My brother wrote in as follows:
Did you ever hear Dad curse? If he didn't like someone, he'd call
him a "flathead." When
something was going well, he'd say "whoop-de-doo!" I believe I once heard him say
"shit." I think Mom said
"Oh, damn" once. Is this
why I don't curse, or is it because my 6th grade teacher, who I respected a
lot, said that only stupid people curse, because they can't think of other
words.
I replied at length, and shall share the results, since they
are less the memory of one man, than of the time in which he lived; and not so much the portrait of his
young sons, as of all the budding boychildren time out of mind.
~
“Flathead” was his favorite expletive, generally directed at
the occasional rogue driver. He
himself always drove in a careful and moderate fashion; his outburst struck me at the time as
unusual, since it was so uncharacteristic of him: nowadays, with all the Road Rage around, he would count as a
Traffic Pacifist.
I never heard him use stronger language, and have the
sense that it simply hadn’t been part of his family growing up, and that he
never acquired the habit later on, any more than he later took up the ukelele.
I’m quite sure I never heard him say “sh*t” when we were
young, because of the circumstances -- which I vividly recall -- of the first
time I heard this word. I was
walking home from school with a classmate, one whom I did not particularly
consider a friend (and all the less so, after this incident). Slyly writhing like Uriah Heep, he
snickeringly uttered -- not the word
(that was beyond our wildest daring, back in our Eisenhower boyhood), but its spelling, “ess aitch eye tee”: awaiting
my shocked or snickering reaction.
Instead I was puzzled. I
was a pretty good speller by then, but had never heard such a word. Had he misspelled it? Had I misheard it? Dubiously, I ventured, “ `Shit’???’
“ -- as who should say: “
`Ophthalmologist’??”
He gaped and gasped:
“You said *** !!!” At which point I realized that it
was an example of a rumored but never previously sighted species known as Bad
Words (native habitat: Siberia).
Conclusion: We never heard
such things around the family hearth.
A more dramatic anecdote of Dad and Dirty Words occurred some time earlier. We were up in the tree fort, and a
semi-friend from the neighborhood (who, harbinger of Sh*tboy, no doubt later came to a bad end) was
telling us our very first Dirty Joke.
It involved traveling salesmen and a farmer, along with (though not in a
speaking role) the female offspring of the latter (presumably of tender age,
though this was not spelled out).
The commercial travelers arrived seriatim on successive evenings, requesting lodging for the night from
the rural husbandman. To the first
of these, that worthy agriculturalist replied hospitably enough, “You can spend the night, but don’t f*ck my daughter or I’ll cut off your
dick.”
Now, already this much justified the guilty-pleasure
giggling up there in the fort.
“Dick” was not actually a bad word in our milieu: it was a normal expression
linguistically, though its referent was of course a bit louche.
So, what happened during those nocturnal watches, when all good citizens are sound abed? Well, the same thing that has been happening ever since God created Eve and Adam, ever since the Fall. And so, the next morning, the sturdy Son of the Soil -- stern but just -- inquired of the doomed commercialist, in which particular branch of industry was his father employed, among those traditionally available to the Sons of Men? “He’s a lumberjack,” replied the salesman, resigned to his fate. “Then” intoned the granger with Solomonic appropriateness, “I shall chop off your dick.”
(Whether this rigorous sentence, sharia-like in its
equisitive matching of punishment to crime, was ever carried out, or whether an
angel of mercy intervened -- conceivably that very daughter, who, on bended
knees, her white arms wrapped around the unbending denim-clad knees of her
sire, begged for her lover’s life, swearing by all that is holy and it was the
best night she’d ever had … was not recorded in this telling.
Likewise our readers, classically trained as they are, will
immediately recall that play of Aristophanes, in which Cleon, the tanner, is threatened being chopped up
to make leathern shoes for his enemies the Knights.
But let us return to our narrative -- soberer, sadder, but
wiser men.)
The next day -- in a remarkable coincidence -- another
commercial traveler put in an
appearance at that distant croft and requested lodging. Apparently having learned nothing
from the events of the previous evening, our farmer acceded to the request, and
on the same terms.
The next morning, the salesman looked nervous, the farmer
wroth, and the farmer’s daughter had a dreamy expression on her face that told all. Again the inquiry was made as to the
paternal profession (evidently they did not have Social Security Numbers back
in those days, and so this biographical particular was used for
identificational purposes); and
upon being told that the miscreant’s father was a carpenter, a fitting sentence was passed: The arcadian cadi would saw
off the offending member.
By this point in the narrative, the mirth and merriment up
there in the tree fort can better be imagined than described.
~
The telling of jokes to children serves an important instructional function, tutoring
young minds in the literary themes and folkloristic motifs of their tribe. And one of the invariants of
jokes in the genre of the above is
that these things happen in threes
(in Euro-American circles; among Amerindians, four is the favored number).
And thus it was that, in a case of serial coincidence that would
otherwise strain the credulity of all but the most credulous (to wit: our young selves), yet a third traveling salesman showed up at that very same rustic farmhouse -- whether accompanied by a
samples-case of Fuller brushes, is not recorded -- and put forward the identical request for nocturnal lodging
to that very same tiller of the
soil. Upon which, that same
cottager, with an amnesia that baffles the psycho-historian (although the
daughter appeared to suffer no such mnemonic lapse, to judge by her
anticipatory smile and bedroom-eyes) spluttered: “Lodging?!? Do I look like Mr Hilton? This is a farm!!”
No no, of course he didn’t say that. Such a peripetaia in the narrative would constitute a subversion of the
whole genre, a post-modernist critique of ludic-literary conventions. Such would have been seriously
pre-mature for the place and time, since you and I were around five, and
Grandpa Ike smilingly occupied the White House (so aptly named).
Once again, the silence of the darkened farmhouse was broken
-- did one but hark -- by muffled thumps and giggles; and when at last brave HELIOS rose in the east, spreading his grateful rays
over the fields of wheat whereby our reluctant amateur innkeeper
earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, the scene around the breakfast table
was plain to read. The
maiden -- or rather, daughter (maiden no more) -- applied herself to the eggs
& b. with a more than usually voracious appetite;
the farmer had his suspicions;
yet the salesman, this time, seemed strangely untroubled, even cavalier,
as he speared another slice of buttered toast (his fork expertly piercing the
very center), washing it down with a third cup of strong black country coffee.
Upon accusation, the salesman freely, even genially admitted
the charge. Once again the farmer
sought example in the wisdom of Solomon, that the lex talionis might be scrupulously applied; at which point the salesman, satisfied
in every fiber of his being, and langorously fingering a fat sausage, replied:
“MY FATHER WORKS IN A LOLLIPOP
FACTORY;
YOU’LL HAVE TO SUCK MINE
OFF!!!”
At that point, some passing hobo might have discerned a gasp
of delight and astonishment coming from the region of the leafy branches
that shielded the tree fort. And then the three boys, in unconscious
imitation of the concupiscent salesmen who had arrived seriatim (rather like
the Magi, if it comes to that), exited the sylvan scene of their enlightenment,
climbed down single-file, and went about their business upon the surface of the
good earth.
~
Here we pause -- as our Muse insists -- for a spot of
literary theory, before returning to the narrative of the Two Boys and their
Uncursing Dad.
It is frequently to be met with (at least, so I have
concluded, after a lifetime of ludic research) that even in the coarsest locker-room jape, there may underlie a philosophical, even theological
dimension: and such is surely the
case here. And the inculcation of this loftier perspective,
upon the bare wax tablets of the youngsters’ minds, was ennobling, and far made
up for any possible indelicacy of
the raw details of the joke.
For notice: The
salesmen arrived and left independently -- for theirs is a solitary trade. They had no opportunity to compare
notes on their experiences at that rural grange. Yet each as a matter of course accepted the relevance of paternal
occupation to the resolution of the case:
and this motif embodies and
reinforces that heritage of guild and feof whereby our island race has lived
and procreated and gone to their final rest, since time immemorial; the lesson thus smoothly and swiftly
delivered by this joke, was worth any number of history classes treating of the
systems of apprenticeship or socage. And none objected to the just severity of the sentence
pronounced: This illustrates our
Protestant roots in the Old Testament (since tempered -- laus deo -- by the mercy of the Historical Church). But thirdly, and most
remarkably -- consider how
outlandish this would be, really, outside the chivalric fairyland of jokes --
the third salesman knew in advance,
before any sentence had been passed, not merely that the punishment would be emasculation
(that much anyone might guess from
the simple principle whereby, in the lands of the Mohammedans, the hand of the
thief is forfeit), but that the means
whereby this should be carried out, would exactly and elegantly mirror the
particulars of the paternal occupation! How could he possibly have known this? Why, either by some deep-rooted racial memory, reaching back to
the time of the ur-horde, or by that very same ethical intuition that is
instilled into each of us by our Maker, so soon our souls have been fashioned,
and instilled into the base and aching clay! The joke assumes
and thus implicitly proclaims the
existence of a sort of structured moral canopy, overarching all.
~
To resume.
This joke -- our very first in the “dirty” category -- was
too splendid not to share; and so
I rushed into the kitchen of our ranch-style dwelling (little resembling actual ranches, but so designated in the quaint vocabulary of the day), where our father was seated at
the humble table, enjoying some spare repast.
“Heydadheydad, yawanna heara dirty joke, hmm, huh?”
Mildly he turned, and expressed a willingness to hear out
the juvenile offspring of his loins -- his someday inheritor, and present care.
“Wellsee, this salesman
and a farmer and he said Don’t fuck
my daughter or I’ll cut off your d-d-dick
(!) (omigosh) and then, then, what does your daddy do, and he does stuff, and so, I’m gonna chop it off, and then -- Mydaddyworksinalollipopfactory
you’llhavetosuckmineoff Ha Ha HA HA
HA !!!”
With perhaps a touch of sadness, born of long experience,
and on a tone of gentle concern, he asked:
“Do you … know what … fuck
means, David?”
At once, my blood froze in my veins; the world went black before my
eyes. I had no idea -- or rather,
had had no idea, prior to that very
instant; yet something now told me
-- some ancestral whisper, reaching back to an age when sileni and naiads
copulated in the foam, when Zeus descended upon Leda and did ravish her in the form of a swan -- that it was far
deeper, and mysteriously more taboo, than that schoolboy “dick” business, and
that I was suddenly in way over my head.
“You see,” he said, leaning back pedagogically (and perhaps
making a steeple of his fingers, though we shall never know, for by this point
a glare and haze obscured my sight, not unlike that of Saul on the road to
Damascus) “when the father puts his penis into the mother’s vagina
…”
))) nononononononono
thisisnthappening nononopenisthing nonothatsomethingotherthing nonono nononooo
kthxdad nomorenow,k kthxbai …. (((
The first such joke I told my father was the riddle about the moron, the toilet seat and the half-assed brother-in-law. My dad laughed loud and long. You would think he had never heard it before.
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