Chapter 5: How to Win by Losing

By just about anyone's standards the Woodman County Fair was very small potatoes, indeed. There was a little ragbag carnival booked, complete with rides. Today they would not even come close to passing safety any codes. You tell me what boy cared about safety codes? It was enough the rides were scary.

There was a Whip and a Loop The Loop and a small Ferris Wheel. There were the crooked games where the sucker was "guaranteed a prize each and every time."

There was a shooting gallery where I lost a dollar of my hard earned money I had hoarded nickel and dime at a time. (It looked so simple to just shoot out the 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 and throw up after one last ride on the Whip. Despite everything, it was a wonderful and exciting time for a ten-year-old boy.

Of course I didn't tell my folks I had upchucked all those hot dogs and cotton candy and lemonade. If Ma found out she would make me stick close to her; and Pa would shake his head in exasperation. Some things were better if a boy kept them 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, I hope it's you who's sick to almost dying like I am. I'll just laugh at you." I yelled at her. Then my stomach gave one last lurch and I let fly one last time. I went 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 wet fingers through my hair and hurried to find my parents.

"Oh, there you are, David, I was afraid 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 just knew she would want one. They were seemed so exotic to my young mind.

I knew better than to try to beg off, though. Ma's feelings would be hurt 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 taking place.

A long display table made of sheets of plywood on saw horses had been covered with bunting. There on the table, 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 so it could be eaten hot or cold and never leave any greasy aftertaste in the mouth, like so many did. A chef from Oklahoma City bought her recipe that same day right after the judging. But then and there 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 her life.

"Oh Walter, I do so hope I didn't add too much sage. Do you think it looks attractive? You know how much food is judged by appearance. Oh, I so want my meatloaf 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. No matter, Ma kept fretting and worrying 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. Reluctantly, after they had demolished half of her entry, they each sheepish, took a drink of water and moved on to the next entry. Quickly they tasted and went on to the next. Pa chuckled at the judges' antics. "You know, Davy, they surely had trouble making up their minds about your ma's meatloaf. They must not have liked it, they left almost half of it uneaten."

"Walter, don't make light. This is a serious occasion," Ma fussed at him. Her face was drawn up tight in concentration as we watched the judges move from dish to dish. He just hugged her with one arm and grinned. I noticed how none of the other entries were sampled like Ma's meatloaf had been. 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 below average everything else.

French people make a great to do about dishes most Americans turn their noses up at. Who wanted to eat snails and goose liver when they could have fried chicken and gravy? There was a buzz from many of 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 banker anything and paid cash for all he bought, so he could express his opinion openly.

He was not being judgmental, but merely stating a fact. As far as Pa was concerned, that pretty ribbon was just that, pretty. He knew her meatloaf was better than any other meat dish entered and he laughed as he pointed out 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 eatin'."

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 it 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 was desperate for 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 how it was wrong of me to just slip behind your back like I did. 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 began in a gentle voice, "You are very right. You should not have slipped your gun out of the house without first checking with your mother or me. But the fact is you saw what you did was not proper and were willing to own 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 over. If you want to enter the turkey shoot, go right ahead. Even though you didn't start out properly, I feel you have learned a lesson here and it would not be right to stand in the way of you winning one of the three turkeys put up as prizes. But don't be disappointed if you lose"

"Walter, are you sure this is the right thing to do?" Ma's ways were very 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 shades of gray. It bothered her 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 Ma shut up. Pa had spoken. Very seldom did he come down hard on anything, without at least conferring with her, but Ma saw how this time he was unmoving.

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 shooting contest, which would be held at the far end of the grounds.

When we arrived, I paid my dollar and received a small cloth ribbon with the word "CONTESTANT" printed on it. I felt so proud, as I pinned it on my chest. This was the first time I had ever "officially" entered a competition. 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 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 drawn on a sheet of white paper. The target judge set it about seventy-five feet back from the shooting line on a bale of hay.

The center dot looked quite 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 what looked like a toy sized single shot rifle in shooting stance. It 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 kid 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 turkey.

A new target was set up fifty feet further back. I could barely see the center dot. I shot first, a judge at the target marked it, Pa shot next, seeming hardly to aim and then the Indian kid. I suddenly remembered his name, Charley Patito. He shot third and had his shot marked. The other seven got wave aways because they missed 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 I am going to try something different for the next round. I propose to 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."

The dollars were hit by all three of us and the half dollars as well. I could barely see the 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 missed a single shot, not ever.

He had a funny look on his face, a sort of half smile. He kept quiet, as he shrugged and then handed me the rifle without saying a word. 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. My dime was a tiny little dot. It 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 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 hen was second prize.