Momma, Can You Hear Me?

By Ty Keenum

Families are our greatest source of refuge, even though we sometimes need to seek refuge from them.
Bud was certain that if the leaves fell in the fall his Georgia Bulldogs would valiantly take the gridiron and make him proud. He was equally as certain that his maternal family meant him harm, physically and emotionally. Even though Bud had learned at an early age that family was not a team sport, this last series of events threatened Bud's relationships with the people he cared the most about, his own family.
Ride shotgun with Bud in his Pontiac Smokey and the Bandit Edition Trans Am as he navigates through the fog of aging and special interest to attain the rewards of his quest, sobriety and sanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sandy Springs Press
• Release date: Mar 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9798989301928

Book preview

Rec Room

Posted on 16 July 2015, 10:49 a.m.

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ello, world! If you haven’t guessed already, I am new to this sport of blogging. It doesn’t take a Kreskin to see that a lot of logistical issues will need to be resolved. My foggy memory and arthritic fingers will be just a couple of them.

Currently, we’re allowed fifteen minutes at a time on the community computer. This means that when I sit down, I’ve got to type fast to tell my daily story. The sign-up list for the computer here in the rec room at the TackyToo Trailer Park is always a mile long.

Apologies for the lack of a photo. I know all blogs are supposed to have a photo so the reader can relate better to the person doing the talking. Sadly, there is but one photo of me available after my wife, Mulva, pitched what can be best described as a monumental hissy fit. Mulva’s fit of destruction was a result of my last arrest, which we’ll get into later.

To give you a mental image of me, think of Nick Nolte in the movie A Walk In The Woods. My booking photo looks a lot like Nolte’s booking photo, in the Hawaiian shirt. You might say that I’m not really at my best in the photo. I sure don’t want this photo used for my obituary in the Blairsville Times when that time comes. I promise I’ll post a photo representative of the new me when I’m allowed more than a hundred feet from my trailer.

Fortunately, I live in lot Number 2, which is just across the driveway from the rec room. Number 2 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 release from my most recent incarceration include attempts to address my problem’s root core, as opposed to just dealing with my behavior. Wearing an ankle monitor and writing down my feelings for a year allow me to live outside of the county jail. It seems 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 dark cloud is being released from the weekly trip to Walmart with Mulva on Friday and attending services at The Full Gospel Original Church of God on Sunday. Now, it’s true that both events are not without amusement. 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 at the Walmart, 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. I promise to return soon. The courts say I’ve got to.

Early Release

Posted on 17 July 2015, 02:04 a.m.

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’m baaaack! Since an appointed bedtime is not part of my parole, I decided to take advantage of my position as park custodian here at TackyToo to open up the rec room for my daily post. The parole requirement is that I post every day. Nothing was indicated about what time of day to do it.

Before we discuss the events precipitating my new designation as blogger, I should probably discuss the results that we want my blog to achieve. By we, I mean my family, the court system of the great state of Georgia, and myself. I do not understate when I say that we all expect great things to come from this experiment.

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 encouraging 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. Fortunately for me, Judge Rood chose to be the bigger man and didn’t add a contempt charge to my laundry list of crimes.

The terms of my sentencing were fairly simple. Six months in County followed by one year of parole, if I behaved. In exchange for following whatever wellness plan the psychologists recommended at the time of my release, attending AA meetings regularly, and wearing an awkward piece of jewelry, I get to avoid two to five years in the custody of the state of Georgia. Sweet. Did I mention that the jewelry buzzes like a hornet’s nest that’s been stepped on when I get more than a hundred feet or so from my house? It is an inconvenience, but not as inconvenient as sharing a toilet with three other dudes.

For all those who might 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 might benefit from some quality time apart, two to five years in the state pen was definitely not 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 from professionals 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 is 2 a.m. Guess I’ll head back over to Number 2 and see what kind of reaction I get from Mrs. Lyte. She’s not used to seeing me come back in after midnight sober. Could be a hoot.

Crime and Punishment

Posted on 18 July 2015, 01:28 a.m.

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t looks like I’ve found the sweet spot in the time of day to do my daily posting. Seems that posting after midnight lessens my anxiety in sharing the community computer, which, in turn, 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 29, 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 eighteen seconds left in overtime, our coach decided to squib kick to the Gnats, resulting in excellent field position for the bugs. The Gnats scored a field goal, tying the game. The game went to overtime, and we lost 30–24 in a game that should not have been close. The shock of the loss was something akin to going through the windshield at seventy miles per hour; the only treatment prescribed was self-induced coma.

Unfortunately, all 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 taillights 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 got me closer to the coma needed to stop the constant replay of my Dawgs’ embarrassment in my head. Unfortunately, listening to the post-game wrap up on my car radio kept ripping the scab off my dulled psyche.

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 sort of 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 pushed my head down into the back seat of the patrol car. Officer Round was confiscating my bottle from the front seat. I didn’t want there to be any confusion about ownership.

Well, as my dear departed daddy, Bocephus Lyte used to say, I’m as tired as a fly in a nudist colony. I guess we’ll need to continue my tale of woe tomorrow.

Crime and Punishment II

Posted on 19 July 2015, 01:28 a.m.

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ood 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. From bygone days I remember the old adage that a girl who is a six at 6 p.m. will always be a ten by 10 p.m. Perhaps less clarity is a good thing sometimes.

Speaking of clarity, I mentioned yesterday that the last thing I remember from the night of November 29 was going into the back seat of a cruiser. I awoke in the drunk tank in the Union County jail. I was decked out in a very formfitting, but stylishly tailored, orange jumpsuit. One look around the concrete cell revealed four sets of bunk beds and an open-air toilet. Arraignment was set for 11 a.m., a long time to hold your water. Suffering a 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 eyewitnesses, I left the parking lot of the Double Shot Liquor and Gun Store and drove straight across the highway to the Busy Bee Café. The Busy Bee Café had just that week purchased a large fiberglass bumblebee to act as their logo, kind of like a Shoney’s Big Boy. I am told that the bumblebee was over five and a half feet tall and three feet wide at his waist.

Accounts vary as to how many times I drove back and forth over the bumblebee after knocking him free from his mooring. By all accounts, I didn’t leave until the job was thoroughly done. My work finished, I blasted 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. But, truth be told, I am thinking that if I had gotten a jury trial, the University of Georgia faithful would undoubtedly have set me free. According to my attorney, Adam Dimwit, my wife Mulva was not remotely interested in going my bail. Mulva was quoted as having said, He can rot in jail until he rots in hell. After forty years, perhaps some of the bloom had gone off the rose.

To summarize the proceedings, 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 Café, and got fitted for a charming piece of electronic jewelry. All and all, it was a better deal than rotting in jail, and possibly the hereafter.

Computer tech is one of the skills you can pretend to learn while in county. Through the magic of tubes and wires, I learned how to share my innermost thoughts with the world without leaving the familiar surroundings of TackyToo. Now I am able to show my emotional progress to my parole officer by my daily vents on the computer. Believe you me, I want the state to be impressed with how serious I am about paying my debt to society.

Paying my debt to my family is a little harder. My immediate family consists of my lovely wife of forty years, Mulva Paine Lyte; my son, Buford Forrest Lyte Jr.; and my daughter, Melody Scarlett Lyte. This year we were blessed with my grandson Bud III, or Trey as I call him. He’s cuter than a speckled pup.

Mulva is still madder than a wet hen. The public embarrassment from this latest episode may be more than she can bear. My only recourse is to follow her lead in how to be a better man, husband, and father while I purge my feelings to the assorted state employees assigned to me. I know now that I can’t trust my first instincts. Until I can, I intend to chink away daily at the wall between us by showing my wife that I can be trusted, that I can be counted on.

The kids may be a little harder. Bud Jr. and Melody have been ignoring me since their teens, with good reason I’m sure. They’re grown, middle-aged almost. And Bud Jr. has his own family to worry about. I think back to all the times they brought me pride—sports matches, dance recitals, graduations. There were so many, many times. No matter the level of consciousness at the time, the pride for my child was etched indelibly into my memory. I wonder if they have even one moment of being proud of me. If I can get the lines of communication open, I might ask. I will have to be healthy enough to hear the answer if that day comes.

In the postings that follow, I’ll tell you about my family, immediate and estranged. As best my memory will allow, I will attempt to recall the circumstances in my youth that led me to being as lost as last year’s Easter egg. It’s late, and we’ll talk more about family tomorrow. It’s only fitting that we start with my raison d’être.

Mulva

Posted on 20 July 2015, 12:24 a.m.

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ood morning, y’all. 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 save discussion about Daddy for another time.

Today we’re going to start talking about my rock, my inspiration, my reason to keep on keeping on, my wife Mulva. Mulva is the quintessence of the phrase a good-hearted woman. Some may wonder how I can be so effusive in my praise, so in awe of the person, and yet display through my actions that I have little regard for her feelings. In my defense, I can only say that I haven’t always been consciously trying to cause public embarrassment for my wife or family. I would also add that it has taken a lot of foundation work over the decades to get to this point. Like termites, it took me a long time to destabilize our home.

Mulva and I live in a very small community in the North Georgia Mountains. We have known each other since grade school. Since I used a movie character to describe myself, I’ll use Sally Field to describe Mulva. From Gidget to Smokey and the Bandit to Forrest Gump, Mulva has aged gracefully and maintained her figure and looks. She was always the prettiest girl in class, always voted Best or Most of whatever the title entailed. I guess that was the attraction for me. She was perfection in my very imperfect world. Her star was always destined to outshine 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 the university in 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 disappeared into the 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. There were four of us that entered into the induction center. Me and the three Marines that had drug me off the porch.

Volumes have been written about the high-intellect man frustrated by chance; women, not so much. Mulva’s brothers, Lester and Maurice both became doctors. Mulva is smarter and more compassionate than either of her brothers. Mulva could certainly have been anything she set her sights on, but the circumstances and the times placed her on a different path. Unfortunately, the path she was placed on was being blazed by a lost soul who was clueless as to where he was going. Fortunately, Mulva did care where her family was going. Using hard work and perseverance, she fashioned a career that also allowed her the time to be an excellent mom. Mulva is one of the most respected bookkeepers in our area. My daddy used to joke that Mulva could account for anything but Bud.

To flesh out the no accounting for Bud theme, I’ll relate a little story from when I was still a man with promise. I had gotten a job with the North Georgia Chamber of Commerce to sell memberships to unsuspecting, er, potential members. It was a commission deal, and I was really good at it. Anyway, we were at one of those banquets we’d have every month, and I was going to get to introduce my two doctor brothers-in-law that I had sold memberships to. Dr. Maurice Payne and Dr. Lester Payne were all set to gather all the blessings that a membership in the COC confers. I think my introduction went something like, I’d like to recognize Mo Payne and Les Payne, brother doctors practicing here in Blairsville. Les Payne is a dentist, and Mo Payne is a proctologist, and I’ll just leave it up to you all whether you need to have less or more pain. Really, I thought it was funny, a great icebreaker for the brothers. From the collective groan and the looks my brothers-in-law gave me, I sensed they didn’t get the humor. The ride home promised to be confrontational, but to my surprise, Mulva got in the car and just burst out laughing. She didn’t stop until we got back to Nunsuch. I guess I had taken her brothers down a peg, something she would never have done. I was a hit!

I would like to say on the record that I’ve never broken my marriage vow of fidelity. Now, I realize that’s like, Oh really, you’ve never shot someone? but when you spend a lot of time in dives, it’s not just the alcohol that’s cheap. There have been sober opportunities too. Probably the most memorable occasion came on a trip while servicing our vending machines in Jacksonville, FL. The trip coincided with a Georgia-Florida game, the World’s Largest Cocktail Party. I had just gotten into my room at the Motel 6 when there was a knock at the door. A young woman in a tube top and short shorts was standing before me when I opened the door. She asked if I wanted to party.

My befuddled brain wondered if she was an ambassador of the Jacksonville Chamber of Commerce gathering census information, or perhaps, she might be handing out some two-for-one drink coupons. In my naivete I told her that I was planning on hitting a few bars later on.

She gave me a curious look and asked, Do you want a party?

Dim bulbs brightened and I realized she was asking me if I wanted to get naked and roll around together. I said no, slammed the door, and called the front desk to alert them to the fact that they had prostitutes going door to door. My next call was to Mulva to tell her I was cutting the trip short and we’d watch the game together when I got back home to Nunsuch. I have many failings, but I’ve always known in my heart that there is only one girl for me. I told Mulva about the episode when I got home, and she just patted my head. Didn’t insist on a test for STDs, just patted my head and told me she was glad I was home.

Speaking of homes, Mulva was the anchor that kept our family moored to our house in Nunsuch prior to our retirement to TackyToo. The job market is not that strong in North Georgia, and my pattern of changing careers every two to three years did not increase my employability. Through it all, from borrowing the down payment from her parents for our house to being the only parent working much of the time, Mulva made sure that our children had a respectable home to come home to. I can see now how important that stability is to a child. Seems like I would have extrapolated that from my own childhood, but at the time I was