[Bess Tuggle] - Memoirs of Surviving Children: Kitchens, Kids & Family

My best friend and I raised our boys’ together. Between the two of us, we had six boys. Biological sons’. That doesn’t include the kids that decided to move in with us, at any given moment, and expect to be fed. There were a lot. A LOT! The most I’ve ever seen around my kitchen table was 18, but there could have been a few more hidden around the corner, in the closet or under the bed. We both had the same problem – collecting children.

We also both tended to collect pets. When I say pets I mean dogs, cats, chickens, cows, goats, snakes, squirrels, tarantulas, rabbits, birds, pigs, baby deer… Oops, she had peacocks and guinea hens, too. Not that we searched for them, they just seemed to gravitate towards our houses. There was NEVER a dull moment.

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The kitchen in both households was the main congregation room. The kids –all- flocked to the kitchen. Breakfast, lunch, supper, snacks… Food, in general.

All the pets learned that, too. Neither of us had a 5 second rule. If food hit the floor, the first animal that got to it WON. Kids included. If you wanted to see a major feeding frenzy, drop a piece of watermelon on the floor and try to guess who’d get there first. Bacon could raise it to a whole new level.

I never had a “nasty” kitchen. It was just lived in, as was my friend’s. I scrubbed the floor once a month (it took 4 hours on hands and knees) with engine degreaser, and I painted part of the walls quarterly. Painting the strip on the walls rose according to the age of the children. Two feet off the floor, then three, then four… It depended on where their little hands rubbed, and the size of the animals that did the same. My friend kept an egg incubator in her kitchen and dealt with the same problems. The chicks were AWESOME! There was no such thing as having all the dishes cleaned at the same time. Our kitchens were the place to –live- in and crumbs could be fought over!

My children’s father finally put a name to what we were doing. We were “building strong immune systems.” With that mix of children and animals, there was no other choice.

You can still walk in our kitchens with dirty, bare feet. You’ll probably leave with dog hair between your toes and some delicious cookies in your tummy. Cupcakes cost extra.

- Bess Tuggle 

[Bess Tuggle] - Memoirs of Surviving Children: Christmas Lights & Electrical Hazards

I have a confession to make.  I admit there’s one more fire hazard in our household, over and above the tree, during the Christmas season, and I don’t say this lightly (pun not intended, but I’ll leave it).  It’s me.

For some reason Christmas lights are my nemesis.  Big trees, little trees.. it doesn’t matter.  The lights and I just can’t seem to get it together.

There are at least a dozen strands of Christmas lights in a box that I pull out of the attic every year.  After years of experience I’ve learned they’re best put up like a ball of yarn that you’d wind up for knitting.  They don’t get tangles, don’t cause any less expletives, but at least their easier to work with – assuming they work.  

Single strand lights, double strand lights.. the triple strands that are ‘guaranteed’ to always work…  They don’t.

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I plug in and test each and every strand of lights, regardless of the size of the tree, before putting them up.  It’s usually white lights around the trunk with colored lights around the boughs.  It never fails that after testing and putting all the lights on the tree that at least one strand will fail when I plug ‘em back in.  If they don’t, a couple ornaments hung up will do it to it.

I HAVE A FULL BOX OF CHRISTMAS TREE LIGHT BULBS!!!  Every size and shape you can imagine, but for some reason none of them ever seem to work after I put the lights on the tree!  There’s even a set of fuses for each and every strand of lights.   (Please don’t share this with our insurance company).

That’s usually when I decide to get creative, or so frustrated I can’t stand it anymore.  Aluminum foil, or even an old gum wrapper, can make a world of difference in a string of lights.  LET THERE BE LIGHT – and keep the fire extinguisher handy!

My husband is an electrician.  I terrify him.
   

Bess Tuggle

[Bess Tuggle] - Memoirs of Surviving Children: the Non-Joys of Christmas Shopping

Shopping.  If there’s such a thing as Hell on Earth, that would be mine.  I HATE shopping!  Don’t make me go to the store!!!

I learned this aversion to shopping young.  My aunt is my first, worst, shopping influence.  She can go into a dozen stores, pick stuff out, and decide not to buy anything.  It took HOURS of shopping with nothing to show for it.  Then we had to get through her buying clothes, deciding she didn’t like them, and take them back.  Yes, take them back, after trying on everything before we ever left the store.

The grocery store is the place where I “Power Shop.”  I know where everything is at.  I can walk in, grab a cart or basket and not think twice about what I’m throwing in.  With my list in hand, I don’t slow down.  Off the shelf, into the cart it goes and out of the store I go.  I don’t think my best friend will ever grocery shop with me again, and I do believe my husband prefers to grocery shop on his own.  He will stop, peruse the sale papers, and shop accordingly.  I just want to get OUT!

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Then we have shopping with my grandmother.  This is pure torture.

We get to the store and she asks “What do you want?” or “What would you like?”  I usually don’t want a whole lot of anything.  Therein lays the problem.  She will drag me through the entire store until I pick –something-.  I end up getting something, not because I want it or like it, but because I just want to get out of the store!

The next argument with my grandmother is at the cash register.  I want to pay.  She won’t let me.  I’m younger, though.  I can swipe a card before she can dig cash out of her wallet.  It doesn’t get me any brownie points, but sometimes the scowl on her face is worth it.  I GOT one!

Shopping with my boys’ was a whole different story.  

They learned young not to beg for anything.  My first answer would be “No!”  The grandchildren have learned that lesson, too.  But if you don’t beg, I’m a sucker – I’ll get it.

The boys learned how to tag-team me.  We’d go to the store, list in hand.  I was asked frequently, marching across the parking lot, “Are they all yours?”  No, Sherlock.  I pick up stray kids for grins and giggles.

Into the store we’d go, I’d shop by my list and check out.  This is before the days of self-checkout stations.  I wish they were there 20 years ago.

We’d get home and it was the boys’ job to bring the groceries in.  They learned to grab the broom, load the grocery bags on the handle and bring them all into the house in a single trip.

They brought the groceries in, and I put them up.  That’s when I found out what they threw in the buggy when I wasn’t looking.  I was too busy keeping up with little hands to see what was being checked out.  It was an insidious plan.  Two or three would get my attention, the other brothers would plant things in the buggy that they –knew- I wouldn’t buy, given the option.  

I love Amazon.Com and Cyber Monday.  Spare me the pain of shopping and just deliver it to my door.

  We’re about to brave the stores to finish up Christmas shopping.  

Heaven help me.   

Bess

Bess Tuggle

[Bess Tuggle] - Memoirs of Surviving Children: The Fun Aunt

My aunt is wonderful.  WONDERFUL!  She’s also blond.  She’s blond to the bone, and that may be the only reason she could put up with all of us (me, my sister and my three cousins), or maybe the only reason we didn’t drive her completely crazy.   

She’s also fun!  Not just now, but as long as –I- can remember.

My aunt has had a successful business for decades.  Gymnastics.  It might be time for her to throw in the torch, but in my younger days she was the reason I could do a summersault, cartwheel, backbend... 

At my wedding she dug out some pots and pans with wooden spoons.  She put all the children in a parade and they had to sing and bang those pots.  It turned a boring afternoon into fun for the kids.  Oh, and she made sure they blew bubbles instead of throwing rice.  She forgot the bubbles on our first walk up the aisle, so we had to go back and do it again so the kids could blow their bubbles.

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  Every time I get to visit she still has games out the galore.  She turns it into fighting time for the bathroom – at our ages, laughing can be disturbing, and we do regularly laugh and run to the bathroom, hoping for the best.

After all that, the memory stuck in my head finally can come out of my fingers.

My aunt took my cousins to the bus stop for school decades ago.  They’d all had breakfast, dressed in uniforms and were taken to go to school.  I have to mention this was in Ohio during the winter.  Yes, major snow.  

An hour or so later they came back home; cold, wet and hungry after trudging through the snow.  They thought they missed the bus.

It was Saturday. 
  
Bess

Bess Tuggle

[Bess Tuggle] - Memoirs of Surviving Children: Remembering Goose

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Let me begin this column by stating I am unequivocally not racist.  I truly believe good and bad people come in all shapes, sizes, sexes, colors and religions.  

I’m also not always politically correct.  I don’t even know what that means anymore.  Am I “White,” “Irish American” or simply “American?”  I have friends that I don’t know how to address.  Are you “Black,” “African American,” “Brown,” “Mexican” or simply “American” again? Yellow, purple and polka-dotted work fine in my book, too.  No offense is ever intended.  Please don’t try to “read between the lines.”  There’s nothing here but my own meanderings.  

That being said, I have to tell the tale about my youngest son, Thing 4, meeting a black man for the first time.  (Remember – I make no claims to be politically correct.  My thoughts just fall out of my fingers and I mean no disrespect to anyone.) 

We employed a black driller at the well company.  Goose, may he rest in peace, was a big guy, 6’4”, and one heck of a driller.  Terrified of spiders, but he could drill the heck outta a well.  He always introduced my lil’, white, 5’6” rear as his “long lost little sister.”

My kids didn’t really see the crews that often.  We worked in the office and the crews usually met in the shops.  Then we had the day that the drillers dropped by to visit.

It was after lunch, so the kids and I were at home.  As we (the drilling crew and I) sat on the front porch stairs telling stories, catching up on jobs and discussing the current water well being drilled, Thing 4, at approximately 18 months old, wandered out, fresh from his nap.  He was wearing diapers and a pair of one of his brothers’ shoes that were several sizes to large for him.

Thing 4 sat down on the top stair on the front porch, listened, and stared.  He’d never seen a black man before.

As he got more comfortable he would creep down a stair or two at a time.

Finally, he was sitting right next to Goose.  

He took the first two fingers of his right hand and ran ‘em down Goose’s arm, looked at them, and realized the color wasn’t going to rub off.  

Thing 4 plopped in Goose’s lap and they were best buds after that.  

R.I.P. my old friend.  1949-2017.  I sure do miss you.

- Bess Tuggle

 

[Bess Tuggle] - Memoirs of Surviving Children: The Malibu

This column has turned into a delightful obsession for me. It’s the perfect excuse to turn my little mind loose to wander down memory lane. The real fun is when it gets totally lost. The good, the bad and the ugly!

In the late nineties I owned my absolutely, no hands down, favorite car. She was a 1978 Chevy Malibu. I bought her from a lil’ old lady that had bought it new off the lot, then kept her garaged. Low mileage, four doors, six seat belts, automatic transmission (thankfully – put me with a manual transmission and I –will- get in trouble), V-8 (I can’t remember if she had a 305 or a 350), absolutely pristine! Oh, I babied that car, and it was perfect for me and my boys.

My boys’ usually went to work with me, but one day their father decided it was too nice a day for work and school. Yep – the guys played hooky. Sometimes the best “sick days” are the ones you simply lay back and enjoy, and I could work without trying to keep up with my brood.

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On my way home from work I stopped, blinker on, waiting to turn onto the road we lived on. I got rear ended by a car that the Deputy estimated was doing about 60 miles an hour.

Trunk, decimated; back seat broken in half; the bolts that held the drivers seat down broke too, and I was thrown half way into the back seat in spite of my seat belt. At least the other driver was kind enough to spin me onto the road I was trying to turn into. And, thankfully, my boys’ weren’t with me.

I hurt for months after the accident, but I only had one black-and-blue mark. My mother happened to drive by shortly after. I was out of the car and searching for my glasses and cigarettes. It was too soon for the pain to set in. With my head in the passenger side of the car, digging under the seat, my mom grabbed my arm, drug me out and spun me around. She left her hand-print on my arm. A perfect, five finger, full palm hand print. Try to explain that one to the doctors.

Well, the car lived on. She was totaled. No question about that one, but the motor and transmission were just fine. The insurance adjuster (after I got done haggling and arguing with him) said I could keep my car for $50. At first I just looked at him like he was stupid. I’ll admit it. Then I informed him the crusher would give him (at that time) $50 for the car, it would cost him $45 to tow it, so I offered him five bucks. He laughed, shook his head, and told me to keep my car.

That’s when the –real- fun began!

I gave each of the boys a screwdriver and told them if you see a screw, take it out. They had a BLAST! Doors, radio, seats, a few things I really didn’t want them to take out, but, oh well. It turned into the car they learned to drive in. They got to sit on Mama’s lap (some couldn’t reach the gas and brake pedals back then) and drive. Up the driveway, down the driveway, up the driveway, down the driveway… By the time they could get their learner’s license, they all knew how to drive. Can’t say they were all –good- drivers, but they could drive.

A couple of good friends helped me fix ‘er up. Beverly Hillbilly’s of the South kinda car. The bench seat over the trunk and steer horns on the front were an added bonus.

The Malibu

- Bess 

Bess Tuggle

A jack of all trades, Ms. Tuggle has been a Covington resident since the late 70’s. She's been a K-Mart cashier, cabinet builder, vet tech, office manager for a beef cattle ranch and water well company (where she was able to hold benefits for D.A.R.E. and Scouts), a court reporter, business manager, assistant at a private investigation firm, legal assistant, convenience store clerk, landscaper and elementary school substitute teacher.  Her greatest pleasure is being a wife, mother and grandmother.  Her stories are all real, and all names will be withheld to protect the innocent, and also maybe the guilty, depending on the crime & the Statute of Limitations.  

The Piedmont Chronicles

[Bess Tuggle] - Memoirs of Surviving Children: Thing 3 & the Friendly Skies

My mind tends to jump between children, decades and memories.  I start each day looking at the list on my desk.  As I think of something to write I put it in the notebook.  That doesn’t mean I have to write the column right then, it’s just food for thought in future columns.  If I don’t write it down I –will- forget it, at least until 2 a.m. when I can’t sleep because I forgot to jot something down in my notebook and it will drive me crazy until I remember what I wanted to write about.   

Today my thoughts gravitate toward my third son, Thing 3.  

His father was a corporate pilot.  That should have been my first warning that this child would have issues.  When I say issues, I mean he was born with an airplane obsession.  He had his first flight at 22 hours old.  His dad came home from a trip, we lived on a private airport, and the baby went up for the first time.  His head has been in the clouds ever since.

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By the time Thing 3 was about 2 years old I’d have to call the hangar at nap time.  “PLEASE don’t fly right now!”  The child would not go to sleep if he heard a plane.  He’d just bang on his bedroom window and holler “Da pane!  Da pane, Mama!” reminiscent of “Tattoo” from “Fantasy Island.”  Yes, I just dated myself, but I loved that show in the 80’s.   

It all went downhill from there and by 3 his obsession ran to all new levels.  

One day his grandfather, a retired commercial pilot, dropped by to visit.  He was much more old-fashioned than I (and I’m really conservative).  I knew where my children were, just not necessarily what exactly they were up to at any given moment, and I heard his grandfather’s ranting before I knew he was actually on my front porch.

Thing 3 was on the front porch.  I –knew- he was there.  I could hear him playing.  All the windows were open.  I –didn’t- know he found my box of sanitary pads under the bathroom sink though.  His grandfather was HORRIFIED!  

When I came out his grandfather had a face as red as a beet, and Thing 3 was SO proud of himself!  He’d stuck “wings” up and down his legs and arms.  It was time to FLY!

- Bess Tuggle

[Bess Tuggle] - Memoirs of Surviving Children: "Messing With Each Other"

My children have messed with each other their entire lives.  I don’t know if you can call it being brothers, siblings, or whatever - but they have.  When I say “messing with each other” I mean “torturing each other.”  They’ve gotten really good at it, too.  They’ve had years of experience; they came by it honest.  They haven’t outgrown it, either.    

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The youngest, Thing 4, would wait until all his brothers’ were lined up in a row watching the morning cartoons.  It took patience and stealth, but he’d wait until they all lined up and were completely enthralled by the cartoons.  THAT was when he’d come out with the Wiffle Ball bat.

A Wiffle Ball bat is a big, plastic baseball bat, and we had a pink one.  Go figure, pink in our household, but it was certainly handy and BIG.

“Bam, bam, BAM!” on the back of his brothers’ heads he’d go, then into his room he ran.  He locked his bedroom door, hid as best he could, and hoped his brothers gave up on revenge before the cartoon was over or they broke in the door.  

It wasn’t long after that I learned to turn the door locks around.  Finally, they couldn’t lock me out, but I could certainly lock them in.  For safety’s sake, I could lock them in.  I’m not sure if it was for their safety or mine, but it worked.  They were well trained about breaking windows to escape the house in an emergency.  Escaping each other was a different story.  

Again, they came by it honest.

When their father and uncle were growing up, their uncle tortured their father.  Their uncle would take a tape recorder and he’d tape complete silence for a few minutes, and then start to tape noises.  He’d tape squeaks, clicks, groans, miscellaneous noises…  Anything irritating would work.  Their uncle –knew- how long it would take his brother to brush his teeth and put on his P.J.’s.  He’d hide the tape recorder under his brother’s bed when he was brushing his teeth then hit “Play.”  After four or five minutes, after his brother lay down to go to sleep, the noises began and drove him –bonkers-.  Yes, there WERE monsters under the bed!  Heaven help if you were to put your feet on the floor, the monsters might get you, and don’t dare go look in the closet!

Thing 3 still likes to drive me crazy with noises.  I’m one of the few that can hear them.  He makes a high-pitched sound that goes in my ears and blows up in the middle of my head. His uncle can hear them too, so I guess we’re both cursed.  Not many other people can hear it.  Still does it occasionally when he comes home on leave, too. 

I don’t think Thing 3 knows that when he makes those noises I let the dog lick his toothbrush.  

- Bess Tuggle 

Bess Tuggle's Memoirs of Surviving Children: Never Say Never

Raising children is always an adventure, but today I’m offering some cautionary advice.  NEVER say never.  “My child will -never-…”  “My child would -never-…”  “My child will -never- say/do/have…”  Please!  I promise, it will bite you in the arse.

None of my boys were bad.  None of them were Angels, either.  They were just active, rambunctious, imaginative “boys” in every sense of the word.

I made the mistake of saying, repeatedly as they were growing up, that I would never bail any of them out of jail.  That’s a “never” I held my guns to, and a “never” I lived to regret.

Thing 1 decided to go out with some of his friends and party, as kids are wont to do.  He was right around twenty at the time.  There was some drinking involved (not including the driver, at least they got that part right), and they stopped at a Dollar Store to get some snacks.  

They were all laughing it up, joshing around in the store, purchased their snacks and walked out to the car.  Small problem, Thing 1 was joking around so much that he forgot to pay – for a small bag of Funyuns.  

The manager followed them out, approached the car and asked about the Funyuns.  Thing 1, also known as dumb a%* on occasion, looked down, saw the Funyuns bag in his hand, and handed them to the manager.  All’s good that ends well.  At least one would think so.

The manager also got the tag number of the car and called it in.  The driver was sober for a reason – he was on probation.  

I really am trying to make a long story short here.

Manager calls the Sherriff department, an investigator calls the driver (aka owner of the car) and pressures the driver to give the names and numbers of his passengers that evening, under threat of having his probation revoked if he didn’t.  Investigator, with passenger information in hand, calls each of the passengers to inform them that if they didn’t come in and talk to him that the driver’s probation would be revoked.  Of course, being good friends, each and every one of them went in, and each and every one of them told the truth.

Houston, we had a problem!  All the stories matched.  Thing 1 did not pass go, did not collect $200, and went directly to jail.  Bless his heart, he admitted to walking out of the Dollar Store with a bag of Funyuns – it didn’t even matter that he surrendered them to the manager.
That’s when I started getting the calls.  “Mama, come get me.”  “Mama, PLEASE get me out of here!”  The bail was set at $800 (over $1.28 bag of Funyuns), $80 bond, and I stuck to my guns.  I swore I’d NEVER bail one of my children out of jail, and I didn’t.

After about 2 ½ weeks, his buddies scrounged up enough money to bail him out and I went to pick him up from the jail.  He ended up with community service and probation (which is a money-grubbing joke in its own right).  I really can’t remember how long his sentence was.

I just remember his $80 bond would have been MUCH cheaper than my $230 (collect calls) phone bill.  And he didn’t even get to eat the Funyuns.

- Bess Tuggle 

[Bess Tuggle] - Memoirs of Surviving Children: The (mis) Adventures of Scouting & Camping

Thing 1 was kidnapped once.  He was kidnapped by Boy Scouts of America in the first grade.   They were greedy, too.  They ended up kidnapping the whole family.

Scouting is a fun way to grow up.  Family oriented, educational and a WHOLE lot of camping.

Multiple camping trips were planned throughout the year.  We tried to accommodate everyone’s needs.  Close trips for families with very young or disabled children, cheap trips for those with more than one child (once you have more than one you’re perpetually broke) and site seeing trips for those more adventurous with the means and transportation to get there.

One of the requirements for each camping trip was that one trained leader had to attend.  I don’t remember what year it was that I became the Wolf Den leader (and stayed there for time out of mind), but with a lot of kids and a flexible work schedule I became “volun-told” for many of them. 

We did primitive camping (for those that don’t know, that means NO facilities, and yes – bears DO *%&# in the woods), full facility camping and pretty much everything in between.  Most of our trips were to State Parks, but there were many others – including my own yard.

My memory is currently stuck on camping at Amicalola Falls State Park.  It’s a beautiful place.  We ended up in primitive camping, but that was part of the adventure.



It had rained, so everything was a muddy mess.  Our camp site was down a steep, muddy, hill and all gear had to be carried down it.  It turned out it was easier to sit on your rear with a load and –slide- down the hill.  We had one leader, and I have pictures to prove it, that carried a twin size mattress down the mud slope and stuffed it in his pup-tent because he was NOT going to sleep on the ground, much to the amusement of the rest of us.  The kids turned the path into a mud slide and had a –wonderful- time, especially knowing they couldn’t take a bath and had to wash off in the creek.

I pitched our tent next to a creek.  That was my first mistake.  There’s something about the sound of running water during the night, especially knowing that the only facilities was the closest tree…  The boys’ pitched their tents around mine like little mushrooms.  A campfire was built, and we were all too tired to do much else than go to sleep with the sun.

The next morning everyone got up, maybe not well-refreshed, but up and planned the events for the day.  The main attraction was the lodge at the top of a very –long- -steep- hill.

Everyone loaded up.  As I had the only long bed truck I ended up with a bunch of the kids.  Fifteen to be exact, all loaded in the back of my truck.  There’s a reason I remember that number.

Up the hill we went, strictly observing the 10mph speed limit, and finally made it to the top.  There was the lodge.  Low and behold (let the angels sing amid a cloud of bright light), there was a sign that made my heart leap with joy.  “Public Restroom.”

Out of the truck I jumped.  The rest of the adults/leaders could deal with the kids for a minute or two, but I bee-lined it to the bathroom.  Once out, I was met by a frightening sight.  Our whole group was gathered at the door, all were pointing at ME, and there was a park ranger leading the pack.

I got busted.

Much to my amazement, all State rules of the road apply in State Parks.  –I- didn’t know that, but the ensuing lecture taught me a lot.  Did you know that it’s against the law to transport children in the bed of a pickup?  Even in a State Park?  I sure didn’t, and that ranger put the fear of losing my license into me.

Fifteen tickets for no seat belts.  Fifteen tickets for child endangerment.  To add insult to injury, one big ticket for unsecured load.

Following a long lecture, which I’m sure the ranger enjoyed thoroughly, she let me off with a warning.  After that, we did our site-seeing and started a caravan to get all the kids back down to camp.  All in seat belts.  It took several trips, but we all made it back to base camp –legally-.

The rest of our camping trip was spent hiking, site seeing, playing games, roasting marshmallows over a fire and just a good time overall.  

My old, white truck was never the same after that.  Three of us lunched our transmissions on that long, steep hill. 

- Bess Tuggle

Bess Tuggle's Memoirs of Surviving Children: It's Chili Time!

It’s finally that time of the year again. It’s CHILI TIME!!!

I make a mean pot of chili. My husband does, too. House rules when either of us is cooking at home: Don’t ask, don’t tell. But the -best- chili you could ever put in your mouth is Cub Scout Chili.

We did a lot of camping when my boys were little. We tried to put enough camp outs on the calendar so that everyone could participate in at least one. Some were pretty close by for those with very young ones so if they needed to bail, they could. Others were farther away, for new adventures, and just a couple trips that were on the pricey side. Not everyone could afford the latter, but it was a well-rounded calendar. A Scout leader had to attend each one, so I was “volun-told” on a regular basis.

Cub Scout Chili only came out when it got chilly and the camping trip wasn’t too far from home. But it was worth braving the cold for. Cub Scout Chili is -special-! One member would bring, for want of a better description, a huge, caste iron “witch’s cauldron.” Each family would bring what they would usually cook when making chili for their family, and into the pot it went where it was cooked over an open fire. To add to the excitement, one member would bring a cleaned (not cooked) deer leg to stir it with. We knew the chili was ready when all the meat cooked off the deer leg. Let the feast begin! If there were any leftovers, cold chili for breakfast is the -bomb-. Kinda like left- over pizza, but better.

Most of the parents and their kids went to their tents at sunset for a well-deserved break, aka: exhaustion. But there were a few of us die-hards that liked to sit around the campfire until much later. There really wasn’t a lot of talking, just enjoying warmth of the fire, and the beautiful view of the stars without light pollution from a city.

We all ate well and played hard, but wouldn’t you know it?!? There were goblins, ghouls and ghosts in the forest that only came out when the sun went down. I’m sure the Goat-Man was out there on more than one occasion.

On one memorable camping trip we heard a bear in the woods. Not just any old bear, but a -huge- one that seemed to be on a mission. The roars got closer and closer. Off in the distance they were easy to dismiss, but as the bear approached the camp site it got louder and scarier.

Parents, leaders, and kids alike and awake, all jumped up in a panic. The bear was between cars just outside the viewing area illuminated by the campfire. He sounded huge and -hungry-! Those already in their tents were abandoned to their fate, and the few that stayed up were making bee-lines to their cars. Parents, grabbing their children, ran into each other in panic over and over… It was complete and total chaos!!!

By the sounds of this bear, even being in a car was no real protection.

Finally, I guess the bear decided to give up. There were too many kids to choose from for his supper, and Cub Scout Chili was tastier. It just hit the spot.

I’m pretty sure the bear and the Goat Man are friends. They’re out in the woods just -waiting- for their next meal or child to frighten, so until they find their next victim – stay safe, and remember they’re always watching.

Disclaimer: No children were injured during this camping trip. Several adults suffered stomach muscle issues from laughing too hard, and shoulder issues from running into each other in attempts to save their children. The only fatality was a coffee can. Simple bear calls can made from a metal coffee can and a piece of wet, cotton cord.

ROAR!!!

- Bess Tuggle

Bess Tuggle's Memoirs of Surviving Children: The Wisdom of a Good Judge

I had my kiddo piece for this week all planned out in my mind. I really did – until I read about the early demise of our most recent Juvenile Court judge. It brought back memories…

Juvenile Court judges have one of the toughest, most heart-breaking jobs on the planet. They pour their heart and soul into their job, they’re dealing with young, moldable minds, and that’s a responsibility I can’t even fathom. But sometimes it comes with jocularity too.

One of my Things, I won’t say which one, got in trouble in middle school. I’m talking about -6^th- grader!

He, and 3 other friends, found a pill on the gym floor. A pill.

This pill got passed around between the 4 of them. None of them knew what it was. None of them took it, and I had no idea -any- of this was going on.

After passing said pill around between them for a couple weeks (I can only imagine the pocket lint that came with it), none of them had a clue what it was. -But- it was a prescription medication, out of the bottle of the prescribed individual.

One of the boys said it was a hormone pill. His mom took them, and if you gave it to a girl, she’ll like you. They collectively tried to decide what girl they wanted to slip that pill into her school milk. They never could decide -which- girl, or who was going to slip it into her milk so she’d like -him-.

Back and forth it went between them, until the last “holder” told my Thing he’d sell it to him for $1.00. My thing bought it.

Here we go to the principal’s office! The resource officer at the time wanted to charge it up to youthful stupidity. No one got hurt, so let it go. The principal at the time wanted to make an example of those dumb a$$ little boys and pressed charges. Now we enter the world of juvenile court.

All 4 boys received 3 juvenile felonies. Possession of a controlled substance, possession of a controlled substance out of the original bottle, and.. I can’t remember the 3^rd – it had something to do with talking about slipping it into a girl’s milk so she’d like them. My Thing got a 4^th felony – purchasing a controlled substance. -That’s- where his lunch money went.

The look on the judge’s face during their sentencing was priceless! I have -NO- idea how he kept it together!!! The kids were too scared to notice the smile on the judge’s face when he put his head down and covered his eyes with his hand, but he -had- to sentence something. These were -NOT- bad kids. Naive, yes. Bad, no.

Each child was sentenced separately, but it all came down to the same thing. Juvi “Boot Camp.” Boot Camp was just what you’d expect, but these were little, spry children compared to the lazy, “bad a$$” teenagers going through the same camp. All was held at the old Cousins, and the lil’ kids enjoyed the break from school. Run up the hill, roll back down, run up the hill, roll back down… It was PLAY time!!!

Juvenile records are sealed once the child reaches legal adulthood; 18 years old. Bet there are a lot of adults that would kill for the same thing. These lil’ kids were given a gentle lesson, and all turned out to be good men (don’t tell them I said so!).

The wisdom of a good judge can change a lil’ life forever. I thank all our Juvenile Judges for their service.

- Bess Tuggle