i would

I walked behind my brother who was drenched by darkness, but for faint stars, in the summer night. He walked ahead, flashlight in hand. In his left he carried a bamboo shaft, near 4 feet in length. A thin rope for quick recovery, tied to its blunt end, the other to his right hand’s wrist.

His flashlight flashed along the canal’s bank, searching for the mysterious bullfrogs. These bug eyed creatures, whose slick, cold skin, grey under moonlight, mottled with green by sunlight, intrigued me. I hoped for a catch.

Lorenzo, motioned for me to hang back with his extended, lowered left arm. His right hand carried the 3 pronged trident by which to pierce and snare frogs. Each point was barbed, like a fish hook.

The bullfrogs’ deep bellows pervaded the night. He stopped pointing with his flashlight at the canal bank’s edge at which the bellows ceased. He held flashlight in tandem, with clenched fist on the trident spear, illuminating aquatic weeds.

There, the splotched apex of light suspended swirling particles of illuminated dust. And there rested a bullfrog; a shocking excitement to my eyes. The creature lay with its eyes bright, pupils glowing, stunned. Like the proverbial deer caught in headlights, oblivious to the impending danger, despite it sensing something was amiss. It waited, based on it’s silence, no doubt induced by the presence of the beam of light come out of darkness.

My brother, transferred the flashlight to his other hand, flexed back his right arm and hurled the shaft at his target. It was my cue to run to his side unrestricted. He handed me the light.

“Keep it on the frog!” He muttered fiercely.

He hurled the spear and recovered it with its thin rope.

Filled with excitement, I watched Lorenzo retrieve the catch by pulling on the rope. I pointed the light at the shaft’s trident wondering if he’d made his target.

He had. For there at trident’s end hung the full form of a large bullfrog.

“Here, carry it by its hind legs.”

I was filled with pride at this assignment.

We repeated the venture. Him walking ahead with trident and flashlight. Me, walking behind 10 paces, my frog in hand, its skin cold, dangling upside down.

Up the canal bank lived an old African American man in a makeshift shed. Its roof no more than 6 feet off the ground, covered with green composite sheathing. The length of this sad structure was about 8 to 10 feet.

We delivered the frog.

He greeted us, from within.

“I see ya got ’on. C’mon in parn’er.

We stepped in, downward about a foot or two. The floor was humid dirt. His home’s proximity was on the lee side of the canal bank, making the soil moist. It was dark and musty.

I’d seen this makeshift shed by day, its perimeter surrounded by tall grasses, cattails and weeds. He’d lived here for years. I never asked myself at that age of 7, what might have been unusual about his living conditions or what his livelihood might have been. I only knew that he lived here separated from all other human beings and their shelters, adjacent to a dilapidated cattle pen.

He had a dented kerosine lantern lit, Its stack askew. An ancient kerosine stove sat on a dark ledge, its black iron reflected the dim stars’ light on porcelain protruding knobs. His bed was his couch, as it was his table. It was a tubular steel frame covered by an army blanket, I surmised made of mule hair. Itchy, no doubt, like the one at home.

“It’s a big on’, . . . et fresh?”

“Just caught it,” answered my brother.

“Le’s see et.”

He grabbed it and held it up to his face.

“It’s a big on’, I’ll gi’ya 25 cents, ay?”

Lorenzo said, “yeah, an’ I’ll git you more.”

“Them’s good frog legs man! Ya do dat, I’m alays ere.”

Thinking back I wonder about him, the man who lived destitute and alone, so lonely, forlorn, like forsaken. I wonder what his livlihood was. What brought him to live where he was. He lived in dire poverty.

He was friendly and seemed very happy.

I wondered if he was an outcast in having difficulty finding employment. Maybe he was the cattle pen’s care keeper. Or, maybe he was just someone who wanted to live off the grid, so to speak. It was the 1950′s and he appeared to be 70 or so years of age. Maybe he was a victim of prejudice.

I only know now, 2019, that he was a human being. No doubt he has passed on. I only now know that although I didn’t really know him, that i wish I could meet him from an adult’s viewpoint and talk with him. I would, if possible give him a lot of my time. I would bring him regular meals. I would share my love with him in these kinds of ways. And, if there were any wrong committed against him, if he were healing from any wounds, I would bring him spiritual salve and tell him all about Jesus Christ.

But maybe he’d probably have told me about the Lord himself with no room at the inn for him either.