Thursday, 5:40 P.M. Elko, Nevada. Intern Andrew Church reporting for duty.
The walls of the press room are reverberating with Cajun music. Cowboy poets and Hungarians come and go at will. The aroma of meatballs and merlot wafts in the air. Unusual, for some. Not for Elko.
Those experienced in the ways of the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering can be somewhat prepared for what's in store this week. The tenderfoots (tenderfeet?) will have the benefit of complete and unexpected immersion into the cowboy culture.
Me? I'm a veteran. My parent's have been forcing me to recite at the Gathering since I was seven. I've seen performers from most continents, excluding Antarctica (although I wouldn't be surprised if Meg somehow recruits talent from the subarctic). Yet in spite of these experiences, each year is always surpassed by the next, without fail.
The Gathering never ceases to amaze me with the talent it brings to Nevada, or its ability to unite cultures under one roof. What is more incredible are the ties these people have, despite living worlds away. Music, song, horsemanship, nature's boon, hard work. A livelihood based on an openness and freedom not found many places in this day and age. Here, language barriers are defeated with horsehair strings and accordion notes. We may only see these individuals once a year, maybe once a lifetime, but the connections and memories seldom fade.
What do I have planned? Make a few new friends and see a dozen old ones. Learn a few words in Hungarian and dance the zydeco. Partake in the overall camaraderie. In the meantime, I'm off to see Geno Delafose and the French Rockin' Boogie. Hope to see you there if you're not here already.
Ensign Church, signing out.