Justin and the Best Biscuits in the World (4 page)

T
HE SUN BEAMED
down and sweat rolled off Justin as he rode on with Grandpa, looking for broken wires in the fence. They were well away from the house, on the far side of the ranch. Flies buzzed around the horses and now gnats swarmed in clouds just above their heads. The prairie resounded with songs of the bluebirds, the bobwhite quails, and the mocking-birds mimicking them all. The cardinal's song, as lovely as any, included a whistle.

Justin thought of Anthony and how
Anthony whistled for Pepper, his dog.

It was well past noon and Justin was hungry. Soon they came upon a small, well-built shed, securely locked. Nearby was a small stream. Grandpa reined in his horse. When he and Justin dismounted, they hitched the horses, and unsaddled them.

“We'll have our lunch here,” Grandpa said. Justin was surprised when Grandpa took black iron pots, other cooking utensils, and a table from the shed. Justin helped him remove some iron rods that Grandpa carefully placed over a shallow pit. These would hold the pots. Now Justin understood why Grandpa had brought uncooked food. They were going to cook outside.

First they collected twigs and cow dung. Grandpa called it cowchips. “These,” Grandpa said, holding up a dried brown pad, “make the best fuel. Gather them up.”

There were plenty of chips left from the cattle that had fed there in winter. Soon they had a hot fire.

Justin watched as Grandpa carefully
washed his hands and then began to cook their lunch.

“When I was a boy about your age, I used to go with my father on short runs with cattle. We'd bring them down from the high country onto the plains.”

“Did you stay out all night?”

“Sometimes. And that was the time I liked most. The cook often made for supper what I am going to make for lunch.”

Grandpa put raisins into a pot with a little water and placed them over the fire. Justin was surprised when Grandpa put flour in a separate pan. He used his fist to make a hole right in the middle of the flour. In that hole he placed some shortening. Then he added water. With his long delicate fingers he mixed the flour, water, and shortening until he had a nice round mound of dough.

Soon smooth circles of biscuits sat in an iron skillet with a lid on top. Grandpa put the skillet on the fire with some of the red-hot chips scattered over the lid.

Justin was amazed. How could only those ingredients make good bread? But
he said nothing as Grandpa put the chunks of smoked pork in a skillet and started them cooking. Soon the smell was so delicious, Justin could hardly wait.

Finally Grandpa suggested that Justin take the horses to drink at the stream. “Keep your eyes open and don't step on any snakes.”

Justin knew that diamondback rattlers sometimes lurked around. They were dangerous. He must be careful. He watered Black first.

While watering Pal, he heard rustling in the grass. His heart pounded. He heard the noise again. He wanted to run, but was too afraid. He looked around carefully. There were two black eyes staring at him. He tried to pull Pal away from the water, but Pal refused to stop drinking. Then Justin saw the animal. It had a long tail like a rat's. But it was as big as a cat. Then he saw something crawling on its back. They were little babies, hanging on as the animal ran.

A mama opossum and her babies
, he thought, and was no longer afraid.

By the time the horses were watered, lunch was ready.
“M-mm-m,”
Justin said as he reached for a plate. The biscuits were golden brown, yet fluffy inside. And the sizzling pork was now crisp. Never had he eaten stewed raisins before.

“Grandpa, I didn't know you could cook like this,” Justin said when he had tasted the food. “I didn't know men could cook so good.”

“Why, Justin, some of the best cooks in the world are men.”

Justin remembered the egg on the floor and his rice burning. The look he gave Grandpa revealed his doubts.

“It's true,” Grandpa said. “All the cooks on the cattle trail were men. In hotels and restaurants they call them chefs.”

“How did you make these biscuits?”

“That's a secret. One day I'll let you make some.”

“Were you a cowboy, Grandpa?”

“I'm still a cowboy.”

“No, you're not.”

“Yes, I am. I work with cattle, so I'm a cowboy.”

“You know what I mean. The kind who rides bulls, broncobusters. That kind of cowboy.”

“No, I'm not that kind. But I know some.”

“Are they famous?”

“No, but I did meet a real famous Black cowboy once. When I was eight years old, my grandpa took me to meet his friend Bill Pickett. Bill Pickett was an old man then. He had a ranch in Oklahoma.”

“Were there lots of Black cowboys?”

“Yes. Lots of them. They were hard workers, too. They busted broncos, branded calves, and drove cattle. My grandpa tamed wild mustangs.”

“Bet they were famous.”

“Oh, no. Some were. Bill Pickett created the sport of bulldogging. You'll see that at the rodeo. One cowboy named Williams taught Rough Rider Teddy Roosevelt how to break horses; and another one named Clay taught Will Rogers, the comedian, the art of roping.” Grandpa offered Justin the last biscuit.

When they had finished their lunch they
led the horses away from the shed to graze. As they watched the horses, Grandpa went on, “Now, there were some more very famous Black cowboys. Jesse Stahl. They say he was the best rider of wild horses in the West.”

“How could he be? Nobody ever heard about him. I didn't.”

“Oh, there's lots of famous Blacks you never hear or read about. You ever hear about Deadwood Dick?”

Justin laughed. “No.”

“There's another one. His real name was Nat Love. He could outride, outshoot anyone. In Deadwood City in the Dakota Territory, he roped, tied, saddled, mounted, and rode a wild horse faster than anyone. Then in the shooting match, he hit the bull's-eye every time. The people named him Deadwood Dick right on the spot. Enough about cowboys, now. While the horses graze, let's clean up here and get back to our men's work.”

Justin felt that Grandpa was still teasing him, the way he had in Justin's room when
he had placed his hand on Justin's shoulder. There was still the sense of shame whenever the outburst about women's work and the tears were remembered.

As they cleaned the utensils and dishes, Justin asked, “Grandpa, you think housework is women's work?”

“Do you?” Grandpa asked quickly.

“I asked you first, Grandpa.”

“I guess asking you that before I answer is unfair. No, I don't. Do you?”

“Well, it seems easier for them,” Justin said as he splashed water all over, glad he was outside.

“Easier than for me?”

“Well, not for you, I guess, but for me, yeah.”

“Could it be because you don't know how?”

“You mean like making the bed and folding the clothes.”

“Yes.” Grandpa stopped and looked at Justin. “Making the bed is easy now, isn't it? All work is that way. It doesn't matter who does the work, man or woman, when
it needs to be done. What matters is that we try to learn how to do it the best we can in the most enjoyable way.”

“I don't think I'll ever like housework,” Justin said, drying a big iron pot.

“It's like any other kind of work. The better you do it, the easier it becomes, and we seem not to mind doing things that are easy.”

With the cooking rods and all the utensils put away, they locked the shed and went for their horses.

“Now, I'm going to let you do the cinches again. You'll like that.”

There's that teasing again
, Justin thought. “Yeah. That's a man's work,” he said, and mounted Black.

“There are some good horsewomen. You'll see them at the rodeo.” Grandpa mounted Pal. They went on their way, riding along silently, scanning the fence.

Finally Justin said, “I was just kidding, Grandpa.” Then without planning to, he said, “I bet you don't like boys who cry like babies.”

“Do I know any boys who cry like babies?”

“Aw, Grandpa, you saw me crying.”

“Oh, I didn't think you were crying like a baby. In your room, you mean? We all cry sometime.”

“You? Cry, Grandpa?”

“Sure.”

They rode on, with Grandpa marking his map. Justin remained quiet, wondering what could make a man like Grandpa cry.

As if knowing Justin's thoughts, Grandpa said, “I remember crying when you were born.”

“Why? Didn't you want me?”

“Oh, yes. You were the most beautiful baby. But, you see, your grandma, Beth, had just died. When I held you I was flooded with joy. Then I thought,
Grandma will never see this beautiful boy
. I cried.”

The horses wading through the grass made the only sound in the silence. Then Grandpa said, “There's an old saying, son. ‘The brave hide their fears, but share their tears.' Tears bathe the soul.”

Justin looked at his grandpa. Their eyes caught. A warmth spread over Justin and he lowered his eyes. He wished he could tell his grandpa all he felt, how much he loved him.

T
HE HUMID HEAT
did not let up and Justin was wet with sweat and worn out when they got back home. Not having been on a horse all summer, his legs were stiff. His backside was sore from the saddle. He could hardly walk. He welcomed Grandpa's suggestion that he take a shower and rest.

In the shower he let cool water pelt him hard. He thought about the lunch outside and the talk about cowboys. He could hardly wait for the festival and the rodeo.

When he went into his room to rest, he heard his grandpa downstairs getting ready to take his shower. He decided to go into Grandpa's room to look out at the wooded rolling hills. There were pictures of the whole family in Grandpa's room, too. Justin liked looking at them.

He liked best the old ones of Great-Grandpa Phillip Ward, Sr., with all of his sons. Justin noted that Evelyn was very much like him. Great-Grandpa Phillip Ward was not as tall as some of his sons. Justin's grandpa, Phillip Ward, Jr., was the tallest of them all. He and Hadiya looked like him.

There was another picture, of a man with a long rifle standing with his foot on a saddle. He had on cowboy boots with spurs, a cowboy hat, and cowboy clothes, including a kerchief around his neck. He was very tall with a serious look. That was Great-Great-Grandpa Wiley Ward who brought the family from Tennessee into Missouri after the slaves had been freed almost fifteen years.

Justin liked this room very much.
Grandpa's bed was big and high. Beside it stood an old treadle sewing machine used now as a small table. On top a brass lamp's highly polished metal shone brightly. Underneath were some very old books. Justin read the titles. One,
Reflections on My Young Life
, by Phillip Ward, Sr., captured his attention. Justin thumbed through pages. “How We Came to Missouri” caught his eye. He went into his room, lay on his bed, and began to read.

“Oh, no!” Justin cried aloud. “You had better not try to leave.”

“What's going on up there?” Grandpa called to Justin. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I'm reading Great-Grandpa's book about coming to Missouri.”

“Maybe you had better get down here for some supper.”

Justin didn't want to stop reading. He wanted to know if the night riders had come to his great-great-grandpa's farm, too. Did they have trouble leaving Tennessee the way their neighbors had? He also was hungry, ready for supper.

After they had eaten, Grandpa said, “Let's wash the dishes. Would you like to wash or dry?”

Justin was tempted to say “Neither” again. He wanted to get back to the book, but he remembered the guilt he had felt that morning when he had not helped with the dishes. “I'll do them by myself, Grandpa,” he said. Then Evelyn's words flashed into his mind:
He'll do nothing but make a mess…. We'll be tasting soap for days
. He did not look at Grandpa when he said, “If you'll get me started, I'll do them.”

Grandpa showed him how to put in the right amount of water. Justin was surprised to learn that on the bottle of the
dishwashing liquid it said one capful for dishes. He had been using much, much more than that. Grandpa left him alone.

How nice: no soap spilling over, no splashes on the sink and floor. Soon he had sparkling dishes rinsed and ready for putting away. “I'm done, Grandpa,” he said with pride, and raced upstairs to get back to the story of “How We Came to Missouri.”

Justin breathed uneasily, a heaviness in his chest. Suddenly he felt alone, lonely. He longed for home, for Mama, Evelyn, and Hadiya. He closed the book and went in search of his grandpa.