Chapter 10: Blue Ribbons, Gold Ribbons and Turkeys

John did yeoman duty on this chapter.

By almost any standard, the Woodman County Fair was would be considered small potatoes. Every year at fair time a little ragtag carnival was booked in, complete with rides that today would not come close to passing safety codes. But what boy cared about safety codes? The rides were scary. There was a Whip and a Loop The Loop and a small Ferris wheel. There were the crooked games that "guaranteed a prize every time."

There was a shooting gallery that took a dollar of my hard earned and hoarded money, a dime at a time. (It looked so simple to just shoot out that little black dot.) I tried the milk bottle throw and ate hot dogs and cotton candy and got sick and had to run around back behind the tents to throw up after one last ride on the Whip. Despite all that it was a wonderful and exciting time.

Of course I didn't tell my folks I had upchucked all those hot dogs and cotton candy and lemonade. If I had Ma would have kept me closer to her and Pa would shake his head in exasperation. Some things a boy learned to keep to himself.

But wouldn't you know it, that bratty Betty May Henderson showed up right then, just in time to see me in the depths of my misery. "Davy Hansen, that is disgusting." she said to me and walked on by, her pert nose stuck up in the air.

"Betty May, next time I hope it's you that's sick to dyin' like I am. I'll just laugh at you." I yelled at her and let fly one last time. I hurried over to the hand pump that stood all by itself at one end of the small fair grounds and hurriedly washed off my face and rinsed out my mouth. I ran my wet fingers through my hair and hurried to find my parents.

"Oh, there you are, David. I was afraid that you were having so much fun you'd forget to come with your father and me to watch the cooking contest." Ma had her wonderful meatloaf entered in the contest. I wanted to get back to the rides and try once again to win a coveted Kewpie doll for Ma. I was positive she would want one. They were so exotic seeming to my young mind.

I knew better than to try to beg off, though. That would hurt Ma's feelings and Pa would show his disappointment in me, even though he wouldn't say a word.

We walked over to the big barn-like building where the judging was to take place. A long display table made with sheets of plywood supported by saw horses had been covered with bunting and each competing dish had a number attached to it. After the judging the number would be taken over to a master list and the proud creators of the winning three dishes would be revealed.

Ma had perfected her meatloaf to the point it could be eaten hot or cold and never leave a greasy aftertaste in your mouth. A chef from Oklahoma City bought her recipe that day, right after the judging. Right then Ma was on pins and needles as she waited for the judging to begin. Next to her God and her family, her cooking was the most important thing in my mother's life.

"Oh Walter, I do so hope that I didn't add too much sage. Do you think it looks attractive enough? You know how much food is judged by appearance. Oh, I so want it to win. It must win." She fretted on and on.

"Now hush up. You know your meatloaf is the best anybody around here ever tasted. Just wait." Pa could care less whether her meatloaf was judged a winner or not, just so long as she kept making it at home once a week, every Wednesday. But Ma fretted and worried as the judges drew closer to her entry.

Finally they tasted it, each of the three judges in his turn. They looked at each other and tasted again. This time they took big bites of it, then again. They stopped "judging" Ma's entry after they had demolished half of it. Then they gave each other sheepish looks, took a sip of water and moved on to the next entry. In turn they tasted and went on to the next one. Pa laughed at the judges' antics. "They surely had trouble making up their minds about that meatloaf. They must not have liked it, they left half."

"Walter, don't make light. This is a serious occasion," Ma frowned at him. Her face was drawn up in concentration as we watched the judges move from dish to dish. He just hugged her with one arm and grinned. I noticed that none of the other entries were sampled the way Ma's meatloaf was. The judges took just one small taste of the others and moved on after a sip of water to rinse out their mouths.

Ma got the blue ribbon for her meatloaf. But the shocker to us was when the banker's French born wife got the coveted gold ribbon for her mediocre beef burgundy. Ma was devastated. We had all tasted the lady's cooking at various church socials. She made great croissants and far below average everything else. French people seem to make a great to do about dishes that Americans turn their noses up at. There was a buzz from the spectators.

Pa put it into perspective for us. "Hon, most of the people here owe money to the bank or are beholden to the banker." Several people overheard him and nodded their heads in agreement. He didn't owe any bank anything and paid cash for all he bought, so he could express his honest opinion. He was not judgmental, but rather stating a fact.

As far as Pa was concerned, that pretty ribbon was just that, pretty. He knew her meatloaf was better than anything else entered and he laughed as he pointed out how the judges thought so too, having eaten half of the meatloaf and only a small nibble of each of all the other entries. To Pa's practical mind, "the proof was in the eating."

I interrupted them, "Pa, I hope you won't get too mad at me, but I brought my gun along and didn't tell you." I worried he would chastise me.

"Why did you sneak the gun along, Son?" he asked in a stern voice. I flinched when he used the word "sneak," but that is exactly what I had done.

"I wanted to enter the turkey shoot and surprise you with a win." I blurted out to him. I was ashamed of what I had done and desperately wanted him to understand my reasons.

"Well, David, if it was meant to be a surprise and you haven't shot it yet, why are you telling me now?" His tone and attitude seemed very neutral. I couldn't read any reaction on his part.

"Well, Pa, I thought it would be great to win the shooting contest and surprise you. But I been thinking since we got here that it was wrong of me to just slip behind your back like that. I meant to do right, but the way I went about it was not right. You understand what I mean?" I looked up at him and waited for his judgment.

"Son," he started in a gentle voice, "You are right. You should not have slipped that gun out of the house without first checking with your mother or me. But the fact that you saw what you did was not right and owned up to what you did like a man means even more to me."

You're not mad at me, Pa?"

"No son, I am not. You meant well, acted on an impulse and then thought things through. If you want to enter the turkey shoot, go right ahead. Even though you didn't start out in a proper manner, I feel you have learned a lesson here. No, it would not be right to stand in the way of your chance to win that first prize of one of those three turkeys. But don't be disappointed if you lose."

"Walter, are you sure this is the right thing to do?" Ma's ways were rigid and unswerving where right and wrong were concerned. To her, the whole world was black and white. It was either right or wrong with no in between areas of shades of gray. It bothered her that I had, after all, sneaked the gun out of the house.

"Hon, rules were meant to serve people and not people serve the rules." Pa stated this with such finality that Ma shut up. Pa had spoken. Very seldom did he come down firm like he just did without at least conferring with her. Ma saw that this time he was not going to give way. As rigid as Ma was, Pa was "rigider" when push came to shove.

We three walked slowly toward the back of the fairgrounds and took in all the sights as we went. Our destination was the area where the shooting contest was to be held. When we arrived, I paid the required dollar entry fee and received a small cloth ribbon that had "Contestant" printed on it. I felt proud as I pinned it on my chest. This was the first time I had ever "officially" entered a competition except at school. I felt very grownup right then.

Pa placed his hand on my shoulder as he said, "Maybe I ought to shoot too." He smiled and laid his dollar down and accepted his contestant's ribbon. Right then I knew I wouldn't get first place. My pa never missed. I reconciled myself to second place. But since it would be Pa who came in first I figured it would still be all right. Such was the faith I had in my pa.

We all lined up to take our turns. The target was a small bulls eye someone had carefully drawn on a sheet of white paper. The target judge attached it at about fifty feet back from the shooting line on a bale of hay. That center dot looked awfully small to me. There were perhaps forty of us who competed for the three turkeys. Thirty shooters disqualified themselves in the first round by not placing a shot inside the outer ring. Pa hadn't brought a gun so he borrowed mine.

Now he was a big man and the stock on my gun had been sized for my shorter arms and smaller frame. He looked awkward as he held that toy sized single shot rifle in a shooting stance. That didn't slow him down a bit as he shot. He and I both hit the dot in the center. A skinny little Cherokee Indian about two years older than me also touched the dot. Seven others were in the inner circle, which was about two inches across. All the other thirty or so shooters grumbled and stepped back to watch who would win the big Tom turkey.

A new target was set up twenty-five feet further back. I could barely see the center dot. I shot first and a judge at the target marked it. Pa shot next, seeming hardly to aim and then Indian kid. I suddenly remembered his name, Charley Patito, shot third and had his shot marked. The other seven got wave aways by missing the target circle completely.

The target was carried back to the shooting line and everybody oohed and ahed. "Folks, the three finalists all shoot so well that I am going to try something different for the next round. I shall put three coins on the top of the target, silver dollars the first time. If they are hit, I'll put up half dollars and then quarters. If we don't have a clear cut winner after placing dimes in the target area, I'll just have to buy two more big turkeys and award three first prizes."

We all three hit the dollars and the half dollars as well. I could barely see that quarter I was supposed to shoot at. Then the unthinkable happened. I watched Pa take careful bead on his quarter. The gun seemed to deflect just a hint and he missed. Never, ever had Pa ever missed a shot. He had a funny look on his face, a sort of half smile. Silently he shrugged and he handed me the rifle and kept silent. I took my shot and hit, Charley Patito shot and hit. Pa was disqualified because of his miss.

The final targets, two dimes were set up. That dime was a tiny little dot that seemed to swim before my eye as I squinted through the sights at it. I shot and missed. Charley shot and won the thirty-pound tom turkey. I was disappointed that I didn't win first prize, but at least I could say I gave it my best. Besides Ma would be proud of me anyway because I at least won something, the twenty-five pound bird, a hen that was second prize.