Meet the Lites – Daddy

BudLiteGood morning, y’all. I tell you what, it’s so hot that Mulva bought a loaf of white bread over to the Walmart and it had turned to toast by the time she got home. I reckon we’ll be having BLT’s for lunch today with fresh tomatoes from the garden.

Today we’ll climb up the branches of the Lite family tree.We’re going to go up one level, to a stout limb called Daddy. Bocephus Buford Lite, or Bo Lite to his family and friends, came into this life in 1923. He was born on a farm with seven siblings, four boys and four girls in all. He was the baby boy, and by all accounts, spoiled rotten. He was clever and funny and used his talents to avoid as many chores as he could. He grew up during the Depression. The times were very hard, and everyone was supposed to pull their weight. Aunts and Uncles relate that Daddy did the minimal required to avoid a switchin’ and pursued his own interests.

When the CCC came to our area, Daddy took a job for some spending money. As it turns out, he learned some journeyman skills in construction. His CCC experience came in handy when he was drafted into the Navy in WWII and was placed in the SeaBees. Prior to leaving for the war, Daddy married Mom. He was eighteen and she was fourteen. Fourteen was young even by mountain standards, and they had to go over to South Carolina were it was legal. Daddy used to say, “we were going to Greenville, but got to Aiken and had to stop”. I was older before I got the joke, but it was a joke that has played out as a tragedy for all of us.

The SeaBees were the Navy version of the “C”onstruction “B”attalion. Their job was to provide infrastrucure to the U.S. occupying forces as the U.S. retook hostile territory. Driving a ‘dozer with a rifle in one hand was a skill Daddy had to learn for survival. Everyone is changed by war, and Daddy was no exception. Daddy brought back a vice from the war, and a constant reminder of where he had been. The vice was gambling, the reminder was a full torso tattoo of Buddha with Buddha and Daddy sharing the same belly button.

I don’t know how long that tattoo took, but it was done while the SeaBees were tasked with building infrastructure outside of Hiroshima. There were people who wanted to measure the effectiveness of the Atomic bomb, and the SeaBees built Quonset huts for them to live and work in. Now, from personal experience I know that a tattoo of that complexity would have taken some time, and there’s no telling how many rads of radiation Daddy got while he was stationed there. While I’m curious about exposing so many of our own servicemen to a known painful death sentence, I’m equally curious about what Daddy was saying by the Buddha tattoo.

Daddy wouldn’t talk about it, and maybe he was drunk the whole time and doesn’t remember. It does seem to me like he could have gotten a smaller tat, and maybe bought a little Buddha statue for the mantle. Anyway, Bo Lite came back home, and brought with him two constant reminders of WWII. For the rest of his life, Daddy was addicted to gambling. The tattoo that prompted some folks to call him Buddha behind his back, was also a sign that Daddy was not “right”, when he came back home.

Well, I feel like I been chewed up and spit out. All of this remembering is painful. I’m gonna head back over to Number Two before Mulva sends out a search party. We’ll catch up with Daddy tomorrow.


Meet the Lites – Bud Jr. and Melody

BudLiteGood morning, y’all. I don’t know how hot it is where you are, but at midnight it was 90 degrees on the big Coca Cola thermometer outside of the Rec Room. During the day it was hotter than two cats mating in a burlap bag. I don’t know whether to believe in Global Warming or not, but I sure do believe in Georgia Warming.

It’s time to introduce you to the “Lites” of my life, Bud Junior and Melody. I will use this opportunity to tell them publicly I’m sorry for all of the shenanigans and the pain they’ve had to endure. In truth, I don’t know that anyone is reading these postings but my parole officer and my shrink, but just in case anyone wanders over here and sees their name mentioned, I thought I’d get the amends out of the way.

Bud was born Buford Forrest Lite Junior in 1970. He was a big boy, 8 pounds and 14 ounces and he had all of his parts. Shortly after his birth, I got an all expense paid Southeast Asia vacation, courtesy of Uncle Sam. When I returned, Bud Jr. had changed a lot. Truth be told, we both had. I think we tried to do everything as “normal” as we could for Bud. He went to regular school, not home-schooled like the Bible Thumpers. To give him an “international exposure”, we drove him to Gainesville so that he could play soccer.

After I got back from Southeast Asia, I had a lot of trouble sleeping. I watched a lot of TV, at all hours. We had this big satellite dish that pulled in stations from all over the world, and I was able to watch sports 24 hours a day. As fate would have it, I happened on a soccer match one time during one of my all night marathons. I watched this one player fly into an opponent and send him tumbling. Rather than take advantage of the situation, the attacking team kicked the ball out of bounds. The “out of bounds” allowed the attacking team’s opponent to get help during the time out. I was shocked. I guess I’d never seen sportsmanship before. It made such an impression on me that we took little Bud to soccer instead of PeeWee football.

The family took constant egging for our pursuit of a “furen” sport, but we got the last laugh when Bud went off to Athens to do the kicking for my beloved Bulldogs. He did real fine at UGA, and we were happy to have the Athletic Department pay for his degree in Criminal Justice. Sadly, I believe Bud got his interest in criminal justice from an overexposure to his Dad’s hijinks. I’m proud to say he’s the Chief of Police here in our community of Nunsuch, and still hopes to join the FBI one day. His lovely wife Crystal gave birth to Trey last year and they all seem to be as happy as ticks on a dog.

My beautiful daughter Melody was born in 1976 and weighed in at 6 pounds and 4 ounces. She inherited her Mom’s good looks and her Dad’s temperament. The comedian Chris Rock once opined, ‘If you can keep your son off the pipe and your daughter off the pole, you’re ahead of the game.’ We’re batting  .500. Melody danced professionally for thirty years before retiring a few years back. It’s been a very, very hard life for her. She never married and never really seemed to have any steady boyfriends, even though she’s the prettiest girl in these parts. She hasn’t come by to see me since my release, but I’m hoping she’ll come by soon. I’ve got some amends to make, and a lot of the them are for Melody. She deserved so much better.


Meet the Lites – Mulva

BudLiteGood morning, y’all. I’ve been busier than a one-legged cat in a sandbox. Things here at TackyToo have been breaking faster than I can get to them. The fellow that gave me this job was so cheap he wouldn’t pay ten cents to see Jesus on a trampoline. We’ll talk more about Daddy another time.

As promised, today we’ll start talking about the ones most effected by my behavior, my family. My immediate family consists of my lovely wife of forty years, Mulva Paine Lite, my son, Buford Forrest Lite Jr., and my daughter, Melody Scarlett Lite. This year we were blessed with my grandson Bud the 3rd, or Trey as I call him. He’s cuter than a speckled pup.

Mulva and I live in a very small community in the North Georgia mountains. We have known each other since grade school. With the brief exception of my sojourn to the University in Athens, and my time in the service, we’ve always been by each other’s side. We are like the famous “two peas in a pod”.

Mulva was always the prettiest girl in class, always voted Best or Most of whatever the title entailed. Her star was always destined to out shine mine, but in our Senior year of high school, her momma took sick. After graduation, Mulva stayed behind to care for her family while I went on to Athens. The separation lasted exactly two quarters. My “contempt for authority” issues were already starting to alter my path and options. I was given the opportunity to reapply after a quarter off, but as life will have it, Mulva and I decided that we didn’t want to suffer through another separation.

We were married and settled in with Mulva’s family. It wasn’t long before Best Personality became Best Mom, and Mulva’s college dreams became ether. As it turned out, my college dreams vaporized too as I was reclassified 1A by my draft board. I’ll never forget the day I joined the service; four of us went in that day, me and the three Marines that drug me off of the porch.

Volumes have been written about the high intellect man frustrated by chance; women, not so much. Mulva’s brothers, ‘Les’ter and Moore became doctors. Mulva was smarter than either of those porch monkeys. Mulva could have been anything she wanted, but the circumstances and the times placed her on a different path. Mulva took everything that life threw her and made it better. She could make chicken salad out of chicken crap. Mulva bore her lot with grace and dignity, right up to her mid-forties. Both kids were out of the house living on their own when Mulva hit “the change”.

One of the acronyms for PMS is “Pardon Me Sybil”. It takes its humor from the book “Sybil”, whose main character suffered from multiple personalities. Mulva’s version of the change vacillated between “Pardon Me Sybil”, “Pardon My Sobbing” and “Pass My Shotgun”. Our forties and fifties passed as we adjusted our body chemistries to seek a maintenance level of medication that was acceptable to all. As we slid into our sixties we had our routines down pat. We were like the proverbial two ships passing in the night. Like the two ships in the night, no damage was done unless we passed too close to one another.

I had the Bulldogs, and Mulva had shopping, and we shared the exploits of Bud Jr. and Melody. I guess any marginally trained psychologist would have pilloried our life, but we had found a peace. At least until the squib.


Crime and Punishment II

BudLiteGood morning, y’all. It’s so quiet tonight you could hear a cricket break wind. I don’t know if this sobriety thing is sharpening my senses or not, but I am aware of the old adage that a girl that is a 6 at 6PM is always a 10 at 10PM. Sometimes less clarity is a good thing.

Speaking of clarity, I mentioned before that the last thing I remember from the night of the 29th was going into the backseat of a cruiser. I awoke in the drunk tank in the Union county jail. As I admired my form fitting, stylishly tailored jumpsuit, I surveyed the concrete cell with four sets of bunk beds and an open air toilet. Arraignment was set for 11AM, a long time to hold your water. Shy bladder qualifies as cruel and unusual punishment in my opinion.

At the arraignment, Judge “Bald and Rude” read the charges. I was quick to notice that the unique item in this go round was a charge of property destruction in the amount of $1,500. The goes-without-saying charge of, “leaving the scene of an accident”, bumped my worst day ever into a new category, felony. According to eye witnesses, I left the parking lot of the Double Shot Liquor and Gun Store and drove straight across the highway to the Busy Bee Cafe. The Busy Bee Cafe had just that week purchased a large bumblebee to act as their logo, kind of like a Shoney’s Big Boy.

Accounts vary as to how many times I backed back and forth over the bumblebee after knocking him free from its mooring. By all accounts, I didn’t leave until the job was thoroughly done. My work finished, I headed off into the night, crossing county lines and negotiating treacherous mountain roads until my eventual rendezvous with the local constabulary. I recall none of these actions.

Now, I’m not going to make light of the vehicular homicide of a fiberglass bee. I am thinking that if I can get a jury trial, the Georgia faithful will undoubtedly set me free. According to my attorney, Adam Dimwit, my wife Mulva was not remotely interested in going my bail. Mulva was quoted as saying, “he can rot in jail until he rots in hell”. I guess the bloom has gone off the rose.

To summarize, rather than waiting a year for a court date, we took what they were offering. I spent a little over six months in County, did regular psychiatrist evaluations and developed a court approved wellness plan for my probation. I paid my fines, made restitution to the Busy Bee Cafe, and got fitted for a charming piece of electronic jewelry. All and all, it’s a better deal than rotting in jail, and the hereafter. Big bonus, I learned how to setup this website.

Paying my debt to my family is a little harder. Mulva is still madder than a wet hen. My kids, Bud Jr, and Melody have been ignoring me since their teens. I’m not sure they’ve noticed a change. Thank God Bud III, or Trey as I call him, is too young to know what’s going on. We’ll talk more about family tomorrow.


Crime and Punishment


Good morning y’all. Looks like I’ve found a sweet spot in the time to do my daily posting. Seems that posting after midnight lessens my anxiety in sharing the community computer and reduces my homicidal tendencies. Now that my sleep pattern is altered by sobriety, I seem to have more day. Not that a caged rat needs any more hours in a day.

As promised, today I’ll detail the events that led up to my last incarceration. It started with a squib, or perhaps ended with a squib, depending on your point of view. On November 29th, 2014, my beloved Georgia Bulldogs were playing the Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets in our final home game of the season. The game was far too close, resulting in more consumables being consumed than usual. As we went up 24-21 with 18 seconds left in overtime, our coach decided to squib kick to the Gnats, resulting in excellent field position for the self-same Gnats. The Gnats score and we lose 30-24 in a game that should not have been close. The shock of the loss is something akin to going through the windshield at 70 miles per hour; the only treatment prescribed is self induced coma.

Unfortunately, all of the coma inducing medicines had already been consumed, necessitating a trip to the closest purveyor of distilled spirits. As luck would have it, I live in a dry county, surrounded by dry counties. The closest store is over a winding mountain road that is so crooked you think you’re seeing your own tail lights ahead of you. My rage and fury guided me safely to the Double Shot Liquor and Gun Store. My time spent in the parking lot self medicating, while listening to the post game wrap up, got me closer to the coma needed to stop the constant replay of my Dawgs embarrassment in my head.

The trip back is forgotten except for suddenly being surrounded by the flashing lights of different colored police cars, obviously some sort of multi-jurisdictional issue. I remember one officer, who, if he’d been six inches taller would have been perfectly round, going on and on about a “failure to maintain a lane”. I recollect telling him that whichever lane I was in, was the lane I was maintaining. The last thing I recall was hollering, “hey, that’s mine”, as they were pushing my head down into the backseat of the patrol car. Officer Round was confiscating my bottle from the front seat, and I didn’t want there to be any confusion about ownership.

Well, as my dear departed Daddy, Bocephus Lite used to say, “I’m as tired as a fly in a nudist colony”, so we’ll continue my tale of woe tomorrow.


Early Release


‘I’m Baa-aack!’ Since an appointed bed time was not part of my parole, I decided to take advantage of my park custodian position here at TackyToo to open up the Rec Room to do my daily post. The requirement is I post every day, there was nothing said about what time of day.

Before we discuss the events behind why I’m now a blogger, I probably should discuss the result that I, my family, and the court system, wants my blog to achieve. Apparently I have what is referred to as “anger management issues”, coupled with a “contempt for authority”. The judge, and a couple of shrinks, felt that by forcing me to release a little steam daily, I would avoid the seismic eruptions of the past. We’ll see.

Judge Baldwin Rood decided to give me one last chance, even after me snickering “Bald and Rude” when he was introduced to the court. Judge Rood chose to be the bigger man and didn’t add a contempt charge to my laundry list of crimes. Good for me.

In exchange for daily entries in a diary, more often if needed, regular AA meetings, and wearing an awkward piece of jewelry that beeps when I get more than 100 feet from my house, I avoid 2-5 years in the custody of the state of Georgia. Sweet. For all of those of you who think that three hots and a cot is an easy row to hoe, let me share with you what my public defender told me. “In twenty two years I’ve never defended anyone who didn’t prefer freedom to jail”. In spite of the fact that Mulva and I clearly needed some quality time apart, house arrest was definitely the way to go.

Now, almost eight months after the incident, I can see how releasing my feelings to the cosmos and getting the resulting feedback could help me gain perspective on my life, my family, and even my assorted addictions. I sense that breaking my pattern of behavior is necessary to keeping this old man from spending his final days in jail. Maybe this high IQ these shrinks say I’ve got will get used for something better than figuring point spreads, who knows?

 Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit, it’s 2AM. Guess I’ll head back over to Number Two and see what kind of reaction I get from Mrs. Lite seeing me come back in after midnight sober. Could be a hoot.

Speaking of the lovely Mrs. Lite, I know it ain’t been easy, so I’m going to let Willie do my speaking for me:


Rec Room


 “Hello World” from the Rec Room here at the TackyToo Trailer Park. We’re only allowed fifteen minutes at a time on the community computer, so, I’ve got to type fast to tell my story. The sign up list for the computer is a mile long.

First, I must apologize for the photo, but it’s the only photo of me left around here after my wife Mulva pitched a hissy fit after my last arrest. It’s a pretty good photo, as far as booking photos go. I promise to post a new one when I’m allowed more than 100 feet from my trailer. Fortunately, I live in lot Number Two, which is just next door to the Rec room. Number Two at TackyToo is how I give my address to people giving me a ride home. It’s an accurate description in more ways than one.

The terms of my most recent release are an attempt to address my problem’s “root core”, as opposed to dealing with just my behavior. An ankle monitor and writing down my “feelings” for a year, while living outside of the county jail, seemed like a very doable solution to me. In fact, you might say I’m chopping tall cotton. Since we already had an AA chapter here at TackyToo, I’ll be able to attend my court ordered meetings without imposing on family or friends for transport.

The silver lining to my most recent cloud is being released from the weekly trip to Walmart with Mulva on Saturday and attending services at The Full Gospel Original Church of God on Sunday. Now, it’s true that both events are not without amusement, but I’ve got Mulva’s promise to document any mishandling of the snakes at the church. Any Blue Light Special where people get trampled, or other extraordinary stuff, and Mulva will be my eyes and ears.

Well, the line is growing longer and longer behind me. Since consideration for others is in my top ten areas of personal improvement, I’ll sign off before I lose my cool. Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, I’ll be back soon.

I’ll leave you with a song to keep you humming along during your day. This one says it all for me: