A Legacy Project

So you won. Or you almost won. Or you lost. Or you got killed. Tell a story about competition, who-when-where-why-and-how. And the outcome.

I won.

Something that happened rarely.

I was six years old, two feet tall, and pretty much afraid of my own shadow. It was Halloween. Across the street from our house, Pat’s Food Center had a best-costume contest every year. I had no ideas, but I wanted to enter the contest. “Scarecrow?” my mother suggested. She and my dad collaborated, fixing me up. I wore an old pair of pants. My dad built a cross piece to support an upper body, if not with 2×4’s then with lighter lumber lying around. The t-shaped thing fit into my pants, ran up my back, elevating my spine by a couple feet, with the sleeves of one of my dad’s work shirts fitted on the crossbar and a head, possibly a pumpkin, jammed on top of it. They filled the shirt with straw, cut two eye holes in the front of it so I could see where I was walking. My upper 2×4 body was heavy. It must have swayed when I walked across the street and entered the throng of Freeland kids, cowboys, hobos, cheerleaders, monsters, pirates, witches, and ballerinas. I didn’t fool anyone. A girl walked by, looked me up and down, and said, “That’s that Bailey kid.” There were three prizes, all three equal. No runners-up. 

And I won. Pat handed me this little package wrapped in red cellophane, tied with a ribbon. It was heavy. Inside were five silver dollars. I should have saved them. I had a bank at home, filled quarters I got for a weekly allowance and a few one dollar bills. I unwrapped the package and dropped them, one by one, into my bank. They made a deep ringing sound, deeper than the  quarters made. I should have saved them for periodic reminders that I was a winner.