Blue Ribbon Brother

by Kristy L. Smith, age 18

In a quiet, peaceful pasture, nestled away deep in rambling thickets and hidden by walls of prickly, unfriendly cactus plants, one would come upon the sedate farm of the Reverend Peter Addison.  In the midst of grazing cows, plump and fat from a spring of good rains and warm sunshine, and amongst frisking goats bleating and calling to each other in play, sat an old, white-and-blue farm house.  The house appeared quiet enough, nuzzled as it was among the placid, Texas countryside, but one would have been quite surprised by all the noise that actually went on inside; six children can make an awful lot of racket without even setting their minds to it!

The mother of the house, Mrs. Dorie Addison, was a happy, hearty woman who managed her half-dozen crew very well and rarely complained or grew cross over the ruckus that five yellow-haired daughters and one cotton-top son often bring.  In fact, it was her good temperament that often restored order when order seemed quite unrestorable.  Not that the minister’s children were ill-behaved; but they were capable of raising quite a howl at times.  There was Polly, and Flora, and Joanie, and Laurie, and Greta, and- oh!  I have forgotten the middle child, Peter, who was named for his father.  I’m sure that it wasn’t the first time Peter has ever been overlooked; for he fell right in line in the midst of five sisters—three older, and two younger.  Amongst such a group of girls it is rather easy to skim right over his head without notice!  And, like most boys in his predicament, Peter was often heartlessly excluded by his sisters, as well.

Since he had no brother, he had no fishing partner, no one to share his room with, no one with whom to compare knives, and no one to help with the many farm chores that fell on his young shoulders.  It was Peter who fed the cows, and Peter who watered the goats, and Peter who harnessed the horses, and Peter who cleaned the chicken coop every week.  Not that the girls didn’t do their share of work around the farm; they washed dishes and scrubbed floors and wrung laundry day and night.  But to Peter’s boyish thinking, with so many sets of hands the work couldn’t be all that hard!

Strangely, though, with all his taxing chores around the farm, young Peter still found plenty of time to bother his sisters, and they concluded that he must have “too much time on his hands,” or else he would be too busy to be “such a pest.”  Of course, Peter was against unbeatable odds, since he was the only one on his side in all the arguments, and it was Peter who always ended up with the losing end.  When the girls felt the heat of their “persecution” too severe, or that they just couldn’t “handle” any more of Peter, they would march away to their exclusive meetings in the hay loft to talk over their grievances.

Now nothing aggravated our poor Peter more than these sisterly meetings, and the girls, knowing this, would often say loud enough for him to hear, “I call a meeting to order,” and then they would strut away in single file like a family of ducks.  The motto of their so-called club was, of course, “No Brothers Allowed.”  This also happened to be the first and only rule, which they enforced without mercy.  They once had a sign up in the loft that read “Society of Sisters,” written in Polly’s best handwriting.  But the sign had been promptly done away with when Peter had scratched out the word Sisters and scrawled instead Skunks.  The “society” had been quite upset when they reached the top of the hay loft that evening and found that their name had been changed to “Society of Skunks”!  Needless to say, they were very wroth and Peter had received a severe reprimanding by the good minister and his wife.  But he hadn’t been a bit sorry, for he felt that he had the skunkiest sisters that must exist.

However, Peter’s lot wasn’t entirely without enjoyment.  His favorite day in all the year was the annual country fair in July.  And this year, to make things even more delightful, the fair had landed right on Independence Day so there were sure to be hundreds of fire works and many other things that weren’t normally a part of the fair’s activities.

Peter was bursting with enthusiasm as the days in June slowly gave way and the Fourth approached.  Peter had decided to make a grand, wooden windmill, just like the one his father had in the pasture—only, a smaller version, of course.  Peter planned to win a blue ribbon, if hard work could do it.  The blue ribbon was the first place prize, and only one was given out in each division.

But Peter wasn’t the only one who had gotten such an idea stuck in his head: his entire crew of sisters had their eyes on the Blue Ribbon Prize, as well.  Polly, the oldest, who felt herself a grand cook and housewife (even though she wasn’t a wife) was making Plum Preserves for the fair.  Flora, who was better at sewing than cooking any day, had been working on a quilted pillow and was sure the judges would pin the coveted blue ribbon on it; for she’d seen one just like it win at the fair last summer.  Joanie was busy baking homemade bread, and Laurie was furiously working on her embroidery.  And Little Greta, whom the Reverend claimed was “an artist in the making,” was sketching a picture of the family farm.

So, as you can well see, the Society of Sisters had nearly replaced their motto with “Win the Blue Ribbon” and hardly even complained about their brother in the meetings anymore.  Naturally, this was all the better for Peter, who was much too busy constructing his windmill to think of pestering his sisters these days anyway.

On the morning of the Fourth, Peter leapt from his bed and rushed into the kitchen, nearly colliding with Polly, Flora, and his mother, who were headed in the same direction all at once.

“When will breakfast be ready, Mother?” Peter inquired.  “Must we eat?  I’m terribly anxious to be off to the fair.”

“And so you are,” his mother laughed, “but of course we must eat, or else you won’t have the strength to stand up tall and proud if they present you with the blue ribbon and twenty dollar prize.”

“He win the blue ribbon?” Polly and Flora cried almost in unison.  “But, Mother, I am going to win it!”

“Tsk, Tsk, daughters,” their mother scolded, hurrying about the bright kitchen to set breakfast on the table, “there is more than one blue ribbon at the county fair.  Your brother has as good a chance as any of you.  Why, did you see the lovely job he did on his windmill?  Just yesterday, before he took it to be judged, I saw it in the yard, spinning up a storm.”

Peter gave his sisters a pert look and strutted away, feeling their dark stares following him out of the kitchen.  They thought it hardly possible for Peter to win the blue ribbon at the fair, and said so.  Why, he was only good at pestering and spying!  Those things were hardly worthy of a blue ribbon!

“You give your brother far too little credit,” the minister’s wife reproved, taking a steaming platter of biscuits from the hot oven.  “It may prove to show you a lesson if he is the only one out of the lot of you to win the blue ribbon this year.  Now, think on that.”

But the gasping sisters had no desire to think on such a dreadful thing.  Instead they hurriedly put it out of their minds and began to plan what they would do with the twenty dollars a handsome blue ribbon would bring them.

The fair grounds were lively and teaming with people as Rev. Addison brought  the rickety old automobile to a stop beneath a shady Live Oak tree.  Peter dashed out of the vehicle in an instant and was off toward the Ferris Wheel before his sisters could even get the wrinkles smoothed from their skirts.  The minister drifted off toward the smelly live stock while the ladies bustled toward the craft and sewing exhibits.  The girls sniffed hungrily as they passed by the food stands filled with delicious smells of popped corn, meat-on-a-stick, fried pies, and every other sort of imaginable treat.

While his sisters were absorbed in admiring the “lovely exhibits,” Peter busied himself on the large Ferris Wheel, which was the only ride at the fair.  After he had ridden it enough times to make a normal person dizzy he ran off to see if the crafts had been judged.  He met his father, who was just coming out of the main building and wearing a tremendous smile on his face.

“Come, Son,” he urged, placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder and leading him back to the building.  “You will be proud to see your windmill!”

“Have I won it, Papa?” Peter exclaimed joyously.  “Have I won the blue ribbon?”

His father only smiled and said, “Come and see.”

Peter ran into the building and the minister led him to the corner labeled “Wooden Crafts.”  A group of people were clustered about admiring something and saying what a lovely craft it was, and what a skilled little boy must have made it.  Peter, who could not see past the wall of people, pushed through the crowd and peered out wonderingly.  His eyes grew wider and still wider as he gazed at his fine windmill, standing tall and proud in a corner and wearing on it shoulder a beautiful blue ribbon.

“It has won!” he exclaimed suddenly with a shout.  “I have won the blue ribbon!  Oh, thank you, Papa, for all your help!” he cried, giving his father a jubilant hug.  The minister laughed and returned his son’s happy embrace.

“You’re welcome, my Pete, but it was you who made it, not I,” he said.

“And the girls,” Peter inquired, looking up, “how have they done?”

But the minister need not answer, for at that moment Mrs. Addison, followed by five, dismally rueful girls came over to them.  Peter needed only to look at his sister’s dejected faces to guess what ribbon they had won—or, should I say, what ribbon they had not won.

“The blue ribbon, Mother, do you see it?” Peter said meekly, pointing to the little windmill behind him.  “And do you see how my mill smiles and wears its prize so nicely?”

“Yes, I see,” his mother agreed, “and I see how you smile, too.”

“I see who does not smile,” the minister noted, looking at his gloomy daughters with an observant eye.  “Why the frowning faces?”

“I’m afraid our girls did not fare as well as Peter,” Mrs. Addison explained without remorse, for she knew that they had it coming after all their days of bragging.  “Not one of them has won a blue ribbon.”

“It’s just the most tragic thing,” Laurie sobbed fretfully, and all her sisters agreed.

Peter studied their sad state for a moment, feeling sorry for them despite how rotten they had behaved lately.  Then a wonderful idea sprang into his head.

Not very many minutes thereafter, the little automobile was parked in front of the Sundae Shoppe, and five happy girls were crowded around their grinning brother, each licking up the delicious cold treat, which Peter had generously paid for from the proceeds of the blue ribbon.  Ice cream was a rare treat indeed, and doubly delicious on such a hot, summer day!

“We’re awfully sorry, Peter, for being so dreadful to you,” Joanie said, her eyes fixed upon her brother while she licked at her ice cream.  “We won’t do it again.”

“And we’re sorry too for not letting you join our club,” Flora chimed in.  “Now you may, of course.”

“But I don’t want to be in the Society of Sisters!” Peter declared with offended manhood.  “And what of your rule, ‘no brothers allowed’?”

“We’ll change it,” Polly, the eldest, decided quickly.  “We’ll call it… um… we’ll call it…”

“The Society of Siblings,” little Greta interjected, licking ice cream from her fingers.

“Yes, and we’ll make an amendment to our rule,” Polly went on.  “We’ll change it to ‘blue ribbon brothers allowed.’  Does that suit you?”

Peter thought on it a moment.  “But you won’t change your minds next time you think I’m a pest?” he asked cautiously, for he knew that sisters are inclined to change their minds and forget quite easily.

“No, of course not,” Polly reassured.

“And what will remind you?” Peter wanted to know.

“Every time we see that windmill of yours spinning in the front yard, we can’t help but remember,” Flora said meekly.

Peter grinned and agreed.

“Now, my blue ribbon children,” the minister said, standing with a twinkle in his eye, “we’d best be heading home, for there are blue ribbon chickens to feed and blue ribbon cows to milk!”

Hearing this, Peter and his sisters groaned pathetically, but more because they felt they were expected to do so when one mentioned chores rather than because they were unhappy.  In fact, the yellow-haired children were about as happy as they had ever been in their entire lives.

A Note From Kristy

I guess it would be accurate to say that this story was written from first-hand knowledge and experience!  I am the oldest of a family of three, and my brother Darren happens to be the “caboose” at the end of our family train!  Not only does he have two older sisters, all the cousins his age are girls, as well!

I remember five or six years ago when two of my girl cousins got together with Julie (my sister) and I and formed a club.  Naturally, Darren wanted to join, but we (like Peter’s “dear” sisters) had one rule: no boys allowed!  Of course, this didn’t go over well with him (or our parents!) and the law was quickly—though reluctantly—repealed!

As we have grown older, my brother, sister, and I have become close friends and have learned to put away our “childish” disagreements (most of them, anyway!).   Darren still is the “little brother” in the family (although he’s taller than both his sisters!), but at least he isn’t excluded when we get together with our cousins any more!

So, as a tribute to my brother Darren, the story of young Peter Addison is dedicated to him with all my sisterly love and affection!  (And Darren certainly is a “blue ribbon brother”!) :-)

Kristy makes her home in Texas.  She is a home school graduate, and the oldest of three children.