My Great-grandfather Turns 12 Today (15 page)

“You mean he’s making money with it,” Uncle Peter said.

“There are twenty teams that enter,” Pat said. “Two people from each family. The winner gets fifty dollars.”

“And what are they competing in?” Aunt Mary asked.

“General knowledge questions,” Pat said. “Poems and spelling and such. Tug of war. And . . . .” He paused and smiled. “Horseshoes.”

“Horseshoes!” Charlie said. “Why, you’re the best . . .”

“And how is Julius Meyer making money at this?” Uncle Peter asked.

“There’s any entry fee,” Pat said. “For each family.”

“How much?” Aunt Mary asked.

“Five dollars.”

“Five dollars!” she said.

“So he takes in one hundred and gives out fifty, is that right?” Uncle Peter asked.

“Yes, sir,” Pat answered.

“Son,” Uncle Peter said, “I don’t trust Julius Meyer and we can’t spare five dollars.”

“What if we came up with the money?” I butted in. “What if the kids raised the entrance fee?”

“How?” Uncle Peter asked me.

I had no idea.

Chapter 24

A Pile of Rabbit Skins and One Knife

Friday morning after chores and breakfast, Pat drove Charlie and me into town. Pat had brought along a pile of rabbit skins that he hoped he could sell for at least part of the five dollars he needed to enter the contest.

“Last time Mr. Wilkins paid me five cents apiece,” he commented as we road along, all of us on the seat up front with me in the middle. At least there was no hump.

“You have one hundred skins there?” Charlie asked.

“No,” he admitted. “But maybe he’ll pay more this time.”

“Why would he?” Charlie asked.

“I don’t know,” Pat growled, “but maybe he will.”

“I hope so,” I said. “They sure look to me like they’re worth more than a nickel each.” Nobody said anything. “And at least it’s not raining,” I added. “Another beautiful day. And I’ve never seen so many stars at night. There must be millions of them.”

“Aren’t there stars where you come from?” Pat asked, sounding annoyed.

What did he mean “where you come from”?

“Besides,” he said, “we need the rain.”

“We do?” I asked.

“You don’t,” he said. “Farmers do. Last year it was too dry. The crops never really got going. This year there’s been too much rain and then not enough.”

“How can there be too much and not enough?” I asked. He wasn’t making any sense.

“Too much at one time,” he said, “isn’t good for the crops. And not enough isn’t any good either. It has to be just the right amount over just the right amount of time.”

“Or what?” I asked.

“Or Pa goes deeper in debt,” Pat said. “Don’t you know anything?”

“You mean just the weather can . . .”

“Just the weather?” Pat said. “Weather’s one of the most important parts of farming.”

“But you can’t control . . . .” I began.  “That’s no fair. You could work all season and then . . .”

“Lose it all. It’s happened.”

“No fair,” I repeated.

“I’m not going to be a farmer,” Charlie said. “I’m going to sail around the world.” He looked at me and smiled.

We rode on the rest of the way to town without any of us really saying anything. Once we got to Culver City, Pat drove straight to a two-story brick building with a painted sign that said “Wilkins’ General Store.”

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.