We found land in the rolling hills of Missouri. Yes, we had troubles. Night riders cut our fences, stole our cattle, and at times burned our hay. But we stayed.
Grandpa turned the open book over and placed it on his chest. Justin sighed and looked up at him, but said nothing.
Finally, Grandpa said, “Yes. We stayed. And we’ve done well.” After a moment of more silence, he said, “Do you know why I asked you to finish the story?”
“I guess you wanted me to know.”
“Yes. But more than that, I wanted you to hear it all because you must know where you’ve come from in order to find the way to where you want to go.”
Justin didn’t know until the next morning that he had slept all night in Grandpa’s bed.
10
AT LAST, THE FESTIVAL
WHEN JUSTIN AWOKE, Grandpa was already up. Justin jumped from Grandpa’s big bed. The festival starts today, he thought. Quickly he put on his clothes and joined Grandpa in the kitchen.
Already a fire crackled in the big stove. While Justin put eggs on to boil for breakfast, Grandpa got busy making biscuits from ingredients he had placed on the table the night before. Grandpa planned to enter the Best Biscuit Competition at the festival.
The rules stated that all biscuits entered must be in the judges’ hands by eleven o’clock that morning.
“Can you cook them there?” Justin asked.
“Oh, no. We must cook them at home,” Grandpa answered.
“But who will say cold biscuits are good, Grandpa?”
“Why, that’s something to think about, son. Hm-m-m. Maybe we should arrive at the festival at five minutes before eleven.”
At ten-thirty, Justin and Grandpa raced to the fairgrounds where the festival took place each year. The biscuits, in a heavy hot iron skillet, carefully wrapped in towels to help keep them hot, rested in the back of the truck.
The streets were crowded with people from the town and from neighboring farms. Banners waved all over announcing events. Colorful posters with bucking broncos splashed BILL PICKETT RODEO ads everywhere. People moved up and down streets, car horns honked, friends greeted one another. Justin wished Anthony was with him for the fun.
Traffic slowed them down. Ten-forty-five: a clock at a savings and loan bank flashed the golden numbers. Justin wondered if they would make it. They were not near the fairgrounds and they had only ten minutes more.
Grandpa kept his eye on the road, driving carefully, and seemingly not a bit worried. But the traffic now moved more slowly than ever.
Soon they reached a stretch of road that led out of town into the country. Grandpa picked up speed. Still Justin worried that they might be late.
Finally the long metal building near the rodeo stands came in view. Its round domelike shape glistened in the late summer sun. Quickly, Grandpa parked the truck and carefully removed the biscuits from the skillet and placed them on a paper plate. He covered them with a gleaming white napkin and rushed inside.
Justin grabbed a lone biscuit left in the skillet. It was still warm and ever so delicious. While eating it he ran after Grandpa, who was already nearing the far end of the long building. Justin pushed through the crowd after him, hoping Grandpa was not late.
At ten-fifty-nine, Grandpa handed his biscuits to a pleasant-looking lady. She sat behind a table with covered plates of biscuits around her. “You just made it,” she said, and smiled at Grandpa.
“I’m glad, too,” Grandpa said, returning the lady’s smile as he filled out an entry form.
“The judges will announce their decision this evening,” the lady said.
“That late?” Justin asked. “They’ll be cold, Grandpa.”
The lady laughed. “The judging will begin in a minute. It’s the decision that will come later.”
Justin smiled, relieved. He wished he could get a glimpse of some of the biscuits there under cover. But whose biscuits could taste better than Grandpa’s? He knew Grandpa would win.
They moved with the crowd looking at things that had been made by people in the town. All kinds of needlework, quilts, knitted sweaters, scarves, and afghans on display looked inviting. Some had already been judged. Blue, red, and white ribbons announced first, second, and third prizes. Justin wished he could take his mama a beautiful quilt with a big green-and-gold star in the center. But none of those lovely things were for sale.
There were so many things displayed: photography, woodwork. A big model airplane floating from the ceiling surprised Justin. Wow! he thought, that’ll get a blue ribbon.
Soon they came to the display of desserts. Justin had never seen so many scrumptious-looking pies, cakes, brownies, and cookies. He thought of Hadiya and wished she had entered. She’d win for sure.
The pie-eating contest was just about to start. The judges stood ready to determine who could eat the most pie the fastest. Justin stretched up as tall as he could, waving his hand, trying to attract a judge’s attention. He knew he could eat a lot of pie. A judge pointed at him. He entered the competition. A whole chocolate pie in front of him did not dim his enthusiasm.
Quickly he ate one piece, two, three, but when he glanced at a boy next to him, he almost choked with surprise. A whole pie had been downed, and all but one piece of another.
If only he hadn’t eaten so many biscuits for breakfast, he thought as he finished the last piece on the plate. Another pie was plopped in front of him. But before he could finish the first piece of it, the buzzer sounded. Time up! The boy next to him had eaten all but one piece of his second pie. He won only second place, though. The winner had eaten two whole pies!
“You did good,” Justin said to the winner next to him.
The boy sighed, held his stomach, then placed his head on the counter.
“Don,” a lady said, putting her hand on his shoulder “You all right?”
“Oh-h-h-h, Ma,” Don said.
“We had better move on, Justin,” Grandpa said, and led Justin through the crowd.
Justin felt nothing but stuffed. He thought of the boy called Don and was glad the buzzer rang before he had a chance to eat more of that pie. He and Grandpa wandered through the big barnlike building looking at prize-winning carrots, pumpkins, squash, and tomatoes.
Then they decided to go home and feed the animals. Later, they would return for the judges’ decisions and the big dance in the pavilion.
Darkness crept over the plains. Justin, ready to go back to the fairgrounds, waited for Grandpa downstairs. He wondered what was keeping him so long. Grandpa had finished showering before him, and Justin had been ready to go for a long time. Justin was anxious to get back. Other contests might be going on.
Finally Grandpa came down the stairs so dressed up that Justin stood surprised. Never had he seen Grandpa looking so sharp. The suede vest he wore had deep fringe on a yoke in the back and front. His light beige shirt, fitted beige pants, and belt with a big silver buckle were just right with the rich brown vest.
While riding in the truck, Justin sniffed a strange but nice fragrance. Surely Grandpa hadn’t put on that smelly stuff Mama forced on him, Justin thought. Now he was glad Anthony was not there. What would he think about Grandpa wearing that stuff? Another whiff came Justin’s way. It’s not so bad, though, he decided. But he liked Grandpa best when he smelled like work, sweet grass, soap—stuff like that.
They arrived just in time for the cake-baking contest. One contestant had entered fifteen cakes—every one a different flavor. Some of them looked too pretty to eat, Justin thought. The judges thought they were perfect. The woman who had baked them won a blue ribbon in every category.
A girl as young as Hadiya won second place for her lemon chiffon cake. Justin clapped and clapped for her.
Then the judges came to announce the winner for the best biscuits. The lady chosen to do the honors wore a big flower on her bosom and one on her hat. She seemed nervous and dropped all the ribbons. Why doesn’t she hurry up, Justin thought. His stomach felt weak, his hands w
ere cold. He was now worried that maybe Grandpa would not win.
“First place winner,” the lady said in a loud, excited voice, “Phillip Ward, Junior!”
Justin let out a yell. Grandpa smiled and rushed up to get a shiny blue ribbon and a certificate. “The Best Biscuits in the World,” the certificate said.
Later at the dance, all the ladies crowded around Grandpa. Many wanted his recipe. Justin stood by holding the blue ribbon and certificate as Grandpa danced, dance after dance with a different partner. He didn’t know if the best biscuits or that smelly stuff had wowed all those ladies.
11
RODEO TIME
ALREADY THE PARADE was an hour late. Popcorn bags were empty, candy bars all finished, and not a band in sight.
Justin stood with Grandpa right up front. Everyone waited impatiently. Often handclapping broke the humdrum and Justin strained to see, but nothing happened.
Finally faraway music alerted the crowd. Soon a marching band led by a lively majorette pranced near enough for Justin to see. Clowns passing out balloons followed the band. With all the color floating around them, the crowd came alive.
Floats representing the months of the year passed slowly. June and November were the most beautiful, Justin thought. June brides with lovely embroidery, fancy quilts, and frilly finery brought cheers. November with gold and brown, Thanksgiving, and bountiful horns of plenty also thrilled the crowd. Others were so much like the exhibit hall that Justin fidgeted, bored. He dared not stop looking, though, in case something interesting came along.
Finally the horses came. Justin cheered and whistled with the crowd. Cowboys from the rodeo in boots and spurs rode tall in their saddles, doffing their cowboy hats. Some did lasso tricks. One cowboy’s horse did special dance steps and bowed when the audience applauded.
Then came local cowboys at the very end. Boys and girls rode among them. Justin saw Don who had eaten so much pie. He looked fine on a beautiful sorrel mare.
The crowd followed the parade the short distance to the fairgrounds, where preparations for the games started right away. Every boy and girl was given a list of events. There was so much going on, so much to enter, that Justin didn’t know what to do—some twenty events from which to choose four or less. Shearing sheep he knew he could not do. Catching a greased pig, maybe. Spitting watermelon seeds, tossing bean-bags, and pitching horseshoes he might be able to win. He decided to enter four events: spitting watermelon seeds, pitching horseshoes, tossing bean-bags, and kicking his shoe.
While Justin and Grandpa prepared the entry blank Justin saw Don nearby. Justin smiled and waved.
Don came over.
“You from a farm near here?” Don asked.
“My grandpa’s ranch, Q-T. But just for the festival,” Justin answered.
“Which ones did you enter?” Don asked.
Justin told him the four events.
“All of those are easy. I’m going for sack racing, sheep shearing, and the greased pig,” Don said proudly.
Justin, surprised that a boy who looked no older and bigger than he knew so much, asked, “Where you from?”
“Not far from here. We own sheep and I’ve come to the festival every year since I was a baby.”
“How long is that?” Justin asked.
“Twelve years.” Don talked a lot. Justin listened because he had never spit watermelon seeds or kicked his shoe off. Because he played basketball, he felt he might do well pitching horseshoes and tossing bean-bags.
“Try catching the greased pig with me,” Don said.
“I don’t know about that,” Justin said, and looked at Grandpa.
“It’s easy,” Don said.
Grandpa laughed. “I wouldn’t say it’s easy, but it’s fun. Try it if you want to.”
“What event can I take off?” Justin asked.
Grandpa and Don looked over the list with Justin. “Maybe spitting seeds,” Justin said.
“Pitching horseshoes, I’d think,” Don said. “That’s tougher than spitting seeds.”
Justin didn’t want Don to think that he could do only easy things, so he entered greased pig instead of spitting seeds.
After Justin and Grandpa had cheered when Don sheared his sheep faster than anyone, it was time for Justin to kick his shoe. He lined up with boys big and small, short and tall. They untied their right shoes and loosed the strings.
“The winner is the one who kicks his shoe the farthest distance,” the referee said. “OK, get ready. Kick!”
Justin stepped forward on his left foot and kicked so that his shoe flew off his foot, up and out. The crowd cheered as shoes sailed away. They laughed and scrambled out of the way as some shoes went straight up and fell very close by.
Justin watched his shoe soar away, but not far enough. When they measured he learned he had won third place. He was happy.
The sack race proved fun to watch. Boys and girls hopped along. Those who tried to run stumbled, toppled over, and rolled. Justin rocked with laughter. Don fell so many times, he didn’t even place.
Justin’s basketball skills paid off. He easily won first prize tossing the bean-bag through the holes in a big board, and tied for second in pitching horseshoes.
Then it was time to catch the greased pig. The little pig, round and fat, waited in a crate about three feet away from the boys and girls ready to chase and catch it. The crate sprang open and the pig ran toward them. Justin raced ahead. The pig moved right in reach. He grabbed, but it slipped through his hands. Like trying to catch an eel, Justin thought. Every time Justin knew he had the pig—swish—it was gone. He was stumbling and falling, still hoping to grab it and hang on. No one had any better luck.
One time Justin thought Don might get hold, but the pig scrambled wildly away from the chase. Then finally a girl dashed for the pig and fell down with one of the pig’s feet caught under her chest. She hugged him to her and became the winner.
Justin, hot, sweaty, and dusty, had never had so much fun. He counted his ribbons: one white, third place; one red, second place; and one first place, blue. He knew Grandpa was proud of him, but he wondered, What will Evelyn say when she sees these?
Justin walked through the crowds at the fairgrounds with Grandpa, his chest swelling with happiness. Now he would see the cowboys he had heard so much about in action.
Grandpa guided him through the surging crowd. A tall cowboy hat and high-heeled boots made his slim grandpa look even taller. With a feeling of pride, Justin hitched up his jeans, glad he had brought his cowboy belt with the silver buckle. He wished he had a cowboy hat.
The smells of barbecue, baked beans, and popcorn tempted the crowd. Grandpa ordered barbecued ribs for Justin and a hot link sandwich for himself while Justin ordered tall cold drinks for them both.
All over the arena colorful banners splashed: BILL PICKETT COWBOY RODEO SHOW. Justin whispered, “Grandpa, is there another Bill Pickett?”
Grandpa smiled, “Oh, no. Cowboys today, knowing what a good showman William Pickett was, name their show after him.”
Cowboy music got the crowd in a mood for action. First cowboys on lively horses galloped around the arena. Then two clowns ran in. One was a lady dressed in a long skirt and pantalettes. Suddenly a voice over a speaker said, “Howdy, partners. Welcome! The famous Bill Pickett Rodeo is about to get under way. Cowboys and cowgirls will ride, rope, and bulldog. You ready, partners?”
The crowd roared, “Ready!”
Suddenly a bull shot out of a gate like a silver bullet, a cowboy on his back. At first Justin was so scared he couldn’t look. The crowd roared its satisfaction. Justin finally peeked through his fingers. The cowboy was still riding. The bull was bucking, pitching, rocking, and rolling. The rider still stayed on, squeezing, hugging, and holding that bull with his legs. Then the bull moved like it was waltzing, and the rider fell to the ground.
Instantly the bull turned and plunged at the rider. Justin screamed, “Watch out!” The clowns rushed in, waving banners of cloth
to distract the bull. The bull ran away into the corral.
The next event was the lady clown riding a bull. She seemed hardly able to hang on. The bull tossed her about. Her hat and wig came off. Then her dress came off and Justin knew that it was no lady at all. Everybody laughed.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice over the speaker called. “Give the rider a hand. That’s Rooster. He’s not a clown, but one of our best ‘pickup men.’ Let’s hear it for Rooster, partners.”
“What are ‘pickup men,’ Grandpa?” Justin asked.
“They’re men who rescue fallen cowboys, or pick them off horses so they won’t get trampled.”
The cheering was interrupted. “Now, partners, we have the best broncobuster since Jesse Stahl, who rode Glasseye. Watch this cowboy from Laredo, Texas,” the announcer said. “He will ride a bronco that’s as hot as cayenne pepper and as explosive as a volcano.”
“Think he’ll be as good as Jesse Stahl, Grandpa?” Justin asked.
Before his grandpa answered, the rider came out on a bucking horse between Rooster and another pickup man. The horse streaked into the arena jumping, spinning, and shaking. With its head down it bucked high in the air. The rider stayed on. The horse pitched, plunged, jumped high, twisting in midair. Still the rider stayed without holding on to the saddle horn.
“Why doesn’t he hold on to the saddle, Grandpa?” Justin asked.
“If he touches the saddle horn, he will be disqualified and cannot win a prize.”
The crown, up on its feet, roared while that horse tried to toss the rider. The horse started to run and the pickup men rushed in and pulled the rider off its back. The rider had won.
The horse ran all over the arena snorting and kicking as the crowd still stood, roaring.
Justin wondered what would happen if that horse jumped over into the stands.
“That rider is good,” Grandpa said. “He’s young, too. He might outbest Jesse one day, but he isn’t there yet.”
Justin and the Best Biscuits in the World Page 5
