take his photo. He smiled obligingly, and I snapped the picture. He wasn’t a very talkative person, but that was okay. It was close to 6 p.m. and I needed to get back to the office to upload it ASAP anyway.
After I got back, my phone rang. “Are you still coming?” the voice asked. It was the guy I just went to take a photo of. “I just took your photo,” I told him, slightly frustrated, thinking that maybe he had poor memory.
But, when I drove the familiar path back to the senior’s centre and met the guy, he was clearly a different person than the first man I photographed. Somehow, I managed to take a photo of a random senior citizen who was probably just outside the centre getting some fresh air.
It certainly hasn’t been an easy transition from school to working life, I think, shaken out of my daydream by a spray of dirt as another horse gallops by a little too close for comfort.
It has, however, been quite the adventure.
The sun is beginning to set now in Austin, and my grilled cheese has long since been digested. I think longingly of the black forest cake at home on the counter.
But, there are still a few more photos to take and cowboys to interview.
I’m not sure what to expect at the rodeo. I’m a few months into my job with the Brandon Sun, and so far, every day has been different.
Part of me (the part that’s forgotten how terrible writing 2,000 word essays was) wants to go back to four years ago. I would have been carrying my giant teddy bear Snowflake into residence, eager to start my first year of journalism school at Ryerson. I’ve spent many hours in various classrooms since then, but I’m not sure I’m ready to immerse myself in the world of working professionals.
Thinking about shaking hands with someone after an interview still makes my grip turn slippery- the same as it did when I was out working on an assignment in first year reporting class. Funny, I thought those nerves were supposed to disappear when I became an adult, but they’re still there, showing up on the most inconvenient occasions. During one instance, the premier of Manitoba was the victim. It was too late to wipe my hand on my jeans, so I reached forward and wrapped my perspiring palm around his for a hand shake. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said. He smiled, or it could have been a grimace.
I shove the remaining half sandwich into my mouth. These long drives to assignments give me too much time to think. It was a two biter but I took it in one. Pieces of bread spray onto the front of my shirt, but I’m unashamed. There’s no one to see me on this flat, straight highway to the rodeo.
When I get there, I drive the car onto the grass parking lot, pulling up beside a tractor. Grabbing the camera bag, I push one high heeled boot out of the car after the other.
The stands are already filled with cheering fans, waiting patiently for the show to begin. It brings back fond memories of the Rogers Centre, only the entertainment is wearing chaps and cowboy hats, instead of jerseys and baseball pants.
Horses gallop by as I squeeze through the gate and onto the track to take some photos. I’m praying I don’t trip and fall into one of the many scattered piles of horse poop. These high heeled boots were a lot easier to walk in when the terrain was a concrete sidewalk. I’ve sacrificed comfort for longer legs, and now I’m suffering for it.
It’s a different world here in rural Manitoba, one I’ve never seen before growing up on the east coast, and then later moving to school in the city. Over to the left there’s a pen of bulls, waiting for their turn in the spotlight. Grown men wearing hockey helmets take their turns sitting on the back of them, trying their best to hold on for as long as possible. Young kids follow in the older generations footsteps, riding on the backs of sheep. The occasional snort or “baaaa” adds a different kind of background noise to the outdoor arena then the cheering crowd.
When the match is done, the bulls saunter off, looking slightly more ticked off then they did before, and the cowboys return with dirt caked on their clothes and sometimes on their faces. It looks like a rough sport.
For me, climbing a fence is the roughest part of my evening. It’s a better angle for photos. I sit with one leg over one side and one on the other, hoping I don’t plummet forwards into the arena. If I was going to die tonight, I would have chosen a different last meal than a cheese sandwich.
I can feel blisters forming on the back of my feet already. Next time, I’ll leave the high heeled boots at home.
There’s a lot I have to learn in my first year as a journalist, I think, still sitting on the edge of the fence, dirt flying up as another cowboy takes his turn in the spotlight. Some of the lessons are obvious, like don’t lock the car door when your keys are still inside of it. I learned that the hard way, peering through the window at them sitting just out of reach. Thankfully, I wasn’t far from work, and my co-worker came to save me with the spare key.
I try hard to do the best job I can, but sometimes, things don’t go as smoothly as planned.
Earlier this summer, I was interviewing someone over the phone who was upset about potholes in the parking lot of a seniors centre. We agreed to meet in a few minutes outside the building for a photo.
When I got there, an older gentleman was waiting, standing on the sidewalk. I introduced myself, and asked if I could take his photo. He smiled obligingly, and I snapped the picture. He wasn’t a very talkative person, but that was okay. It was close to 6 p.m. and I needed to get back to the office to upload it ASAP anyway.
After I got back, my phone rang. “Are you still coming?” the voice asked. It was the guy I just went to take a photo of. “I just took your photo,” I told him, slightly frustrated, thinking that maybe he had poor memory.
But, when I drove the familiar path back to the senior’s centre and met the guy, he was clearly a different person than the first man I photographed. Somehow, I managed to take a photo of a random senior citizen who was probably just outside the centre getting some fresh air.
It certainly hasn’t been an easy transition from school to working life, I think, shaken out of my daydream by a spray of dirt as another horse gallops by a little too close for comfort.
It has, however, been quite the adventure.
The sun is beginning to set now in Austin, and my grilled cheese has long since been digested. I think longingly of the black forest cake at home on the counter.
But, there are still a few more photos to take and cowboys to interview.