Fern in the Valley

 I really don't write fiction. this is the one and only fictional short story I ever wrote, but in it there are pieces of truth. I know because i had to read it to understand I wrote it.

Fern Campbell sat in her usual place on the vinyl love seat that gave the best view through her hazy glaucoma ridden eyes of everything that was going on.  Fern had just passed her one-hundredth birthday.  She knew she was a hundred most of the time.  Campbell was her maiden name.  She had a couple of other married names in her life, but when they were all gone she returned to her original name because it reflected the years that as life turned out were the only happy years of her long and miserable life.  She always hated the name, Fern.  She never thought the fern was a very pretty plant, and she was indeed very pretty in her youth.  Her ugliness came with the years of unhappiness she endured and made others endure most of her miserable life.  She wondered why her mother didn’t name her Rose, if she had to be named after a plant.  She always related her name to seeing a fossilized fern at the Museum of Natural History.  She chuckled to herself that that is exactly what she was today, a fossilized Fern.  This Fern died a little each day.  Her leaves were mostly brown now and those that were still green had liver spots. 

Fern had been an unhappy, miserable person most of her life.  A bitch would be the proper term in today’s vernacular.  Tragedy entered her life at the age of eighteen, when the only love of her life, Louis, was killed.  It’s a long time to be a bitch.  It made her hundred years even longer.  She had see a lot, but nothing ever replaced the love she had for Louis.  Her thoughts of her unhappy life always centered around how much different her life would have been if Louis and she had been married as planned.  No one ever replaced Louis, no matter how hard they tried.  She made everybody live with her personal tragedy all of her life.

Fern’s mind was like a lottery machine.  Sometimes her mind would bounce around in the chaos of the ping pong balls in the lottery machine.  Sometimes it would spit out thoughts as fast and as clear as the lottery machine spit out the winning numbers.  Sometimes it just sat in silence, resting, staring and sleeping.

The residents began to slowly drift into the lounge area to assume their usual seats in the lounge area to slowly pass away the routines of another day at Happy Valley Care Center.  The Happy Valley Care Center was not happy; it wasn’t in a valley and care center is the rationalized term created by baby-boomers to make them feel better about themselves.  It was still a nursing home and a nursing home is still a nursing home by any other name. 

Happy Valley was actually a very good nursing home given its mission.  Oh yes, there was an occasional smell of urine and the other smells of old people in a state of permanent deterioration, but the food was pretty good and the staff tried to take care of the patients as best they could given their mental and physical condition.  Geriatric care staffs should get medals for doing what should probably done by the families.  The workers are surrounded by craziness, chaos and death everyday.  It takes a special person to not crack under the stress created by this service to humanity.  God will remember them.

There were two floors at Happy Valley.  The first floor was the nicest and was the place for the people who still had their sanity and could move freely at there own pace.  The second floor was a human warehouse for those who would never leave until they were wheeled out on an undertaker’s gurney of the dead.  Most, if not all, had DNR (Do Not Resusitate) on their charts.  Happy Valley was not home to anybody - it was a place to be stored and to wait for grateful death to enter the room.  Some didn’t know or care where they were anyway.  If you ever wanted proof that women live longer than men, visit a nursing home sometime.  Its about ninety-five percent women.

The scene was repeated everyday as they all waited for the Lord and maybe an occasional visitor.  It was amazing how some residents who had living relatives never had visitors.  Out of sight-out of mind.  The scene was sometimes funny, some times tragic, sometimes there were fights, sometimes stealing other’s food and a lot of yelling and calling out to people who were not there and random counting and babbling about nothing and raging, raging at the night.

There were always a lot of flowers around the lounge and at the nurses station.  They helped keep some of the odors of a nursing home under control, but sometimes when the beautiful smell of the flowers was mixed with the horrific smells of the nursing home the results were sometimes more sickening than the smells the flowers were supposed to cover up.  Most of the flowers were donated by relatives of deceased residents, who didn’t know what else to do with them.  It was a good thought, but generally not noticed by the residents.  If they did notice, their thoughts were not on how beautiful the flowers were, but on wondering who died.  When someone in the nursing home died, it was handled in a quiet and non-disruptive manner. The daily routine moved on as if nothing happened.  There were no tears. The family, if there was one, was notified and the designated undertaker came and wheeled them out under yellow plastic hood that fit over the rails of their gurney of death.  Death happened quietly.  It was never unexpected.  To the residents, someone who was there yesterday was simply gone today.  It would be only a passing moment wondering where the person was, but then the routine continued as if nothing ever happened.  Death is an everyday occurrence at Happy Valley.  For the residents death is a happy event.  Maybe that’s where Happy Valley got its name - it does sound better than Death Valley.  Death is treated, as it should be, as another event in life.

Jennifer, the geriatric aerobics and activity director for Happy Valley, appeared as usual at ten o’clock in the morning and two o’clock in the afternoon to try to give the residents something to get their mind and body parts to work.  She was a happy person who loved her work.  A positive attitude is mandatory to be successful in caring for the more than elderly.  Her primary job was to get people who really didn’t want to participate to participate.  Sometimes there would be a grade school choir singing off key, but that didn’t matter the residents were off key themselves in more ways than one.  Every morning was devoted to some geriatric aerobics.  Geriatric aerobics really meant trying to get their arms moving.  The residents sat in their chairs or stood if they could and listened to Jennifer’s instructions.  “Let’s do fifteen arm raises” she called out.  One, two, three, four ..... Let’s do five more, she shouted enthusiastically.”  Pete was one of the original curmudgeons of Happy Valley and always a reluctant participant in any activity.  He had more of his faculties than he let on so that he wouldn’t be bothered by anybody, particularly, Jennifer.  This last instruction was the last straw.  He lashed out,  “ Damn it kid - why didn’t you say twenty in the first place.  Didn’t you think anyone would notice?”  Actually nobody, but Pete did.  God Bless Pete he is still raging at the world to let them know that he “ain’t” dead yet.

Fern noticed through her fogged eyes that a young man approached the desk.  “Why that looks like Louis, she thought.”  “No, it couldn’t be he’s been dead some eighty years.”  But it was.“Oh, Louis why did it have to happen.”  “God has never treated me fairly my whole life.”  “The only happy time of my life was when we were together.  “I remember the first time I saw you.”  I was ten and you were fourteen.  You didn’t even notice me, but I noticed you.  I thought you were the handsomest boy I had ever seen.  I never changed that opinion.  Then one day when I was sixteen you came into my father’s grocery store and noticed me for the first time even though you came in most everyday.  Oh what a glorious romance we had.  You graduated from high school and got a job at the Union Traction Company, the interurban street car system that carried its passengers all over Indiana.  I remember that moonlight night you proposed marriage, and I accepted.  It was the night before the big train wreck up in Wells County that killed 240 people and you.  Oh how I cried.  Nothing could take away the grief I had.  No one ever did. 

Why did God let this happen to me?  I never found anyone like you even though I tried my whole life.  I waited until I was twenty-seven to marry.  I married because it was the thing to do.  At twenty-seven in those days you were destined to be an old maid.  William was seemed like a good man when we married.  He worked hard at the foundry. He would come home all sweaty and stinky with a load on that he an the boys would put on at Folkies Tavern.  When he was drunk he was mean and he often beat me.  I stayed as long as I could bear and then just took off.  I became a drunk myself and didn’t sober up until I was fifty.  Oh Louis how could God let this happen?  How could he ruin my life this way?  If only we could have been married life would have been so different.”  The second time I married it was for money.  I was still a looker, even though I had a few miles on me.  Robert was a kind and gentle man, but I didn’t love him.  I married him for money and security.  He worked and traveled most of the time and I stayed home drinking my wine.  We had a couple of kids that turned out to be basically jerks.  Hell I’ve even outlived them.  I’ve outlived them all.  When I think about my life, I guess I was a mean spirited person, always looking out for myself.  Oh, Louis we would have been so happy.  I tried most everything on the face of the earth to find that state of happiness we shared so long ago.  Nothing ever made me as happy as you.  Everybody was less than you.  God and you made me the miserable person I was and maybe still am.

This long soliloquy tired Fern out, and she dozed for a minute.  She only woke up because they called lunch.  She never missed her lunch.  She always hated lunch.  However, if she were asked what she had she could never remember, but it was good. She moved to her assigned seat by herself.  She had a habit of stealing other peoples food and often picked a fight with her table mate.  Finally she was punished by getting a small table all to herself.I t was more like a baby chair with a tray that locked her in.  Actually she liked being by herself so it was not punishment at all.

 When lunch was over, she took her slow walk down the corridor to her room for her formal afternoon nap.  As she entered her room, she could see the young man who had been standing at the desk earlier was sitting in one chair of the two chairs in the room. It still looked like Louis. 

Hello Fern, it’s Louis, the young man said quietly. 

“Oh Louis, I thought that was you, but I wasn’t sure.  It’s been so long.  Why haven’t you come to see me, inquired Fern.” 

“Because I’ve been dead for eighty years, Fern, he answered softly.” 

“I know that, but that’s not an excuse.  Louis, why did God let you die so young and let me live a most unhappy life that has lasted longer than it should?”  My life would have been so happy if God had not done this to us.  We were so happy.”

“Why have you come after all of these years?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.  I’ve come to take you to the other side.  It is time Fern, but before we go we need to talk about what happened to me, to you and to God.  God hasn’t been sure you belong with us in Heaven.  Miserable mean persons. who have treated people the way you have treated people all of your life don’t usually get to see the glories of the heavenly place.  It is a heavenly and happy place, and we like heavenly and happy people there. He, I should say we, are not sure you qualify, but since you have lived a hundred years that may have already been your hell.  God reconsidered, and I am here to help you if we can come to a meaningful resolution as to what your life meant.”  Fern, you must see the light.

“What do you mean by that, an understanding about the meaning of my life that God brought on me.”

“Fern, let me take you through it.  First of all God’s plan for me was that I have an early death.  Even though we were friends and lovers and about to be married and I know my death was not without affect on you, it was my plan and my death.  Taken to its ultimate conclusion, my death affected me, not you.  We accept the fact that a grieving period is necessary, but then God expects people to get on with their lives.  You didn’t do that.  You mourned your whole life and made everybody miserable.  Thank god they all died before you.  God expects people to mourn and then put the tragedies behind them.  It doesn’t necessarily mean forget the good times we had, but it does not mean to dwell forever on them.’

“You see what we missed by not being given the time to marry and live happily ever after.  It was as you saw it, a picture perfect Camelot where everything was one happy event after another.  Let me tell you Fern no one’s life in the whole world has been or ever be one happy event after another.  That is has never been God’s plan for anyone.  Sure we were happy, but we were young and we had none of life’s real experiences.  We were in the heavenly bliss of true love and nothing more.  Our marriage would have had all of the ups and downs that any marriage has.  Who knows, it might have even ended in divorce.  We will never know because we don’t know what God’s plan would have been for the rest of our lives together.  It doesn’t matter because it never existed.”

“God expects people to get on with their lives.  You didn’t and everyone who came in your path suffered.  Others may have viewed you as a very strong woman, but in reality you were weaker than any of them, and you took your unhappiness out on them.”

“Oh, Louis I’m so sorry, but I loved you so much.

“That’s no excuse to be the sorry person you were most of your life.”

“Fern you have lived a full life.  Your were beautiful and you were wealthy.  You tried everything available both good and bad to find happiness and you never did, because happiness is a state of mind that comes from the inside.  Fern in the end the only thing that matters is the love of God and family.  Nothing material on earth matter in the long run.  It is a person’s family and the love of God.”

Suddenly it felt like a weight was lifted from her shoulders and a light went on in the lottery machine.  She could see for the first time.  She understood that her unhappiness was not because of God or Louis’ death.  It was because of herself and her inability to move on with her life, and the dastardly way she made everyone pay for this inability.

Oh, Louis I see. - I really do.  I am so sorry.  She cried real tears for the first time in a long time.  I beg your forgiveness and all the people in my life who I have hurt their forgiveness and the forgiveness of God.  Please forgive me.  She sobbed and sobbed.  The sobbing was the weight continuing to be lifted from her.  They were tears of joy.  Louis held her quietly and gently hugged her and patted her back.  He was as happy as she.  His only love would be with him forever.  Fern was the last person he would have to help through the passage of this life to the everlasting life of heaven.

“We’ll Fernie you’ll get that chance to ask for all of their forgiveness in person because they are all waiting to meet you when we arrive.  It’s time to go.”

Louis took Fern’s arm and they walked out the door and down the hall into the light.  Happiness was ahead.  A second chance to make it better.  And she would be with Louis finally and forever.  How could Heaven not be a happy place.

The Slow Twitcher!

The last team I made was the fifth and sixth grade basketball team at Emerson Grade School.  I was short -- real short - five foot tall when I got out of the eighth grade.  I was known as a diligent defensive player.  My offensive career game high was four points, so you can see why I was a defensive specialist.   The primary reason I played good defense, as my father pointed out to me after watching me play from his seat above the floor of the old YMCA in Marion, was that I guarded my man at all times - even on offense.  When the coach told me to stick to my man I did.  I was and am good at following instructions from the coach - Mr. Mack, the grade school principal in regular life.

We actually had a pretty good team.  We won in the city championship.  We played the final at the Marion Coliseum before a Marion Giant game.  It was a big thrill.  We played Horace Mann Grade School from West Marion.  Many guys on Horace Mann would later become some of my best friends in high school.

From the Marion High School class of 1955 prophecy.  “Sam Arnold broke his own record in the 100 yard dash -50.1”  Unfortunately, that was not far from the truth.  Later I learned that I was a victim of slow-twitch muscle fibers.  It really is in the genes.  A slow twitcher can be an athlete, but no matter how hard a person works they will never be a more than a journeyman jock.

In junior high school we had a “decathlon” competition in the spring semester in connection with physical education class.  Points were earned on a scale based on how well you did as an individual in each event.  Theoretically, based on increasing strength and maturity, a student should win a bronze medal in the seventh grade, a silver in the eighth and a gold in the ninth.  In the late winter months we would do sit-ups, push-ups, chin-ups etc in the gym.  As the weather got better in the spring, we moved to outside events, 100 yard dash, standing and running broad-jump, pole vault etc.  It all culminated with an all-school field day where you took your final outdoor test to earn points.  The decathlon was the basis of the class prophecy statement.  I never won any medal in any grade.

My lack of athletic ability did not deter me from my overall love of sports and it didn’t stop me from trying out for baseball and basketball teams right up until my sophomore year in high school when I went out for baseball.  That was the last team I tried out for.  Naturally, I never survived the first cut in any sport I attempted.

I guess every boy passes that day when they realize there are others that are better.  One of the hardest times I had as a parent was to see your child come to the realization that they are not very good in athletics and that they were taking early retirement from team sports.  Both of my sons were cursed with the slow-twitch.

Tim loved basketball.  Tim continues to be an avid sport’s fan.  He is a real student of most all sports.  He was and is short.  He tried out for the sixth grade team at Saint Vincent’s Grade School in Fort Wayne.  When it came time for the final cuts, Tim didn’t make it and everyone in the carpool and his buddies made it.  It was difficult for him, and at least as difficult for me.  It was his first lesson in understanding that there are disappointments in life.  At the time though it was the most important thing in his life.  He went on to play association basketball in Fort Wayne and later in Yorba Linda, CA and then he too retired. 

Another sad time was in “Y” basketball in Fort Wayne.  They had a pretty good team.  His Grandpa and Grandma Arnold came up to seem him play.  Tim’s team got killed.  There is no other way to put it.  I don’t remember the final score, but I think they were behind twenty points before they scored their first basket.  He was totally embarrassed and even cried.  He was mad at me because I joked with him about how bad they played.  He didn’t see the humor in it.  I guess no kid would that was looking to show Grandma and Grandpa his best.  He had a pretty good shot and at least he participated.  He hung them up for good after the eighth grade.

Mark loved baseball.  He was a die-hard Cub fan.  He played little league in Yorba Linda and again in Eden Prairie.  He also had the curse of the slow-twitch.  He couldn’t field too well, was a weak hitter and above all slow as molasses.  At the start of his second season in Eden Prairie he gave it up and quit.

Tim has continued on in his love of sports, while Mark has moved on to movies, computer animation et al.

It is tough when, as a boy, you realize you don’t have the talent.  What is important is that you continue to search for something you enjoy and can be at least average.  I found that in golf.

A Little Boy Remembers

I knew my Grandpa Bailey, but I guess I really didn’t know him.  I knew my middle name was the same as his first name because my name carries the names of both of my grandfathers.  I knew he was in the Spanish-American War because as a child I played with his old army campaign hat, and I knew that he made his living as a bricklayer all of his working life.  But I guess I never knew him as an extraordinary person with an ordinary story to tell.  He was just my grandpa.

My Grandpa Bailey was the first person I ever knew who died.  He died of inoperable cancer on August 7, 1948, a week before his sixty-eighth birthday.  His last words to my mother, as they wheeled him into the operating room were, “See you in church.”  I don’t think my grandfather was a very religious man, but perhaps he was making his peace with God.  I heard my mother tell the story of those last words many times over the years.  You don’t forget the memories and the last words of a dying father.

I was ten years old when he died, to young to understand my feelings about death very well, but I did know that I felt a kind of sadness that I had never felt before.  His casket was placed before the brick fireplace he had built with his own hands in the living room of the house he and my grandmother shared on West Ninth Street in Jonesboro, Indiana.  Sometimes I moved around the room, sometimes I went outside and sat quietly on the porch, and sometimes I sat on the periphery, watching his friends and neighbors pay their last respects in muffled tones.  When there was nobody around, I stood next to his casket and just looked at him with an emptiness in my stomach.  He was dressed in his best double-breasted pin-striped suit, and his rimless glasses rested on his nose.  His eyes were closed, just as I had seen them many times before as he was dozing off in his easy chair.  His callused hands from forty plus years of bricklaying were folded at his waist.  On the fourth finger of his right hand was his 32d degree Masonic ring.  I cried that he was gone, and I knew I would miss him. 

I remember my mother telling my younger brother and me that we would be going our house with Dad for the night, but she would be staying with grandma.  I was glad we didn’t have to stay over night at Grandma’s house because I wasn’t sure about sleeping in the same house with a dead person, even if that dead person was my grandpa.  There seemed something odd about a dead person resting in a living room.  “That’s why they have funeral homes,” I thought to myself.

The funeral service was conducted in his living room, and his pall bearers were friends from the organizations that meant the most to him throughout his life -- Masons, Spanish-American War veterans and members of the brickmason’s union.  After the service and the hymns, the casket was placed in the long black hearse of the Jay and Swift Funeral Home and a solemn parade of cars, with little blue flags fluttering from the bumpers signifying our special place that day, slowly proceeded up Main Street and across the Mississinewa River to the Riverside Cemetery in Gas City. 

Small stones pinged under the fenders like hail on a tin roof as the procession rolled through the gates of the cemetery and up the white crushed stone road toward his burial site next to his father, mother and younger sister, who had gone before.  A soft summer breeze ruffled the fringes of the tent and the American flag covering the casket as the mourners gathered under the green open-aired tent set against the blue of the Indiana summer sky.  The family took their seats on the folding chairs placed beside the casket.  The pastor said a few words, “dust to dust”, and that sort of thing, the sad and lonely notes of Taps echoed across the cemetery and then it was over.  Friends and family said a few quiet words to each other and began to go their separate ways. 

As we walked back to our car in silence, I took a quick glance over my shoulder to catch a final glimpse of where my grandfather would be buried forever.  Dad started the engine, and we eased our way out of the cemetery and on to the road back to Grandma’s house.  The silence was broken when my father reached over and turned on the radio.  As the music began to play, I can clearly remember feeling the great burden of grief being lifted from my body.  Suddenly, I felt better.  The program on the radio was normal.  The traffic was normal.  The sunshine was normal.  The green of the trees and grass was normal.  Everything was normal, and the world was indeed going on as usual.  I guess it was my first realization that death’s rituals pass and the world, as it had done while I was away, goes on about its daily business.

Little Sammy Carl

Mexican Baptism!

As I stood outside the beautiful old Catholic church in South Minneapolis, the various baptismal families began to arrive.  It was a heart warming to see the little children dressed in their Sunday best.  Their clothes were sparkling and spotless; White dresses for the girls and little white suits for the boys.  Each and every one of them was beautiful, innocent and precious.

Later at the baptismal party, the adults all sat in small groups in Spanish conversation.  There were twenty or more kids who sat together or ran around all speaking fluent, non-accented English.  These children are an important piece of the next generation of Americans; piñatas, tortillas and all.

Our families were all immigrants at one time or another.  Many of our own ancestors didn’t speak English, but worked hard and sacrificed to establish the next generation and the future of our families in America.  In this modest backyard, full of happy children, I witnessed the legacy of America continue.

God Bless America!

Sam

Forgiveness!

Matthew 18:21-22 Then Peter came up and said to him, “Lord, how often will my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? As many as seven times?” Jesus said to him, “I do not say to you seven times, but seventy times seven.

Forgiving others can be easy, but total forgiveness is harder. True forgiveness must be embedded deep in your heart. Perhaps the most important part of forgiving is that is freeing. When you hold onto a hurt, it only hurts you in the long run. The other person is oblivious to your hurt.

Perhaps the greatest story of forgiveness is a story about the Amish. In 2005 a man went to a one room Amish school. He lined up the girls and the boys. He sent the boys away, and then turning his gun to the girls shot them, execution style. Five sweet little girls were killed. He then turned the gun on himself. Later the Amish families went to the home of the killer and said that they forgave him. They were in deep mourning, but knew that in order to move on they must forgive as Jesus taught them in the Bible. Later the school was torn down to erase part of the tragedy from their view. This forgiveness is almost unbelievable, but this deeply religious sect lives by God's word to its fullest.

There is a man I know very well, who had a estranged relationship with his oldest son. He did not speak to his father for about five years. His father forgave him. Whatever the reason it was now on his son's shoulder. The man moved forward without anger. His son had an enormous school debt, which was about to stress him out. Due to the untimely death of their youngest son, the father and mother received a fairly large amount of unexpected money. Neither felt they should be given money because of this family tragedy. No amount of money could sooth the hurt of losing a son.They decided to help their other son by helping him reduce his school debt.

It was then the father, who thought he had forgiven, was challenged as to whether he had truly forgiven in his heart. The money came from life insurance, paid upon the death of his brother, with whom he also did not speak. The father prayed and sought counsel about whether he should help his son with the debt he, himself, created. The answer was finally revealed that, yes, if he had  truly forgiven, then this gift should be given, no strings attached  That put the binding seal on true forgiveness.

As hard at it is to forgive sometimes, it is the only way to find deep happiness in your own life.

Think about forgiving a person in your life who has affronted you. You will be amazed as to how freeing it is.

Samuel

Here Come Da Judge!

"Do not judge, or you too will judged. For the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you." Matthew 7: 1-2

I've always been troubled by that oft quoted verse. It is plain that it says that you should not judge others, but how do  we do that? How do you not judge? You most make a judgement in order to make a decision. You must judge, not to judge not. I decided to research some Biblical scholars about this the subject

First I learned that it is often the most misquoted and misused verse in the Bible. You have to go beyond the first two versus.

"Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother's eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, ' let me take the speck out of your eye,' when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your ow eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother's eye."

So what it says is that before you judge, look at yourself. So it is more about being a hypocrite than judging. We certainly have experienced even the clergy who speaks from the pulpit about sins, but at the same time commit adultery or molestation of you boys.

In order to judge you need for your own house morally in order, We know we are all sinners and will fall short. Our lives must be guided by a moral compass that is a part of every major religion in the world. I have found people when a person charges me with being too judgmental, it is a sign that they know their stuff is not in order. It is an attempt to switch the blame back at you. It is then they invoke the "Judge not...".

The important thing about judging is not judging the person, but judging their behavior. In my case I have little use for drunkenness or drug use, abuse, liars, cheaters, non-payment on loans, or a situation where a person continues bad behavior and expects different outcomes. I am very patient person in my relationships and give the benefit of the doubt and continue to try to help a person in whatever way I can. When things don't change, eventually I must make a decision about whether or not I want to be involved in this person's life.When the negatives becomes too strong, I must move away, but will be there when there is a change, and truly wants my counsel. I usually asked if they had considered the church. I don't push, just put forth an option in which they may see how to get their lives back. It is now time that the person must look at themselves.

I break people in to two oversimplified types, givers and takers. Givers will always continue to give even though they may have burned. Takers will always take. With them it's always somebody else's fault.  I have little room in my life for takers who continue to be takers.

Well that's enough sermon for today.

Have a nice day!

Samuel

The Evolution of Bad Language!

There is no question our language has become courser over my life time. I must admit cursing is my ongoing sin, although I am trying to do better.

Swearing and crude language has come a long way in my lifetime. I remember distinctly going to see Gone with the Wind, as a young teenager. I was truly shocked when Rhett Butler uttered those immortal words, "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn." That was the first time I had heard a curse word in a movie. Compare that to the 506 times the F-bomb was dropped in The Wolf of Wall Street.

A friend of mine's granddaughter, age about seven, happened to drop the F-bomb at home. I doubt if she even knew what it meant.  Her brother was quick to point out that she learned at the school bus stop. He was about ten.

I remembers, as a kid, the F-bomb was a forbidden word. You even felt ashamed if you used it, especially if it was around a girl or girls.  Now the F-bomb is one of the most popular words with young woman.

Let me take you back to an age of innocence, the late forties, early fifties. Most terms revolved around body parts and bodily functions.  I had a "Johnny", not a penis. My butt cheeks were called "peaches".There is nothing more beautiful than a baby's "peaches". It was common in my family to use the words when loving on a baby," Pinch a peach." Now you could be charged with child molestation. If I had to pee, I would go "wee wee". Of course, there is the infamous "stinker", "Did you let a stinker". Followed by "The dog did it, or silent, but deadly" To poop, the term would be, I have to "grunt". Of course Number 1 and Number 2 were also acceptable. When I was in the hospital last November, I told the nurse I had to go to the bathroom, she actually asked, "Number 1 or Number 2". It's nice to know some things don't change.

When my brother and I were about eight and five, we had a neighborhood friend our age. He was famous for using the term "Shitass." Our mother had a little talk with us that we should not use that bad word. My brother, who was swinging on the door exclaimed, "He says just plain shit too".

Well so much for the evolution of swearing.

Have a nice day. And I still have sweet peaches.

Sweet Little Sammy Carl.