Good 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.