My Great-grandfather Turns 12 Today

by Bill Dodds

  Pat hopped down and hitched the team to a railing in front of the store. Then he climbed the two wooden steps up to the wooden sidewalk. “Get the skins,” he said to Charlie, “and come on.”

  The two of us followed him inside. The store was pretty dark and small and crowded with merchandise but no customers. It was filled with stuff that looked like it belonged in an antique store except this stuff looked new. A tall skinny man wearing a black apron was behind a long counter over on the left. He had a pencil in his hand and was leaning over some kind of big ledger book.

  “Help you?” he asked, looking up.

  “Hello, Mr. Wilkins,” Pat said. “I thought you might be in the market for a few more prime rabbit furs.”

  “Rabbit furs?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. All tanned and ready to go. Beautiful ones. Here, look.”

  He took the pile from Charlie and set it on the counter.

  “Hmmm,” Mr. Wilkins said.

  So while the two of them huddled together and dickered over how much Mr. Wilkins was willing to pay and how much Pat was willing to accept, Charlie and I looked around a bit. There was a lot to see. There were canned goods, bolts of cloth, tools and hardware, guns and knives, lanterns, dishes, hats, pot and pans, jars of candy, and more.

  “What’s that made out of?” I asked Charlie as I pointed at a case that displayed some pocket knives.

  “What?” he answered.

  “The knives. On the side of them.”

  He looked at the dark brown handles. “Bone,” he said.

  “Really?” I said. “Cool. Mine’s just plastic.”

  “Your what?” he asked.

  “This.” I was wearing my regular jeans and shoes, and a shirt he had loaned me. I had left my red jacket back at the farm. I pulled out the Swiss Army knife Mom and Dad had given me a long, long time ago.

  I mean a long, long time from then.

  “Gee willikers!” Charlie gushed. “What’s that red stuff on the side?”

  “Plastic,” I said.

  “What?”

  “What are you boys doing over there?” Mr. Wilkins asked.

  “Nothing, sir,” Charlie answered. “Michael here was just showing me his pocket knife.”

  “Hmmm,” the storekeeper said.

  “He can afford to buy a knife!” Pat said.

  “No,” Charlie answered. “He brought one with him. From . . . vaudeville.”

  “Hmmm,” Mr. Wilkins said.

  Suddenly Charlie got this big smile on his face. Then he looked very serious again and he said to Pat, “And it’s the best knife you ever saw.”

  “That so?” Mr. Wilkins asked, suddenly interested. “New is it?”

  “Brand new,” Charlie said and I realized what he was doing.

  “Never been used,” I agreed.

  “Hmmm,” Mr. Wilkins said. “Let’s have a look see.”

  So we went over to the counter and Charlie handed him the knife.

  “Light,” Mr. Wilkins said, weighing it in the palm of his hand. “Mighty fancy.”

  “Blades for everything,” Charlie said.

  “Even a toothpick and a tweezers,” I added.

  “Hmmm,” Mr. Wilkins said. “Well, I declare. A little pair of scissors, too.”

  “Only one like it in town,” Charlie said. “Or the county. Probably in the whole state.”

  Probably in the whole world, I thought.

  “You wouldn’t . . .” Mr. Wilkins paused and coughed a dry little cough. “ . . . consider selling this here knife, now, would you?”

  “Sell it?” I asked, trying to sound surprised. “Gosh, I never thought of that.”

  “Never thought of that,” Charlie agreed, sounding so very sincere.

  Chapter 25

  The Founders’ Day Contest

  Mr. Wilkins ended up with the rabbit skins and the knife and we got five dollars. I thought he had robbed us but Pat and Charlie were so happy, I couldn’t help being happy right along with them.

  Uncle Peter was pretty impressed, too. At supper that night he said, “If you boys do as well tomorrow as you did today, our worries are over.”

  “If Julius Meyer plays fair,” Aunt Mary added.

  “You’ve got a point there, Mary,” Uncle Peter said. “You’re a wise one, you are.”

  “Smart enough to be president,” little Sissie said and everyone laughed at that.

  “Mama can’t be president,” her seven-year-old sister Catherine said. “Ladies can’t even vote. Only men vote. Isn’t that right, Papa?”

  “That’s right, honey,” Uncle Peter said.

  It was? There was still so much I didn’t know, so much that seemed really foreign to me. But, at the same time, other parts of being on the family farm were becoming very comfortable.

  For instance, at night, instead of watching TV, everyone said the rosary and then sang songs or played cards or had a checkers tournament or read or just visited. That was how I had gotten to better know Brigid, Sean, Pat, Charlie—of course, Jerome, Catherine, Sissie and even little Frank. (Or Francis, depending on whether it was Aunt Mary or Uncle Peter who was nearby.)

  And during the days, even though I helped the boys with their chores and took a turn weeding the garden or hoeing out in the fields, there was still plenty of time for fun. I learned to play—to “shoot”—marbles. I wasn’t very good at it but it was fun anyway. One afternoon Charlie and I went out hunting rabbits with a little .22 rifle. We didn’t get any and secretly I was glad. Another time we walked back to Fair Brook and fished with just lines tied to poles cut from nearby bushes. We each caught six fish and Brigid cooked them for supper.

  There seemed to be more time for everything. With no TV and no video games, I was never a “spectator.” I was right in the game or the adventure. I don’t know how to explain it.

  I even had my own spot in the wagon. I knew just where to sit when the whole family piled in after chores and breakfast on Saturday morning. We were heading for Culver City for the Founders’ Day Festival contest and we were sure the Farrell family was going to win.

  We were pretty sure anyway.

  They were all looking pretty spiffy in their Sunday best and I had gone back to my own clothes and jacket.

  A lot of people were in town that morning. There were wagons and buggies and riders on horses just about everywhere. It looked as if the shops had been decorated for the Fourth of July. There was red, white, and blue bunting and a band was practicing in the small park in the center of town.

  Charlie had told me the special day included the contest, a potluck lunch (Aunt Mary had brought four strawberry pies), a concert, and then a dance on an outside wooden dance floor put together just for the day.

  “We need to register,” Pat said to Uncle Peter as soon as the wagon stopped. “Over there. Come on, Sean.”

  But Sean shook his head. “I’m no good at tests, spelling bees, or contests,” he said. “You go, Charlie.”

  “Me!” Charlie said, sounding shocked and a little worried.

  “No one can beat Pat at pitching horseshoes,” Sean said, “but you’re the one with a whole head full of bits and pieces of information that aren’t much good for anything except a contest like this.”

  Aunt Mary and Uncle Peter just watched, letting their sons decide.

  “But . . .” Charlie argued.

  “Dreaming of faraway places and reading about them,” Sean said. “Go on now.” He smiled. “I’m just an old stick-in-the-mud farmer,” he said.

  “Come with me, Michael,” Charlie said and so he and Pat and I walked across the street to a table that had been set up for registration. A group of young men were crowding around it.

  “And,” I heard a voice say as we got closer, “it even has a pair of scissors!”

  “That’s got to be the prettiest pen knife I ever did see,” another said.

  “Cost me ten dollars, it did,” the first replied. “Only one in old Mr. Wilkins’ store.”

 
Hey!

  “Didn’t take him long to turn a profit on that, eh?” Pat whispered to both of us as he shouldered his way up to the table. “The Farrell family,” he said, slapping the five dollar bill down.

  “Farrell,” said Mr. Meyer, the banker, writing the name down on a list. “Sean and . . .”

  “Pat and Charlie,” Pat said.

  “Charlie?” said the young man who now owned my knife. I could see it was one of Mr. Meyer’s older boys, Matthew. He laughed. “Little Charlie? You’ve got to be joking.”

  “The rules say any two members of a family can make up a team,” Pat said to Mr. Meyer. “We’re family.”

  “I can see now this is going to be really hard,” Mark Meyer said.

  “Well, that’s the twentieth team,” Mr. Meyer said, pocketing the money. “I expect we might just as well begin.”

  “I think I need to visit the outhouse,” Charlie said quietly to Pat.

  “No time,” Pat answered. “Come on. And, Michael?”

  “What?” I answered.

  “Fetch my horseshoes from out of the wagon, will you? I want to be ready.”

  “You brought your own horseshoes?” Matthew Meyer asked.

  “And a sack to carry home all our money,” Pat answered.

  By the time I had retrieved the shoes and returned to the little park, all the contestants were up on the bandstand. Most looked to be about seventeen or eighteen years old. Some might have been a little older. They were standing in a line, two by two.

  I went over to where the family had gathered. Aunt Mary’s sister Margaret and her family were there, too. I waved at Pat so he could see I had gotten the horseshoes. He smiled and waved back.

  “This first round,” announced a fat man in a brown suit and vest with a gold chain going from one pocket to the other, “will follow the same general rules as any spelling bee.”

  “Who’s that?” I asked Jerome.

  “Mr. Palmer,” he said. “He runs the newspaper.”

  “Charlie looks scared,” I said.

  “Charlie looks as if he’s about to wet his drawers,” he answered.

  “Here,” said Aunt Margaret, stuffing something into my coat pocket. “Mary tells me you had a birthday but no present.”

  “No,” I said, “I . . .”

  “Keep them,” she answered. “Pictures. Came with some cigarettes your Uncle Kevin bought.”

  “Thank you, I . . .”

  “What’s that coat made of?” a woman standing behind us demanded. “Is that silk or is it satin?”

  “Nylon,” I said.

  “Ni-what?”

  “Question number one,” Mr. Palmer boomed from the bandstand. “How many states in this great union of ours?”

  The two young men at the head of the line looked relieved.

  “Really tough,” I muttered to Jerome. “Fifty.”

  “Forty-five!” one of the boys said and I laughed.

  “Correct!” Mr. Palmer answered and the crowd cheered.

  Chapter 26

  They Pick . . . Me

  Pat and Charlie were next.

  “Name the planet farthest from the sun,” Mr. Palmer said.

  I leaned over to Jerome. “Mickey Mouse’s dog,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Pluto. Mickey Mouse’s dog.”

  “Neptune,” said Charlie and I figured that was the end of that.

  “Correct!” said Mr. Palmer and the crowd cheered.

  It went on like that for another hour. There were questions about fertilizer and wind and rain and history and geography and astronomy, and I would have missed almost all of them. For instance, one was to name the last state admitted to the United States. Utah.

  Utah?

  Fortunately, some of the other families were missing some answers, too. When they got down to only eight teams, Mr. Palmer ended the round and everyone got to take a break. Charlie went scooting off the bandstand. My bet was he was looking for an outhouse.

  Pat was beaming when he came over to see us. “Great so far, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Very good, young Patrick,” Uncle Peter said. “Your mother and I are proud of both of you.”

  “Is Charlie all right?” Aunt Mary asked.

  “Fine, Ma,” Pat answered, “but so far the questions have been awfully easy.”

  Charlie was back before the second round began. Instead of questions and answers there was a tug of war, a team at each end of the rope with a large mud puddle between the two teams. The losers were pulled right into it. Mr. Meyer stood next to the water and laughed as his big sons dragged two other young men through the muck.

  At the end of the round the Farrell team was still standing and still wearing clean clothes. So were the Meyers and two other families. That round took only fifteen minutes or so.

  “We’re going to win!” Sissie gushed out loud. “We’re going to win the money!”

  Mr. Meyer overheard her and turned toward the family. “Oh, it’s not over yet,” he said. “Only half way. There’s a lot left yet.”

  “He’s got something planned,” I heard Aunt Mary whisper to Uncle Peter. “I just know it!”

  The third round was a spelling contest and the contestants had to recite poetry from memory, too. It took about half an hour and then only the Meyers and the Farrells were left.

  Matthew and Mark Meyer looked awfully confident, considering the fact that Pat Farrell was the best in the county at throwing horseshoes. And Pat looked awfully happy as he and Charlie ran over to us.

  “The final round will begin in five minutes,” Mr. Palmer said.

  “You still have those two horseshoes?” Pat asked and I nodded. “I just guess I’m ready for them now.”

  They were big and heavy and I had set them down by my feet. I reached down to get them and just then Sissie said, “Cousin Michael.” So I was looking over at her and didn’t notice Pat had also bent over to get the horseshoes. When I brought my hand up with them in it, I hit him right in the side of the head and he dropped like bag of potatoes.

  He was out cold.

  “Cousin Michael,” Sissie said, “that’s Luke Meyer over there.”

  “What?”

  She was pointing at some little kid running around Mr. Meyer. “He’s my age.”

  At the same time Aunt Mary had gasped and Uncle Peter had knelt down beside Pat and began to gently tap him on the cheek with his hand. People were crowding around but I saw Pat open his eyes and he looked pretty spacey.

  “Give him air,” Sean growled at the people. “Back away.”

  “I’m all right,” Pat said. “I’m fine.” He looked around. He looked lost.

  “We’re at the festival,” Uncle Peter said. “You and Charlie are finalist in the contest.”

  He stared. Then he blinked. Then he stared some more.

  Someone had had sense enough to get the doctor and he pushed his way through the crowd and knelt beside Uncle Peter.

  “What happened, son?” he asked Pat.

  “Michael hit him in the head,” Catherine said. “Real hard.”

  “I . . . .” I began. “I was just . . . . And then she . . . .” I didn’t want to blame Sissie. It wasn’t her fault.

  The doctor checked Pat’s eyes and his pulse and he had someone bring the boy a glass of water. “He’ll be fine,” the doctor assured Aunt Mary and Uncle Peter. “But he’ll have one mighty big headache for a while yet.”

  “But can he pitch horseshoes?” Charlie asked.

  “I can!” Pat said, starting to get up. “I can’t,” he said, falling back down.

  “Easy, Pat,” Uncle Peter said. “It’s all right.”

  “Then I guess the contest is over,” someone said. I looked over that way. It was Matthew Meyer. He was sporting a big, toothy grin.

  “Yeah,” his brother agreed.

  “Wait!” Charlie said.

  “For what?” Matthew Meyer asked. “Until his chimes stop ringing?”

  “We can u
se a substitute,” Charlie said.