When Not To Say Fuck

It's a mixed bag, being the oldest child. You're the responsible one, unfairly blamed for bickering and your sister's foul mouth, forced to grow up first and give up your footie jammies when you aren't quite ready while your sisters stay small and portable. But a good thing is the trust and hero worship from your younger siblings. Things go wrong when they don't listen to you. You're an authority with a certain amount of power when you're away from adults. A better thing is finding out you've made an amusing impact on a sibling. I wish I could remember why I thought that. And what did I think asshole meant?

Postscript: I remember, when the lazy, playful but instructive days of summer winded down, and school began again, H and I went for a walk with our mom, as we often did on weekends. We had no destination in mind, but it was a warm autumnal day, and the leaves were colourful and crisp. We noticed a "For Sale" sign that had been defaced by graffiti. Our precocious H decided to read the most prominent word, her mouth hesitantly forming the necessary sounds to happily tell our mother that the sign said "fuck". That, my friends, marked the first time one of us had said a bad word in front of a parent. Had we been children only a decade ago, H would have had her mouth washed out with soap. Mom looked H, then to me (I looked back with my innocent eyes (since H was clearly corrupted)), then back to H. Mom agreed that yes, that's what the sign said, but that word should never be used. Nice girls did not say such things.

H did not heed my warning, and what was worse, it was in front of a parent. Somehow, it was my fault (true). Her gaffe won me a lecture from mom, about how there are better, more acceptable ways to talk. That lesson didn't stick for either of us.

* * * * *

Chedwick requested pictures of snow. Here's the view in my backyard; I found it too cold to actually go outside, so I lifted the screen in my bedroom. Yes, those are my fingers. And those little twigs sticking up? My 3' lilac tree. I'm sure it will be fine.

The Meaning of Fuck

Want to hear another little story about M? Gather 'round, kids.

I was a very innocent child. Sheltered even. My head was not polluted with ugly thoughts or words or fears. Well, at least not until one day.

I was probably five years old, which would make M seven. We were playing outside with a bunch of neighbourhood kids, some who were boys. It was one of those carefree summer days of sliding down the wet banana and playing tag. The sun shining, the birds singing, all that crap.

But suddenly, it all changed. One of the neighbourhood boys, M's friend Eric N, said the queen mother of all swears: Fuck. A hush went over the children (quite a feat, since it takes a lot to shut up kids). "M," I asked, wide-eyed and serious. "What does that word mean?"

M's expression grew grim, like a mother telling her child the truth about Santa. "Come here," she said, and led me behind our brown Chevrolet station wagon. We crouched down by the licence plate and I still remember the the crunch of driveway gravel beneath my flip flops.

"Fuck is a very bad word," M said. "And you should never say it."

"But why? What does it mean?" I asked.

M sighed, as if all the world's truths were about to come spilling from her mouth. "It means," she said with a dramatic pause." A man's bum crack."

That moment is the cause of my current inability to make decisions, my fickle nature, and my bi-annual existential crises. Because, you see, M never explained further, but I had so many questions. How was a boy's bum crack different from a girl's bum crack? And what was so horrible about bum cracks that they became the word that should never be uttered? Bum cracks were funny, weren't they? Apparently not. Apparently, the time my friend Bobby P's swimshorts came down a bit after doing a cannonball in the pool, I had seen his "fuck." And I would never be the same.

It took several years before I learned the true meaning of the word. And when I did, well, that's another story.

Love Guns

Oh H.

Had I known I'd also be housing a KISS lunch box (where did that come from?), I'd have asked for rent. This discovery is almost enough to make me stop going through your stuff. But not quite.

Destroyer

I'm a Trekkie and proud of it. We're an easily mocked group. But you know who's not mocked nearly enough? KISS fans. And count H among them.

She fell into the KISS resurgence about 10 years ago: there were the albums, t-shirts, stickers, and God help me, action figures. (And it's always confused me: what does KISS do that necessitates drum missiles, bass battle ax or space sled?) And those figures went everywhere with H, and were proudly displayed in her bedroom and bathroom. It was cute, from a certain point of view.

She stopped short of officially joining the KISS Army, but only because she couldn't afford the premium membership.

PROOF!

Please note that I am not a Trekkie. I'm just a fan of The Shat. But I thought I'd back up my statement about M being a Trekkie and make her look foolish in the process. I added the caption, of course, but I think she really did say that. Hardcore, man.



PS Thanks for the picture of me hula hooping, M. I really did kick your ass that day.

PPS To answer your question: It was me.