Grabbing the bull by its horns is another popular phrase that people associate to taking one's problems full on with confidence. Unfortunately, my confidence would get the best of me and my problems, well let's just say were like a bull in a china closet, full of clumsy mistakes that would lead to disastrous consequences. Today I would galavant to adrenaline-filled pleasures with bovines instead of taking the bull by the horns. I hope you are ready, for this murder case was about to become all the more sinister and dangerous.

Word travels fast in a small town. Faster than a mosquito might land on a dog on a warm summer's eve. Before the bacon sizzled in the pan, before the inhabitants of the Stanton Manor had a chance to stretch their sleepy legs, there were random vehicles stopping on the side of the road near the gate. People peeked through the bars to catch a glimpse of the infamous witch's ghost. Denise Stanton, the town villain, was no more. Young school boys on their bikes mocked the late Stanton singing, "The witch is dead, the wicked witch, ding dong the wicked witch is dead!" Poor Baines stood by the gates patiently ignoring the threats and sticks that where swung at him. He was waiting for Sergeant LeBlanc and the funeral director to arrive. An arrival that caused the curious and somewhat hostile onlookers to temporarily disperse.

I watched the men pull up the driveway. My teeth chomped on one of Janet's honey biscuits. The funeral director, a tall stork looking man with sunken eyes, stood as the perfect specimen for one in his gloomy profession. He pulled out a clipboard and began jotting notes saying not a word to anyone as he invaded the home. I had the urge to hug him, make him smile, but one glance into his emotionless eyes proved to me that some people had no feeling in their soul. Our weary group followed him from room to room like curious pups waiting for a bone. At last he spoke.

"The parlor will be perfect for the wake and ceremony. I will get a few men to move the furniture. We will set up rows, here and here, and flowers, here and along the sides."

"How many people are we expecting?" asked Giles.

"Oh quite a lot. The list of Mrs. Stanton's respected guests for this event was quite lengthy. She may not have been well liked, but her funeral is one that has the town buzzing. The event of the year, I say. See for yourself." The funeral director pulled today's newspaper from his clipboard. On it were the headlines, DENISE STANTON MURDERED. Every article following from the main articles to the personal ads held the words THE WITCH IS DEAD.

"How awful," said Susan.

"Ha!" shouted Gloria. "It's like a celebration! Oh the irony. We should have a party. It will be just what mother would have wanted."

"No need. Everyone is treating the funeral as the party," said Michael. "Look." He pointed to many of the articles stating the funeral was simply a send off to hell, drinks all around. Reading what others were saying about Mrs. Stanton only made me feel hurt and disillusioned from her true character. I had barely known the woman but I did not feel she was as terrible as people made her out to be. Pearl felt the same way. I spied her disgusted face as she read the spectacle the town was making of her mother's death.

"Pearl, darling, are you alright," I asked rubbing the girl's shoulder. She started crying.

"It's not right," she said through sobs. "Why are people doing this?"

I turned to the funeral director.

"Sir, are you sure you must make this a public event. Surely a private ceremony, the family, a few people, would be best."

"I can only do so much, sister," said the director. "The public will be allowed to attend at a distance but only personal guests of the Stanton family will officially be allowed to attend. I cannot stop the public from showing up, just keep them from going inside."

"I guess if you put it that way, we have no choice but to ignore their chants?" asked Brandon.

"Yes," said the director. "Focus on your mother. It is her special day. Now off you go, everyone. There is much work to be done."

The meeting with the director ended with us piling into Leblanc's police car for the prison rodeo. I, of course, was extremely excited for this small diversion. The others, not so much.

I was pushed to the center seat unable to see out the windows. I so wanted to make faces at passing cars. Guess that dream would have to wait.

We watched other vehicles arrive up the driveway. Strong men began pulling out flowers and chairs. The director stood on the porch shouting directions. Janet and Baines were allowed to remain behind to help the caterers set up the feast and prepare the house. Soon the police car was zooming down the highway towards Angola Prison.

The roads were busy with tourists. Apparently it was as Pearl said, a bustling time for the small town. We passed a few old plantation homes, the Myrtles, Butler Greenwood, and turned left down a long empty road. The ride was silent. Everyone seemed to have something on their mind.

Soon we came to an opening in the treeline and a big white sign. On it was a bucking bull and rider with the words, 1972 Annual Angola Prison Rodeo 5 Sundays in October. We parked on the grass outside the prison walls. I could see fields of different crops, some men in white shirts digging a trench, and a large arena with tall bleachers just beyond the barbed wire.

At the gate we were sent through security. Women's purses were checked for any sharp objects. We passed through rows of security guards who patted us down. Me being a nun, they let me go right on through with no check whatsoever. Imagine my severe disappointment not having a rugged man run his hands along my sumptuous body.

Finally after a queue of intensive checks we entered the prison walls. We were met with beautiful works of art. Anything from paintings to sculpture, to furniture, the works these prisoners showcased was remarkable. Many of the artists themselves were stationed behind their tables beyond two fences and a gap. It was a small selection, but a crowd of people hovered around the crafts oohing and awing over the talent of these old lags.

The air smelled of food. Jambalaya, funnel cakes, it all smelled delicious. Beyond the food stands was a small section offering horse and pony rides. I was tempted to cut in front of the egar children and get me ride on the darling little pony with pink bows in its mane, but Leblanc was ushering us forward. I heard some ladies waiting in line talking about how last year it rained terribly hard and they were fortunate for the fine weather. Good thing I brought my umbrella just in case.

Leblanc led us to an empty spot on the bleachers overlooking the arena. Excitement buzzed in the growing crowd, I included. This was going to be my first rodeo. I looked over at Gloria. She had worn a splendid red dress, not the most appropriate choice of color to wear to such an event, or so I was told. She smacked on gum and fanned herself. It was quite hot and humid. Brandon sat upright looking attentive. A small smile was on his face. Michael seemed to be mildly enjoying himself. His foot tapped to the band playing across the way. Pearl sat next to me and suggested I open the umbrella to create shade making Gloria insanely jealous. What a clever girl, I thought sending Gloria an unequivocal smirk of derisive repute. Giles and Susan sat in front of us with Sergeant Leblanc. Giles had gotten himself a funnel cake. The powdered sugar collected on his upper lip. Mrs. Annette sat next to Leblanc. She was no more than a nose's width away for I could smell her perfume. An agitated twitch flooded her body. All signs pointed that she did not want to be here.

Across the stands I could see some familiar faces. Most were the townsfolk I had seen yesterday. The same ones who casually reported on me and my new wheels to the local dioceses. Speaking of church, even Father Blanchard was present. I waved at him. He waved back. The gold chain around his neck sparkled in the bright sun.

Our little spot on the benches must have been marked with the plague. No one came near or bothered to greet us. Only the judgemental glares and contemptuous stares happened our way. Though not one of us cared. It meant we had a nice breeze, and no one to block our view of the action.

After a pair of rodeo clowns performed humorous stunts, an announcer descended onto the arena. His suave suit looked uncomfortably warm. Beads of sweat hung onto his brow. He seemed to teeter on his heels ready to pass out when suddenly to everyone's surprise he ripped the suit away to show overalls underneath and a white tee-shirt. Someone threw him a cowboy hat to complete the look. It was a marvelous way to begin the show.

The events that followed were an absolute riot. Everytime a bull came charging out of its pen or a rider got flipped into the air I jumped to my feet shouting victory for the creature. The horses, the tricks, the muscular men covered in dirt, blood and sweat, I was in heaven.

Then the time came when it was audience participation. It was at this instance Michael stood up and asked Sergeant Leblanc if he could go to the restroom. I should have followed him since I had to go too, but my shining moment was about to arrive, and I was not missing it.

"Oh, settle down, everyone!" shouted the announcer. "This is the moment you've all been waiting for. A chance to be part of the action. A chance to be a certified cowboy or cowgirl for the day. Who here is brave enough to wrangle Little Nelson?" A small but fiesty calf was led out onto the arena. Held by his tiny horns, the young calf struggled to get free. "Who shall it be!" cried the announcer.

Children and men of all ages rose to the feet cheering to be chosen, but the announcer was not looking at them. He was looking at me. I waved my umbrella high in the air, jumping and shouting for attention.

"You there, nun!" Pointed the announcer. "Come on down!"

"Sister Mary--" cried Leblanc in retaliation before his voice was drowned out by the cheers. I skipped down the steps and glided into the arena. People reached out and clapped my hands. My adopted family sat there in alarm and amusement.

"So a nun wishes to be a cowgirl for a day," said announcer breaking into laughter. "What is your name, sister?" He leaned the microphone towards me.

"Sister Mary," I said proudly. "Though everyone I know calls me Merry Sister Mary."

"There you have it folks! Merry Sister Mary! The world's first calf wranglin' nun!"

The crowd cheered once more.

"So Sister Mary, have you any experience with a lasso?"

"Nope," I said.

"Well we are gonna practice. You see that target over there. The fake bull. I want you to rope that sucker." The announcer demonstrated how it was done and handed the lasso to me. "Now give it a go. Everyone cheer for Sister Mary!"

My first throw missed the mark entirely. I noticed a flash. A cameraman stood on the bottom bleacher snapping my photo. The pressure was on. My next throw hit the target but did not catch. People continued to cheer me on. At last my third throw was successful.

"Now that we got the basics," said the announcer. "It is time for the hard part. Ever been on a horse before?"

"Lord goodness no," I said generating another bout of laughter from the crowd.

"Well Jeremiah here will help you up and keep the horse steady. Let's hear it again for Sister Mary!"

The stage was set as it were. A fortuitous nun whose situations could only be accounted for by a humorous god had found herself plunged into a position from which she was unprepared and seemingly destined to fail. Yet life in its cruel majesty finds a way to make cowgirls out of nuns, to make believers out of nonbelievers, and saints out of sinners. It was in this moment as I climbed on that horse waving that lasso at an ecstatic young bull that I, Merry Sister Mary, snatched the bull by its horns. Boy, what a rush. What a thrill. What a cheer from the stands. Yes, I was pulled off the horse and dragged through the dirt, but it was worth it.

Then something happened that neither life nor I expected: a scream echoed from the stands and a bloody priest emerged into the arena.