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    I'll Be the Judge
    I'll Be the Judge
    I'll Be the Judge
    Ebook124 pages1 hour

    I'll Be the Judge

    By Gary "Mike" Lough

    ()

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    About this ebook

    After thirty-seven years in law enforcement, twelve years as a deputy sheriff, and twenty-five as a magistrate judge, I have heard every excuse and every story possible. This book is a list of stories that I have heard. None of these stories are fiction. They are exactly as I heard them or were written to me. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherNewman Springs Publishing, Inc.
    Release dateNov 29, 2022
    ISBN9781684988259
    I'll Be the Judge

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      Book preview

      I'll Be the Judge - Gary "Mike" Lough

      Warning

      As I proofread each story, I am persuaded by some of them to put this warning in writing.

      As stated, these stories appear in this book as stated to me in person or in writing. They have not been edited nor has any of the misspelled words corrected. This is done intentionally so you enjoy the full effect of each story.

      Some of the language and content of some of these stories are not suitable for minor children.

      Adult discretion is advised.

      Acknowledgments

      To my family, Samantha and Stacey, my grandchildren, and especially my dear wife, Linda. I love you all so much. And thank you for walking this pathway with me.

      And thanks to the late sheriff Gerald Weis, Arnie Kempton, the late Louie Kempton, Ted Becker, Jim Spedowski, Neil Hirsch, and all the deputies I worked with. And a special thanks to the late Hon. George VanKula. Also Hon. Ronald C. Nichols, Hon. Susan H. Grant, Hon. Scott Hill Kennedy.

      And retired judges Lawrence Root and Lavail Hull. Without your guidance, this book could not have been written.

      And thanks to all the clients who made up these excuses. Without them, regardless of how bizarre some of them were, I could not have put this book into print.

      And thanks to my staff—Veronica, Amy, Dawn, Leann, Scott, and Stacy—for your dedication.

      Introduction

      Yes, I have heard that one—on my days as a policeman and then a judge, and there were all sorts of excuses I have heard.

      Well, where do I start? My childhood? Midlife? Where? Well, let me tell you about my childhood, which seems like a good place to start. I guess my childhood was not much different from anyone else’s, unless you can say being born in a chicken coop as something different! I’m serious; I was born in a chicken coop. You can ask any of my older brothers and sisters. Well, actually, the people that my parents rented from started out building a chicken coop, but the lady of the house thought it was too cute to raise chickens in, so they added a fireplace and some room dividers and some real windows (not chicken coop windows), and I think they removed the roosts also and made the coop into a home. Now, realize just how tiny it really was. I can’t tell you exactly what the inside looked like because I was very young when I was born and can’t remember what it looked like. But I am the youngest of eight (8) children plus my parents, which would have made ten of us living in this tiny house, and I have no idea where I slept except maybe in my mom’s underwear drawer (I know I didn’t have my own room). I don’t know if anybody had a private room. I do know that there wasn’t any indoor plumbing, so my sisters and brothers had to go outside to use the bathroom (thank God for diapers). I guess we moved out shortly after I was born. That house is still standing, and I live about five miles from it. Guess I didn’t get very far from home, did I? The house is now a hunting lodge, and someday I would really like to take a tour of that home. We moved a lot in my childhood days. I have fond memories from every place I ever lived, like the house on the hill.

      That’s what we called it. I don’t know why we called it that. Maybe it’s because it’s on a hill? It was a nice place—wood floors, fuel oil stove, colder than he——, and of course, no bathroom. I can’t remember indoor plumbing until I was about nine or ten years old. Anyway, the house on the hill has some real fond memories, like shutting my sister Carol’s fingers in the barn door, my brother Jim falling out of the car going down M-20—that was a riot. And of course, the famous hide-and-seek caper. What’s the hide-and-seek caper, you ask?

      Oh well, that’s when you, your brother, and your sister play hide-and-seek. I came around the house just in time to see my sister Carol climb inside my mom’s brand-new Maytag wringer washer and pull the lid on top of her. Well, the washer was sitting on the back porch, which happened to be about three feet high from the ground. I don’t know if it was my idea or my brother’s, but I do know that we shoved the washer off the porch and put a big dent in the side of it. That was so funny watching that washer rolling down the hill with my sister inside, but my dad didn’t see the humor. That washer went to its grave with that big dent in it. I have so many memories about the house on the hill. Did I mention I was scared of the old two-holer that was so far from the house? Someone always had to go with me when I had to use the bathroom (outhouse).

      And that house on the hill is where I lost my little teddy bear. What a traumatic experience that was. I remember it like it was yesterday, watching my dad throw that bear way over the fence and into the field never to be seen again. I think I developed a complex of some sort from that experience. The next traumatic experience was staying with our neighbors when my oldest brother, Richard, got married. I was too young to go to the wedding. Actually, I think my parents couldn’t handle me and wanted to get away from me for a while, but in any event, we stayed at Narloch’s, the farmer next door.

      That’s where I learned to hate milk. It seems like Mr. Narloch wanted to teach us where milk came from, and I don’t mean in the glass quart bottles that the milkman brought. So in the dirty old barn filled with cobwebs we went. I had never been in a barn before and, lo and behold, in the cobweb-filled window of the barn was a cobweb-filled green plastic glass. Mr. Narloch took the glass down, cleaned it out with his hand, and filled the glass with milk straight out of the cow’s spicket. Yuck, warm milk. I haven’t drunk milk since that day. I think I was maybe four years old when we lived on the hill, but I can remember waiting on the back porch for my dad to come home from work so I could get in his lunch pail and eat his cheese sandwich. I think he saved that sandwich just for me. I did mention that there were eight of us kids, so food and toys and good stuff were a cherished commodity when we got them. I don’t remember, but I do have a picture of my sister and I. We were the same size, so everyone thought we were twins, but she was a year older than me. Anyway, my sister-in-law Ellen bought Carol and me a pair of bib overalls. They put them on us and were taking us outside for a picture, and I wet mine before we got outside. They took the picture anyway. From this house, we moved into Remus behind the barbershop. I don’t remember a lot about this house. My older brother and sister were gone now. There were only five of us now.

      Nothing much exciting happened except I started school, and every day my brother Gene had to walk me to school, and when he left, I left the school and walked home only to be returned back to school by my mom. Oh yeah, how could I forget? We did have indoor plumbing in this house. I did have one birthday party at that house, I remember. It ended early when we got into a chocolate-cake fight.

      Mom wasn’t pleased with me or my friends. We didn’t live there too long, and then we moved to a house in the country again. And sure enough, there was the old outhouse, fuel oil heat, leaky windows, and cold, cold, cold! We did have running water in the kitchen, though, until the well dried up, and we then bought a thirteen-room house with two, yes, two bathrooms. Wow, seventh heaven. I liked this house. It was in town close to my friends, lots of yard, nice blacktop streets to play on, and lots of streetlights to shoot out with BB guns. Did I just say that? And I wanted to be a policeman? Must have been my brother Jim who shot the streetlight out, not me.

      Anyway, I did witness my brother and my friend Eddie Walch shooting the BBs at the feet of Johnson’s horses. Busted again! So was the BB gun, right over a rock by the deputy sheriff, Eddie’s dad. Oh well, it only caused problems anyway. Besides, it was more fun and exciting to play with matches and set the grass on fire next to the lumber company buildings and watch all the firemen scramble to put it out before the building caught on fire. Besides, my butt was already on fire from my dad’s belt. Isn’t it amazing, the good ole days, all the trouble I got into and still not in prison? Geez, I was still eligible to

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