Bluesburge Annual produce competition

“Hello, father Joe”.
“Hello, father Paul”.
“Just wanted to stop by to inform you that the wine cellar needs to be cleaned”.
“I can get to it next Friday or Saturday, no problem at all”.
“I am afraid it can’t wait that long; I was hoping you could get it done by tonight”.
“But I can’t do it today, Paul; you know I have this arrangement with Mr. Ken, the local Boy Scout group leader, to help him with his fishing trip. I can’t cancel on him this very last minute; he is counting on me being there”.
“That’s no problem, father Sam can fill in for you. He is an excellent fisher man-not that you are not”.
“Why can’t he clean the cellar?”
Father Joe’s voiced rose to a threatening pitch that hinted at a something serious.
“Lower your got dam voice, there is no reason for this childish behavior. You are not going, father Sam is, end of story. I hope to find the cellar clean by tonight. And don’t mean to bring up old stuff here, but, really, what the hell you were thinking publishing a paper criticizing the churches stance on homosexuality. Really, what the hell were you thinking? I know the church looked the other way, but I want to make it clear to you that radical crazy behavior would not be tolerated here-not under my watch. If this continues I will see to it that this time you don’t just get transferred. That’s not a threat. Good day.”

Though he realized the injustice, his sanity was more important to him, so he decided to clean and forget. Days passed with little interaction between the two men. Then on a beautiful Saturday afternoon everything changed.

To a chorus of irritatingly insistent piercing tones, the rusted old hinges labored to a gaping halt. The sounds drifted on the warm afternoon air, rousing father Joe from his busy work in the garden. A gray bearded man with noticeable thickness around the stomach exited onto the well manicured back lard. His long brown gown swept the floor, flopping loudly like a poor swimmer flailing in too deep waters, creating a small wave of dust that trailed closely behind.

Dangling from his belt, a long black bead necklace with silver plated cross dribbled up and down his thigh as he walked. Around the corner, father Joe was hard at work. With knees firmly anchored on the ground and eyes planted on the task at hand, his expert hands were busy making precise cuts into the earth that coxed watermelons loose from it. Guided by a serious fear of destroying his chances of winning the produce competition, the harvesting stage required a certain type of expertise and precision that he fortunately had mastered. The perfect harvest, if there was ever such a thing was his motivation. With the competition only days away any mistake, no mater how small, would be unfixable. Having heard the screams of the old hinges, anxiety got the best of him as he curiously waited for figures and voices. The flopping sounds grew louder and louder. His eyes studied attentively the corner for figures and motions. For the first time this day, he noticed the strong perfume emanating from the flowers blooming close by. From around the wall that hide one side of the yard from where the garden was located, father Paul emerged.

“Afternoon father Paul” he said nervously as he cupped loose dirt from his thighs”.
“Afternoon father Joe”
“How are you this beautiful afternoon?”
“Alright-you?”
“Glad you are doing fine. Just wanted to stop by to remind you that the back pews in the sanctuary are in desperate need of some repairs.”
“I will take care of them as soon as I am done here.”
“Thanks father Joe; I will appreciate that very much. Oh yeah, one more thing, I also wanted to see if you could stop by my office sometime, I have some important stuff to discuss with you.”

With that said, father Paul swiftly disappeared once more around the corner leaving father Joe alone as he struggled to stay afloat in the deep silence of the yard.


Since moving into the perish about five years ago, not much had changed for father Joe. From his first day at the perish, he noticed that all the difficult tasks were being deliberately reserved for him. The other members took turns hosting community bible studies while his responsibilities included working in the garden, tending to the chicken and goat. Briefly, with his mind overtaken by pessimism, defiant thoughts flashed across his mind, but fear restored contentment quickly. Thoughts about dealing a blow to injustice faded as quickly as they had materialized.

Days latter, while in his apartment on account of a heavy rainstorm, he contemplated possible ways of solving his difficult dilemma. Somehow, the weather mirrored how he felt inside, uninspired and empty of hope. He struggled to stay afloat in the darkness of his own creation. Somehow he hungered for the sounds of human beings, not particularly a caring voice, but any sound to pull him from the quicksand of self-doubt. Any human sound. However, absent from the streets, the chaotic sounds he hungered for had vanished, gone, replaced by the slap and clap of thunder. Rain poured vigorously, saturating the town with several inches. From inside his third floor apartment, father Joe studied the intermittent explosion of rain drops on his window sill. Now was as good as any other time to meet with father Paul to discuss the pressing issue on his mind.

For a few moments, father Joe admired the rain, temporarily loosing himself in the slow crawl of raindrops on his window.
Thirty three years old and still managing to extract fun from the most childish of escapades. There was no longer any busy work to relieve him of his boredom; after thirty of forty rearrangements, his books were in perfect alphabetical order. Only the raindrops held any promise. Focusing, with his mind, he tried to manipulate the movements of the drops and rejoiced when one obeyed and snaked the specific course he had imagined.

Just a few doors down from his was father Paul’s office. Partially, he struggle with the idea of the visit, but his own prison house of silence provided the incentive he needed. Driven by a deep seated need to escape, he walked over to father Paul’s office.

Outside the office, with his fingers hovering over the door he struggled to allow his fingers to knock. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity he did.

“Hello, father Joe”
“Come on in.”
“Thanks father Paul, thanks for the invitation”
His eyes wondered around the office. Even though he had been in the perish for five years, it was his first time in father Paul’s office.

A collection of enlarged photographs of Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr. and mother Theresa covered a majority of the wall space, while large African influenced and Asian influence masks covered the remaining wall space. On his desk, different flutes from different Native American tribes occupied some of the space. Two large book shelves overflowing with books stood against the east and west walls.

“Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about this year’s produce competition. I was hoping that you would be kind enough to allow father Sam to enter the competition with your watermelons. I know I am probably getting ahead of my self here, but I already told father Sam that it would not be a problem. I met with the other perish members yesterday, and we all agreed that the image of the perish might be effective in the event you were to enter the competition again this year. After all, the last thing we want is for the community to think that winning is all we care about.”

“With all due respect father Paul, I seriously doubt that anyone in the community will interpret my involvement in that manner. Plus, it is a lot to ask of me, especially since you know how much the competition means to me. This is unfair-I really don’t understand why you waited until the last moment to inform me of your decision anyways. Last time I checked, I thought I was part of the perish as well. I thought my voice is just as important as the other members. What hurts the most is discovering that an important decision was made that concerned me without my input.”
With that father Joe walked to the door and paused-

“Even if you wanted to do this, I don’t understand why you waited this long to tell me. Besides any one that knows Sam knows that he hates farming and gardening-this makes no sense. “

“I am terribly sorry, but I consider this matter solved. Father Joe. I expect you to provide everything father Sam needs for the competition.”

The Bluesburge annual produce competition was the biggest celebration in Bluesburge Iowa every year. The population size usually increased to two and three times its normal size to accommodate out of town visitors and competitors. Fatima, a local grocery owner started the competition in the late 1960’s as a way of honoring her father’s memory. Her father, a well respected local mechanic for decades who enjoyed gardening had lost his life to cancer. The prizes for the winner of the competition ranged from a year’s supply of gardening equipment to a year’s supply of free cookies and milk from the bakery.


As defending champion, father Joe was expected to defend his crown. It would certainly appear strange if he were to declare himself ineligible, especially after he gave his word to Fatima that he was going to be defending his crown. They had even joked about his chances at repeating. His powerful build was difficult to miss; surely a six foot six bearded man would be difficult to miss, especially if he was the object of a search. He had to enter the competition; he could not go back on his promises. Now it appears as if father Paul was determined not to allow him the opportunity.
.

The watermelons were insignificant as far as he was concern. What was of importance now was the grievous injustice done to him. Worse yet, he had done absolutely nothing to deserve such unfair treatment. Not only was he going to enter, he was going to win the competition as well.

On the morning of his competition, the sun he wanted so badly was plastered all over the blue sky with all its golden brilliance. He could not have created such a perfect temperature even if he tried his best. With father Paul occupied with church business, he loaded his prized watermelons into a green duffle bag and clandestinely slipped out of the compound.

He hurried across the parking lot; his long legs swallowing up the two blocks that separated his perish from the parking lot to where the competition was being held.

“Hey Father, I was beginning to think that you were not going to make it. That must be your prized watermelons”. Fatima said.

“Oh yeah, Fatima, had a few minor interruptions before I came, but its ok now, hope I can still enter the competition”.
“Of course father, I would not want to answer to the big guy upstairs for not allowing you to enter the competition”.
Both smiled as father Joe made his way to the judges table.

The judges table was loaded with all sorts of fruits and vegetables, some regular everyday grocery items, like carrots, grapes and oranges, but others rare, like pears and yams.

Difficult competition this year, the words floated across the surface of his mind.
With his watermelons safely on the table, the judges started their routines.

John, the local horticulturist and Barbara the owner of the ice crème stand were the designated co- judges this year. Side by side, with hands hovering over clip boards they walked parallel to the table. All the contestants watched in silence as the judges inspected all the items, squeezing, poking and holding some to the searching sunlight. The contestants studied the faces of the judges for any signs, subtle or obvious, that may suggest favorable treatment. Several agonizing minuets passed as the judges deliberated. Father Joe could not help but to say a little prayer for his chances.

Fatima announced that the judges had reached a decision. Before she could announce the prize Father Paul interrupted.

“I am terribly sorry ladies and gentlemen but I have to interrupt. This won’t take but a minute or two. You see, father Joe, illegally entered an item into the competition that belonged to father Sam. The watermelons he entered and claimed were his were actually father Sam’s. Overtaken by pride and determined to win, he stole the melons from the garden and entered them under his name. I am terribly sorry, but father Joe is not deserving of any prizes this afternoon”.

“Hello, my name is London and I am the manager of the gardening section at Fatima’s mart. Father Paul, your accusation would have been more credible if I were not the one who sold the seeds to father Joe. In all my years working in the gardening section of the mart, I have never seen father Sam- Not even once. Also, as we are the only store within 160 miles that sell seedless watermelon seeds, I also find it difficult that anyone in their right mind would drive 160 miles to get seedless watermelon seeds when they can get them here in town”.

Jeers and bows developed in the crowd. The sound swelled and like a giant wave washed over and overtook all those present.
Liar, liar, you are an embarrassment to God.
Liar, Liar you are an embarrassment to God
Liar, Liar you are an embarrassment to God.