Authorial Magazine - BookExpo + BookCon 2019 Edition

A Diamond in
the Rough
A character sketch by Carolyn Bourns
Lee and I had been invited to Uncle
Merle and Aunt Velma’s home in
Clear Lake to go frog gigging. I had no
idea what that might entail, but in my
youthful desire to impress my future
husband and in-laws, I was willing to
give anything a try.
On the two-hour trip Lee tried to
prepare me. His sweet sad eyes and
gentle manner expressed his love for
the man I was about to meet. Uncle
Merle, although not a blood relative, was
the only father Lee had known. Merle
Croy had grown up in Tennessee and
Arkansas, working as a fire boss in the
coal mines. His job was to go down into
the mine first to determine whether or
not it was safe for the men to follow—
sort of the human canary. When he
became a union organizer trying to
get better conditions for the miners,
he was so exuberant in his mission, he
was proud to declare, “They blackballed
me in forty states!” Unable to get work,
Merle loaded his family into his truck
and set out for California.
As we entered the Croy’s modest onebedroom
trailer, Aunt Velma stood to
greet us. Her tall raw-boned appearance
was reminiscent of the farmwife in
Grant Wood’s American Gothic.
“Merle’s went to town to pick up ‘a
mickey.’ He’ll be back soon,” she said.
“Who’s Mickey?” I asked my
fiancé quietly.
Lee looked down at his feet. Aunt
Velma snorted, patted my hand and
said I would get to know mickey very
well, if I planned to become part of the
family. A mickey, I was soon to discover,
was a half pint of whiskey kept in Uncle
Merle’s back pocket at all times.
We had just been seated at a small
chrome and Formica dinette table
overlooking the street, when a battered
pickup came to a grinding halt out front.
I watched as the door flew open and
out lunged an enormous bald-headed
man. He held the truck door open with
a beefy hand and ushered two adorable
miniature poodle dogs out onto the
driveway. The tiny pups trotted adoringly
along behind as Uncle Merle bolted
through the gate, took three strides to
the front door and threw it open.
“Hell, Buster!” he bellowed. “You here
already with the li’l gal you been tellin’
us so much about?”
The room shrunk noticeably as Uncle
Merle loomed over me. Terrified, I stood
to meet the bull of a man who, although
well past his prime, still stood some sixfeet-two
and easily tipped the scales well
above 250 pounds. He wore bib overalls,
a white T-shirt and a Giants’ baseball
cap. As he vigorously pumped my hand,
I could feel his appraising gaze sizing
me up. I finally summoned the courage
to look up into his ruddy face and
round blue eyes. A deep intelligence and
understanding shone through in stark
contrast to his outward gruffness.
“Welcome, Little Lady,” he said.
“Frog giggin’ should be mighty
entertainin’ tonight.”
AUTHORS PRESS
Well, the dinner dishes were done, the
outboard loaded and the four intrepid
frog killers pushed off from the Lucerne
dock at about 8:00 that summer evening.
We made our way to the sloughs at
the far end of Clear Lake. By the time
we got to frog gigging territory it was
dark, which was all part of the plan. If
you have a boat, it seems that not much
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