Froggy Bottoms

He sits at the head of the long oak table, my mother flanking him on his right, me on the left, and throws his head back in a hearty belly laugh. Despite the height of the thirty foot ceiling above us, his laughter shakes the rafters and rumbles through the house, filling it with warmth, with mirth. He is larger than life, my grandfather. He has lived so many different lives, has experienced so much more life than most could even dream of. He has been, and can be, so many different men. A cowboy, an outlaw, a hero, a bandit, a horse thief, a crooner, a two-stepper, a child comforter, a prankster, a side splitter, a story weaver. He moves from one to another fluidly. Sometimes he is more than one, many at once.

It is the story weaver who makes his appearance now. He has a title for the book, he says. Our book, the one we both want me to write. About him. About all of his fabulous, dangerous, adventurous lives. About all of those wonderful, devilish, delicious men he has been, and still is. The book will be called Froggy Bottoms, he says. He asks if he's ever told me about Froggy Bottoms. He has not. And so the tale commences.

From the time that he was a young boy, my grandfather adored Ike. Ike was a black man, a shoeshine "boy". He was friends with every one in town, but like most people, he had a particular fondness for "missah Mahvin" (as he addressed my grandfather). Ike was one of few "colored folk" that lived in the Rio Grande Valley, a place that straddles the divide between two worlds, Texas and Mexico, and as a result has a unique flavor all its own. Ike and "missah Mahvin" were fast friends, and Ike tried his best to warn "missah Mahvin" away from Froggy Bottoms. But there were many adventures to be had in Froggy Bottoms. People to meet. Fun to be had. Strange sights to see.

There were even a few places in Froggy Bottoms where a boy might get into trouble. Like the old brothel. Oh, "missah Mahvin" never actually set foot in the brothel, no, but he and his friends liked to drive down to Froggy Bottoms and park outside the brothel to "hear the colored ladies talk their deep, rich, southern talk." Of course, they only ever viewed these women as ladies, and of course all they ever did was talk to them. The ladies would come outside and beckon with wide smiles and wide arms, offering to "take good care of such handsome young fellas." The boys would grin and make their best attempts to banter back before speeding away, their courage all used up.

One particular night, while several of "missah Mahvin's" friends hung out the passenger side of the car trying to get a better look, a huge, dark shape suddenly appeared outside the driver's window. Time seemed to slow, as if it took hours for the tall frame to bend all the way down and lean in to face "missah Mahvin" who was driving the car. The giant inquired in a thunderous voice just what these boys were doing out here so late at night, and bothering these nice ladies. Suddenly time sped up, and "missah Mahvin" has never moved so fast as he did when he put that car in gear and hightailed it out of there.

Once again, my grandfather's colossal laugh bounces and echoes around the room. He grabs my arm with one huge hand, a working man's hand that can crush or comfort with a touch. He pulls me in close and plants a kiss on my temple before the giggling begins again. The resounding hee-hee-hee-hee of his laugh as he leans back and gives himself over to the joy of living. Then he quiets and leans forward intently, placing one huge hand on his knee and the other on the table in front of him. And he begins to spin another magical tale...