Snakeskin Boots

by Beau Burriola

Step… tip-toe, step, tip, toe,

For a seven-year-old kid, I’d already mastered the art of working the crowd for Grandpa. Our routine was simple: he would play the country music he was hired to play and I would go out into the crowd with my black Stetson hat and snakeskin boots to ask all the ladies in the place to dance.

As he played on stage with his guitar, bass pedals, an electronic drum beat machine and sometimes harmonica or tambourine, I would tear up the saw-dusted floor with those snakeskin boots as fearless as any seven-year-old kid could.

I could waltz, jitterbug, polka, tango, knew two different two-steps, a chicken dance, a bunny hop, and I could even accommodate that "back-and-forth" thing some old ladies could only manage. For the seven-year-old grandson of Valentino Burriola, there would be no classic country dance left untaught.

That is, until I grew up like any kid and became embarrassed of my family.

As I got older I came to resent that my family wasn’t a family of brilliant scientists, historians or judges. We weren't doctors or diplomats or businessmen. We were people that put on bright-colored western outfits to sing country music songs we didn’t write at private parties and nursing homes.

Right step, right step, left step, left step,

My childhood memories are always defined by old country songs Grandpa sang and the dance I was supposed do for each song. Whenever I hear "All My Exes" I think of a two-step and the girlfriends I had early on with our failed visits to the make out spot by the river. When I look at my empty wallet, I’ll remember an old song called "Back Pocket Money" where a man whines that he doesn’t have "one dollar" for a few nights of "runnin’ around." When the summer comes, I think of barefoot walks to "The Old Crawdad Hole" along the skipping beat.

Now that I’m older, I appreciate that the Burriola clan is a family of historians. Through hundreds of song titles tirelessly played by my Grandpa, my Dad, my uncles and even a few daring cousins today, I remember.

Through each line of each song, with each chord and each drum beat, I think of not only my own life story but remember how I felt at each moment in my life when I heard those songs, all to the sound of Grandpa’s voice and guitar.

Grandpa died five years ago. The ceremony was an enormous testament to his life: over 500 people gathered in a huge chapel in Texas to say their goodbyes. They were family, friends and a large number of them were just good old people who liked to hear good old country music.

In between the eulogies and statements of memories, old tape tracks of us when we were kids singing with Grandpa crackled out of the chapel speakers into the audience. I didn’t even know the tapes existed. Sitting in the pew I got sudden chills at the unexpected sound of a kid singing one of those old lady slow step songs:

"Grandpa… tell me bout the good old days…"

Left step, right step, left step, right step... 

Now that I’m grown up, and although it’s too late to tell him so, I will never forgotten my old snakeskin boots and the unique family history they represent.