Justin and the Best Biscuits in the World (5 page)
Read Justin and the Best Biscuits in the World Online
Authors: Mildred Pitts Walter
ARRIVAL IN MISSOURI
G
RANDPA WAS ALREADY
in bed, but he was not asleep.
“Can I get in your bed, Grandpa?” Justin asked.
“Sure.”
Justin lay close to his grandpa. They did not talk. Finally, Grandpa said, “Do you now know all about âHow We Came to Missouri'?”
“No.” There was silence between them again. Then Justin sighed. “It's too sad. I don't want to read anymore.”
“But that's about our life, Justin. Why don't you get the book? We'll read it together.”
Justin returned with the book and settled comfortably to listen as his grandpa's deep voice read on.
When we got home from the market, Papa told the others what had happened. “We're leaving right away,” he said.
“But how can we go by trail without supplies?” my brother Julius asked.
“We will go by boat. Let's take whatever belongings we can. What we can't take, we'll replace at the end of the journey.”
Quickly we filled the wagon with the strong packing boxes. We rode all night and part of the next day before coming to the boat landing on the Mississippi River. Hundreds of other Negroes from Alabama, Mississippi, and Georgia lined the shore waiting for passage. Many of them talked of having seen night riders when they tried to vote, own land, or travel freely. They were going West to Canaan Land.
Looking around and listening, I learned that some of those people had nothing at all and some of them didn't know where they
were going. They only knew they had to try to get to freedom. Soon after we arrived a shout went up, “Boat's coming!”
I was both excited and upset. We could not get on that boat. Papa first had to sell the horses and wagon. There was no way to take them to Missouri. Suppose that was the last boat for days? People scrambled around us, gathering their belongings. I worried that we'd be alone on the riverfront waiting for the next boat.
“Where're you going?” the captain shouted when the boat finally arrived.
“Kansas,” the crowd cried with one voice, ready to scramble aboard.
“We don't haul to Kansas,” the captain shouted, and the boat moved on.
Women fell to the ground and cried, “Lord, Lord, what's to come of us?” Some had been there for days. Storekeepers nearby refused to sell them food. Many were without anything to eat and it was bitterly cold.
I got lost from the family. When I found them again Papa, James, and John had gone upriver to try to sell our horses and wagon. The sun glowed red in the west and still they had not returned. Had they been jailed? Would somebody cut off their hands? These thoughts stayed with me even when I went
with other boys and men to collect firewood to burn to keep us warm.
Darkness came and I knew I would never see Papa againâ¦.
“Did he?” Justin cried. “Tell me, Grandpa. Did he ever see his papa again?”
“We'll have to read on to see,” Grandpa said.
â¦We waited. My mother kept quiet and still, but I saw worry in her eyes. We waited and waited. Julius paced up and down, hitting the palm of his hand with the crop of a whip. Still we waited.
Late that night they returned. I ran to them. “Papa, Papa,” I cried.
“Leave him be,” James said. “Can't you see he's upset?”
John held my hand and said, “We had to give the horses away.”
Finally Papa told us that white men refused to buy them. Negroes with money wanted to, but were too scared. Some said they might be accused of helping
exodusters
and be tarred and feathered. Others said they would lose their jobs, go to jail. But worst of all, they would lose the horses and
wagon, so why buy them? They must not help anyone leave the South to go West.
Mama broke down and cried.
The next day the wind rose and blew very cold on the river. We huddled close to the fire and drank hot sweet water, and ate cold bread and sorghum.
“What's sorghum, Grandpa?” Justin asked.
“It's a cheap brand of pancake syrup.”
“Oh,” Justin said, and settled down. “Go on.”
â¦The sun seemed far away as we all joined in songs and prayers for our deliverance from this land of trial and tribulation.
As the sun climbed up, almost to the center of the sky, a shout went up, “Boat's coming!”
Papa and three other men pushed forward. They hailed the boat.
“Where y'all wanting to go,” a sailor called.
“St. Louis,” Papa said in his strong clear voice.
“We can't take niggers into St. Louis and Kansas.”
“We veterans of the Civil War,” one of the men with Papa shouted. “You can't deny us passage. That's against the law.”
“You boys want trouble?” the sailor asked.
“We only want passage,” Papa said.
The captain came to the rail. I heard him say to the sailors, “These boys know the law. They could make trouble. We'd better take them on.”
We rode up the Mississippi and came to St. Louis. Papa's new-found friends tried to talk him into going on to Kansas. But Papa knew that part of the West well. He knew
that Missouri, unlike Kansas, had been a slave state and that we might have trouble there. But Missouri had many trees from which to build houses. Grass grew tall and green for cattle. Sometimes the wind blew colder than in Tennessee, but not as cold as Kansas.
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.
AT LAST, THE FESTIVAL
W
HEN
J
USTIN 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 an
other. 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.
Â
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, soapâstuff like that.
They arrived just in time for the cake-baking contest. One contestant had entered fifteen cakesâevery 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 were 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.