Ptui

Goldie has always been a tomboy.  Reckon that’s partly my blame.  When I lost her ma giving birth to her, I knowed warn’t never going to be no more young ‘uns.  Couldn’t, with no ma, and there was only one Rosie.  So I raised Goldie as much like a son as a daughter.  She was my right hand--in the house, barn, and fields.

But when she wanted to enter the Tobacco Spittin’ Contest at the Bluegrass Days, I put my boot down.  No daughter of Jasper Walters was going to shame her mama’s memory that way.

‘Course, Rosie chewed.  We’d set on the swing under the oak of an evening and have a chew together.  But Rosie didn’t spit--leastways, not in front of me.  Don’t rightly know where the ambeer went.

Goldie, now, had been chewing ever since she were a little mite, toddling behind me in the patch.  I give her a wad to keep her quiet, when she was old enough to know better than to swallow it.

Me and Goldie was equals--we shared the chores.  Weren’t no men’s work and wimmen’s work.  I’da taught Goldie to cook if I’d knowed how myself.  Soon’s she could read as good as me, we studied and studied her ma’s recipes and taught our own selves.

When Goldie was ten Jewel Skaggs offered to teach Goldie how to can and preserve.

“Been canning since she was eight,” I said.

“How’d she reach the sink?”

“Give her a apple crate to stand on.”

Jewel didn’t like that above half; she’s wanted to be Goldie’s stepma powerful bad.  Or my second, one.  Jewel holds herself pretty high ever since she won a tobacco setter on Queen For A Day, but she’s got an ass two ax handles and a wad of chewing tobacco wide.

To look at my Goldie, you’d think she’d plumb blow away in an east wind.  But she’s tough, like her ma.  Fine-boned, going to be tiny, no more’n five feet.  Sometimes she gets this faraway look about her that puts me in mind of my ma--her Granny Walters.  Kinda dreamy; I hafta to snap my fingers in her face to bring her back from ever where she’s been.  Then she sorta sighs, like as how she hates to leave.  I’ve never pried.

So I was shocked when she done told me about her hankering--to enter the tobacco spittin’ contest, I mean.

She stuck her hands on her hips, arms ever-which-way, in a pose that struck me as pure Rosie and asked, “How come?”

Now, Goldie’d been asking “How Come?” since before the age of three, but in a different way.  Back then, she craved to know things: how come plants grows up instead of down; how come chickens don’t fly, they’s birds, ain’t they?  And she’d look up at me like as if I knowed everthing.

This “How come?” sounded more like “Who says?”

And for the first time in her young life I give her that answer my ma used to give me: “Because I said so.”  The look on her face told me that wasn’t good enough.

Couldn’t think of no other way to put it.  My thoughts was all jumbled together like, and I didn’t rightly know what it was that bothered me: her being a girl or her defyin’ me.  Maybe for the first time I thought what folks’d say about how I’d raised her.  That maybe it was me that had shamed Rosie’s memory.

So I talked it out with Rosie, like usual, in our spot, the swing under the oak.

Rosie and me’d been having these comfortable jaws ever since Goldie was born.

`What’s troublin’ you, Jasper?’ Rosie asked.

Rosie always could tell when something was worriting me.

“Goldie,” I sighed.  In recent times, it always seemed to be Goldie giving me fits.

Rosie give a little chuckle.  `How old is she now, Jasper?’

“Twelve,” I said.  “You know that.”

`I know.  Thought you might have forgot.’  Then, softly, `Sap’s startin’ to flow.’

I turned to face her.  That’s always a mistake.  Sometimes I can get a glimpse of her green and blue print dress out of the corner of my eye or feel the swing move when I’m not pushing it.  But only if I don’t try to face her head on.  So there was no one to answer my, “What in tarnation hell do you mean, the sap’s startin’ to flow?”

Warn’t no other family to ask, neither.  Both my ma and pa and Rosie’s, too, were long gone. When I said I had to raise Goldie myself I meant myself.  No two ways about it: I’d have to ask Jewel Skaggs.

* * *

Jewel lived over to the east of the Merle Beddoes place.  She and her husband Hiram had inherited the old Skaggs farm when Hiram’s senile old mama passed away.  Maybe that’s what had soured Jewel’s milk—living with old Granny Skaggs all them years.  And Hiram…well, he didn’t drop in harness, so to speak.  Wasn’t much of a worker, so Jewel had a lot on her hands, I have to say.  Didn’t have any young ‘uns to help out, neither.  When Hiram died, Jewel probably didn’t notice much difference in her workload, but all the same I knew she missed having someone to talk to. 

So I went over there in fear and tremblin’, figuring she’d have the Preacher Man hidin’ in the pantry, ready to hear our ‘I do’s.’  But I needn’t have worried.  Oh, her brow cleared a little from its usual lines when she saw me, but she seemed kinda like her mind was somewheres else.  Her arms were elbow deep in flour and some strands of fair hair streaked with gray escaped from that beehive do she favors that even I knew was plumb old hat.

She was hospitable enough.  Took off her apron, to treat me like company.  Led me into the front room. I’d knocked on the back screen and worn my everyday overalls so’s the busybodies wouldn’t say we was courtin’.

“Well, Jasper, what brings you here?  No, don’t take that chair; it wobbles.  Hiram always meant to fix it, but somehow never got around to it.”

Folks say Jewel still nags Hiram even though he’s been in his grave six years.

I picked up the chair and turned it upside down, just to be doing somethin’ and studied the uneven legs.  “I could prob’ly file that down a bit for you, maybe glue some felt on the tip.”  Really, I was killin’ time.  Didn’t know how to bring up the subject.

Jewel took the chair from me firmly and righted it.  “Try the sofy, Jasper.”

I did, seein’ as how she took the rocker.  One thing I’ve learned bein’ a widow man:  Don’t never sit on no settee with a woman or the tongues will wag.

She raised an eyebrow at me, so I figured I couldn’t put it off no more.  “It’s Goldie.  She wants to enter the Tobacco Spittin’ Contest,” I blurted out.

Jewel raised both eyebrows at that and said, “Lord God, Jasper, you ain’t going to let her, are ye?”

Now I never had no intention of letting Goldie enter that contest.  I just wanted to know how to handle the thing.  But soon as she said that, I don’t know, my cussed streak come out.  Rosie always said I’d conterdict the Angel Gabriel hisself. And onct Jewel agreed with me that the contest wasn’t the done thing for a twelve-year-old girl to do, I sorta dug my heels in.  “Why not?” I asked.  I just wanted to see what she’d say.  Heck, maybe she’d give me some reasons I could give Goldie besides, ‘Because I said so.’  Anyways, I wasn’t about to let Jewel see I agreed with her.

“Why not?” she almost shrieked.  “Why…why, she’d be up there in front of everybody with a bunch of coarse men, that’s why.  It ain’t modest!  It ain’t womanly!  And what would Rosie say?”

That did it.  Nobody knows what Rosie would say or think but me.  And come to think of it, the only twelve-year-old girl Jewel knew well was her own self.  And that was back a far piece.  But I still needed to find out what Rosie’d meant by her remark—that the sap was starting to flow. 

I eased around it.  “First time she’s ever defied me.  Questioned me.”

“Oh,” Jewel said, in a different tone of voice.  “Oh!”

“What?”

Jewel actually blushed.  Jewel Skaggs!

“Has she started her time of the month yet, Jasper?”

Oh.  “Oh!” I said.

* * *

Didn’t they teach that stuff in school?  Didn’t some kindly teacher or, what-do-you-call-’em, guidance counselor show them a movie or something?  I knew there were other things that went along with it.  Hormones and such.  Goldie was turnin’ into a woman.  But why in hell when she was becomin’ a woman would she take a notion into her head to enter a tobacco spittin’ contest?  Seemed like she’d join a quiltin’ bee or somethin’.

‘It’s all you own fault, Jasper Walters,’ I told myself.  ‘Poor little mite don’t know whether to be a man or a woman.’

I rode my dusty Ford pick-up along the lane until I came to the creek bed.  I killed the engine, got out of the truck, and stepped carefully on the stones stretched across the creek until I reached the other side.  When I’m not jawin’ at Rosie in the swing, I like to come up to the pasture where the pond is and watch the herd.  There’s somethin’ mighty soothing about cows lazily chompin’ grass and wading knee deep in a pond.  Kinda makes me feel like I got all the time in the world.  Like they do.

So when I want to think, this is where I come.  And I had a bunch to think about.  What if I let Goldie enter that contest?  What would happen?  Would people poke fun of her?  Maybe that would be a good thing.  Maybe then she’d realize it wasn’t fittin’.  On the other hand, maybe everbody wouldn’t react like Jewel Skaggs done.  Maybe they’d think it was cute.  Maybe they’d treat it like a joke.  Not that I wanted Goldie to be a joke.  And she’d be up there in front of a whole lot of people gettin’ laughed at.  Unless I could turn that laughter somewheres else.  Unless maybe Goldie and I could share some of that pokin’ fun.  And unless Goldie wasn’t the  worstest one in the contest.

I smiled to myself.

* * *

“Now remember what I done told you, Goldie. Take some deep breaths.  Get some wind in you.  Work up a good chew.  Don’t spit with your lips; hawk it up good.  Get a good run at the target and lean forward as fur as you can without steppin’ over the line.”

She looked up at me with that look she used to give me.  Back when I knowed everthing.  Maybe a few years yet.  Lord, let me be her hero a few more years.

“You done got two chances, Goldie.  Distance and acc’rcy.  Don’t think you stand a chance with distance.  But you might be able to hit a target since you done practiced real good.  Orly Simms, now, he cain’t hit the broad side of a barn, but he can spit further than any man in the county.  Bubba Lucas—he can make a grasshopper jump with his spit; he’s that good.”

We was walking across the fairgrounds on our way to the contest when I stopped Goldie.  “Wait here a second, I got somethin’ to do.”  I entered one of them tents, well, not a tent really, didn’t have no sides.  Marquee, that’s what they’s called.  Walked right up to Jewel Skaggs.

I took a jar out of my jacket pocket.  “This here’s my entry,” I said, plunking it down on the long table.

Jewel smiled at me.  “You mean Goldie’s entry, don’t you?”

“Nope.  Mine.”

Jewel looked uncertain for maybe the first time in her life.  I tipped my cap, turned, and left.

I collected Goldie and continued on our way.

The contest was set up in the same meadow used for the livestock judging.  Guess they figgered it wouldn’t matter none if folks spit there. 

Preacher Man was announcing the rules.  I know that seems strange, having the pastor involved in a tobacco spittin’ contest, but this here’s tobacco country.  Baptist preachers don’t talk about smokin’.  Just drinkin’ and dancin’.  Fact is, Preacher lights up his hand-rolled cigarette soon’s he hits his car after service lets out.

He wore his shiny blue suit, only one he owns, I reckon, and the sweat pouring off’n his brow matched the sheen on that suit.  He took off his hat—no caps for him—and mopped his equally shiny head with a bandana handkerchief.

He held a megaphone to his mouth.  “Gentleman—and lady…”

Everyone guffawed, but in a good-natured way.  A few men poked me in the ribs.  Warn’t no women there.  Too uncouth for them to watch, I guess.  Which made me feel a little bit better.  People who’d come down hardest on Goldie would be the women.  Rosie allays said women folk was their own worst enemy.

“You have three chances in the distance part of the contest.  You can stand behind or run up to the line—that there string on the ground.  If you step over the line, you’re disqualified for that round.  See that second string five feet out?  You must spit past that on your first try to continue to round two and three.  Try to hit the plastic mat.  Use a spurtin’ action; no blowin’ allowed.  And no spit wads nor chewin’ gum.”

The men all guffawed as though they’d be caught dead with chewin’ gum.

“Kin we use our fingers to our mouth, Preacher?” one burly man who had tree trunks for legs asked.  I rekonized him as Orly Simms.

“Not in the distance part.  You can use two fingers, one on each side of the mouth to direct the flow, in the accuracy part of the contest.  And your spit has to be the size of a quarter, at least.”

They all lined up, four large men, all with beards, and my little Goldie.  I saw her watching them sharply, ready to imitate their moves, like the deep knee bends they did, just as if they was going to lift weights or somethin’.

Tree Trunk man went first.  And spewed the puniest stream I ever done seen.  You’d a thought he’d have the most powerful set of lungs in the county, but part of his stream made it over the line, so he qualified.  The other two followed and both qualified.  Then came Goldie’s turn.

Please, God, just let her make it over the line. 

Well, Goldie backed up ‘bout ten feet, ran at the line, and hawked a goober mighty fine, if I am her father.  And she made it over the line.  The other contestants laughed and clapped on accounta because she hadn’t beaten none of them.  Round two and three followed.  Tree Trunk got his second wind and managed to win the distance contest.  But at least Goldie hadn’t been disqualified.

Then they brought out the bullseye.  They propped it up against a bale of hay and reset the string.  Just one string—the one you stood behind.  Didn’t matter if’n you made minimum distance; you had to hit the target.  Lord, but it looked fer away.

And, like I said, Orly Simms cain’t hit the broad side of a barn.  All three of his spits landed left or right of the target.  Bubba Lucas, Grasshopper Man, lived up to expectations and landed two bullseyes.  The third guy, someone I didn’t know, managed to hit the first ring of the target onct.  All Goldie had to do was hit the second ring and she’d be second place.

I wanted to close my eyes bad, but I didn’t.  Her first spit landed just shy of the target.  Her second hit one corner, but not in a ring.  She got this real determined look on her face as she started back to do her run.  Then she hesitated, turned, and stood right behind the string.  She clasped her hands behind her back, drew a deep breath, then leaned forward and spit straight as an arrow.

Splat!  It landed smack in the middle of the second ring. 

You’d think some of those guys woulda been embarrassed, but Orly Simms ruffled her hair, and even the guy who finished last took it as a good joke on himself.

I got Goldie outta the crowd quick as I could and we headed off to get somethin’ to eat.  We went in another of them marquee things and settled ourselves with plates of fried chicken and paper cups of sweet tea.  When we wasn’t half through eatin’,  Preacher Man came into the tent, carrying his megaphone.  He walked up to the front of the tent and harrumphed.  That’s how he begins all his sermons, so we hushed.

“For those of you that didn’t see the Tobacco Spitting Contest, I’m here to announce the winners.  Then I’ll turn it over to Sister Skaggs to announce the winners in canning and preserving.  So, without further ado, the winner of the distance competition, as expected, is Orly Simms”. 

Orly took off his cap and waved to the crowd.

“…and the winner of the accuracy competition, again no surprise, goes to Bubba Lucas.”

Bubba raised both arms overhead in a victory gesture.

“…but the surprise of the contest: second place for accuracy goes to Miss Goldie Walters!”

I may have imagined it but I thought the crowd hesitated before they applauded.  Must have had a crimp in their thinkin’.

“And now…Sister Jewel Skaggs.”

Jewel bowed a rather long time for the amount of applause she got and then proceeded to announce the winners in pickling, canning, and preserving: Maybelle Larkin for her cherry preserves; Anna Marie Simpkins for tomato relish.

“…and Jasper Walters for sweet pickles!”

I stood and waved.  Goldie sat with her mouth at half cock. 

Lord, don’t let her say nothin’.

Goldie and me finished our plates real quick and ducked out of the tent.  Not fast enough to miss Jewel, though.

“Congratulations, Jasper,” a voice said at my elbow.  Jewel’s eyes held mine for a long moment.  Then she turned away.  “And you, too, Goldie.”

Goldie and I were silent all the way to the truck.  We were halfway home before she spoke.

“Pa,” she said.  “We didn’t raise no cucumbers this year.”

“No.”

“So where’d you get them pickles, Pa?”

“Bought a quart of Kosher dills, drained ‘em, cut ‘em up, and put ‘em back in the jar with sugar, garlic, and vinegar.  Shook the jar, tilted it ever which way, jiggled it till the sugar dissolved.  Then I put ‘em in a Mason jar and plunked ‘em in the icebox till we was ready to leave.”

Goldie’s eyes crinkled at the corners.  “Pa, that’s cheatin’.”

“No, tain’t.  A mere man needs all the help he can git in a woman’s world.”