Read Online A Long Way From Chicago by Richard Peck - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Richard Peck
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Smoke the choicest cigars, at your ease,
And may revel in pleasure awhile;
Play billiards, from morning till night,
Or loaf in the barroom all day,
But just see if my words are not right:
You will find, in the end, it don’t pay.
At the other end of the midway was a rickety Ferris wheel, a merry-go-round, and a caterpillar. Beyond it was a sight that drew me. In an open stubblefield a biplane stood. Beside it was the pilot in a leather helmet with goggles, and puttees wrapped around his legs.
And a sign:
B ARNSTORMING B ARNIE B UCHANAN
AIR ACE
TRICK FLYING AND PASSENGER RIDES
My heart skipped a beat, and sank. Another sign read:
RIDES 75¢
I didn’t have that kind of money on me. I didn’t have any money on me. Still, my heart began to taxi. I’d never been in a plane, and my hero was Colonel Charles A. Lindbergh, who’d flown the Atlantic alone.
The American Legion was sponsoring Barnie Buchanan. A red-faced man in a Legionnaire’s cap bawled through a megaphone, “Tell you what I’m going to do, folks. Any minute now Mr. Buchanan is going to show us his stuff by putting his machine through the same maneuvers he used in the Great War against the wily Hun. Then if you think six bits is still too steep, Mr. Buchanan has agreed to a special prize-day offer. To every blue ribbon winner, Mr. Buchanan will give a ride in his plane gratis. That’s free of charge, ladies and gentlemen.”
My heart left the ground, skimmed a hedgerow, and sailed into the wild blue yonder. The pie in my hands would win first prize since nobody but Grandma would take a chance with gooseberries. But she’d let me have her plane ride because she was too old and too big.
“You reckon that thing will get off the ground?” she said doubtfully, building my hopes higher.
“It looks like a box kite,” Mary Alice said. “A person would have to be nuts to go up in it.”
The biplane’s wings were canvas-covered and much patched. It was more rickety than the Ferris wheel. Still, it was a plane, and this looked like my one chance in life to go up in one. Now Mrs. Weidenbach was plucking at Grandma’s arm, and it was time to enter the pie into competition.
When we four went into the Domestic Sciences tent, Grandma remarked, “I said there’d be flies.” Surroundedby crowds, the long tables were all laid out: jams and preserves, vegetables in novelty shapes, cakes and breads. A half-sized cow carved out of butter reclined on a block of melting ice. It was as hot as Grandma’s kitchen in the tent, so people fanned paper fans, compliments of Broshear’s Funeral Home, each with the Broshear motto printed on it:
WHEN YOU COME TO THE END,
YOU’LL FIND A FRIEND
Mrs. Weidenbach averted her eyes as we passed Pickled Products. I took charge of unpacking the pie and getting it registered at Fruit Pies and Cobblers. Grandma started at the other end of the table, casting an eye over the competition. Everything looked good to me, and I was wishing I was a judge so I could have a taste. A little card with a number and a name stood beside each entry.
When she got to her own pie, Grandma froze. Next to it was another lattice-topped gooseberry pie. There was no doubt about it. Only gooseberries are that shade of gray-green. And it was a very nice-looking pie. The edges of its pastry were as neatly crimped as Grandma’s. Maybe better. She bent to read the card, and whipped around.
I followed her look as it fell on one of the smallest people in the tent. It was a man, one of the few there. A little tiny man. He wore small bib overalls, a dress shirt, and a bow tie. Four or five strands of hair were arranged across his little bald head.
“Rupert Pennypacker,” Grandma breathed. You seldomsaw her caught off guard. Was he responsible for the other gooseberry pie?
“Who?” I said.
“The best home-baker in the state of Illinois,” Grandma said. “Him and me come up together out in the country, so I know.”
Mrs. Weidenbach
Smoke the choicest cigars, at your ease,
And may revel in pleasure awhile;
Play billiards, from morning till night,
Or loaf in the barroom all day,
But just see if my words are not right:
You will find, in the end, it don’t pay.
At the other end of the midway was a rickety Ferris wheel, a merry-go-round, and a caterpillar. Beyond it was a sight that drew me. In an open stubblefield a biplane stood. Beside it was the pilot in a leather helmet with goggles, and puttees wrapped around his legs.
And a sign:
B ARNSTORMING B ARNIE B UCHANAN
AIR ACE
TRICK FLYING AND PASSENGER RIDES
My heart skipped a beat, and sank. Another sign read:
RIDES 75¢
I didn’t have that kind of money on me. I didn’t have any money on me. Still, my heart began to taxi. I’d never been in a plane, and my hero was Colonel Charles A. Lindbergh, who’d flown the Atlantic alone.
The American Legion was sponsoring Barnie Buchanan. A red-faced man in a Legionnaire’s cap bawled through a megaphone, “Tell you what I’m going to do, folks. Any minute now Mr. Buchanan is going to show us his stuff by putting his machine through the same maneuvers he used in the Great War against the wily Hun. Then if you think six bits is still too steep, Mr. Buchanan has agreed to a special prize-day offer. To every blue ribbon winner, Mr. Buchanan will give a ride in his plane gratis. That’s free of charge, ladies and gentlemen.”
My heart left the ground, skimmed a hedgerow, and sailed into the wild blue yonder. The pie in my hands would win first prize since nobody but Grandma would take a chance with gooseberries. But she’d let me have her plane ride because she was too old and too big.
“You reckon that thing will get off the ground?” she said doubtfully, building my hopes higher.
“It looks like a box kite,” Mary Alice said. “A person would have to be nuts to go up in it.”
The biplane’s wings were canvas-covered and much patched. It was more rickety than the Ferris wheel. Still, it was a plane, and this looked like my one chance in life to go up in one. Now Mrs. Weidenbach was plucking at Grandma’s arm, and it was time to enter the pie into competition.
When we four went into the Domestic Sciences tent, Grandma remarked, “I said there’d be flies.” Surroundedby crowds, the long tables were all laid out: jams and preserves, vegetables in novelty shapes, cakes and breads. A half-sized cow carved out of butter reclined on a block of melting ice. It was as hot as Grandma’s kitchen in the tent, so people fanned paper fans, compliments of Broshear’s Funeral Home, each with the Broshear motto printed on it:
WHEN YOU COME TO THE END,
YOU’LL FIND A FRIEND
Mrs. Weidenbach averted her eyes as we passed Pickled Products. I took charge of unpacking the pie and getting it registered at Fruit Pies and Cobblers. Grandma started at the other end of the table, casting an eye over the competition. Everything looked good to me, and I was wishing I was a judge so I could have a taste. A little card with a number and a name stood beside each entry.
When she got to her own pie, Grandma froze. Next to it was another lattice-topped gooseberry pie. There was no doubt about it. Only gooseberries are that shade of gray-green. And it was a very nice-looking pie. The edges of its pastry were as neatly crimped as Grandma’s. Maybe better. She bent to read the card, and whipped around.
I followed her look as it fell on one of the smallest people in the tent. It was a man, one of the few there. A little tiny man. He wore small bib overalls, a dress shirt, and a bow tie. Four or five strands of hair were arranged across his little bald head.
“Rupert Pennypacker,” Grandma breathed. You seldomsaw her caught off guard. Was he responsible for the other gooseberry pie?
“Who?” I said.
“The best home-baker in the state of Illinois,” Grandma said. “Him and me come up together out in the country, so I know.”
Mrs. Weidenbach
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