Frank was a drunk and...

a liar and other unpleasant things besides. But you couldn't dislike him.

He cheated at cards when we played for dimes and quarters.

We all stole corn - "roastin' ears" as my Grandfather called them - from the fields in the river bottoms. We took what we needed for a meal to go with a mess of channel catfish. Except for Frank. He didn't take a dozen, he filled up the trunk of his car. It had to go to waste.

He'd bring 3 beers, drink ten of someone else's, and put nine more in his cooler when he left - so he'd have an even dozen.

Or he'd leave his completely full cooler in his car, and deny he had any at all.

He'd seine every living creature out of any "bait pond" he could find, filling five-gallon bucket after bucket with bait - just to let it die. The bait pond would be ruined for a year for all of us. We'd never share the location of any pond we wanted to continue to use.

He was a bastard in every sense I can remember.

But we liked him. As a kid, I spent innumerable Sundays playing poker, spinning yarns and running trot lines with Frank.

He was always welcome. My Grandfather welcomed everyone. Frank came every Sunday.

I mostly remember
                        how much
                I liked
that old bastard.