Tales From Exit 22 by Al Batt

“Egad! Tarnation! Jumping Jehoshaphat! Dadgum! Jeepers creepers! Dagnab it! Fiddlesticks! Great Scott!”

That wasn’t what he said.

That wasn’t even close to what he said while he was in the process of having a cow.

He had uttered an expletive, not one of its euphemistic versions. It was apparent that he hadn’t learned that oil had just been discovered on his land. His vocalization made it clear that while we all have our troubles, he had more than his share.

He’d been in a lovely mood. He’d just purchased some Johnston & Murphy dress shoes. The self-proclaimed “Shoemaker to the Presidents” has presented handcrafted footwear to every American president since Millard Fillmore in 1850. But even shoes handmade in Nashville weren’t enough to keep him happy. Oh, well, life’s job isn’t to make us happy.

We were in a crowded place, filled with other humans and those aspiring to become humans. I worried that one of them would snarl, “Bridle thy tongue!”

I wasn’t sure how to take his carelessly given outburst, so I responded to my friend this way, “You do know that people can hear you, don’t you?”

He’d just read that Radio Shack was probably going out of existence. He liked Radio Shack. He wasn’t happy to hear it might go belly up. He was a frequent customer, of which there had been obviously too few, who purchased electronic doodads, thingamajigs and whatchamacallits there. Now Radio Shack was in danger of becoming another name on that dusty shelf of memories.

This same fellow had no idea that his wife was capable of swearing until he missed the turn on the way to her sister’s wedding. He was told, when given directions, that he couldn’t possibly miss the turn. He missed it anyway, but not the ditch. His bride, without a hint of a blush, swore like a sailor.

I had a neighbor once, who if swearing had been a superpower, would have been Superman, Spider-Man and the Incredible Hulk all rolled into one. If a curse word could have saved a life, no one anywhere in the world would ever have died. No one could hold a candle to his cussing. The wind of his words would have blown it out.

My parents lived a cuss-free life.

My father said the mildest of epithets, “What the Sam Hill!” and “Cheese and crackers!”

I heard “For Pete’s sake!” “For the love of Mike!” “Heavens to Betsy!” “For crying out loud!” and “Good gravy!” often.

A Sunday school teacher, when frustrated by her dimwitted students, was fond of uttering, “Jesus wept!”

That was also the favorite Bible verse for confirmation class students to memorize.

Rocky the Flying Squirrel, a star of the “Rocky and Bullwinkle” TV cartoons, frequently used the phrase, “Hokey smokes.”

I like movies. I took my mother to theaters. It was difficult to find a film with language suitable for a mother’s ears. There might have been Oscar moments on the screen, but they were outnumbered by cringeworthy minutes. As a lad, I’d discovered that the shortest distance from my mouth to my mother’s ear was a swear word. The cavalry would soon arrive, disguised as a bar of soap.

Other adults in my young life, who either changed the subject or cleaned up their acts when I was around because little pitchers have big ears, tossed out, “Holy smokes!” “H-E-double hockey sticks!” “Holy Moses!” “Land’s sakes!” “For cat’s sake!” “Son of a gun!” and “Great balls of fire!”

I like the idea of using kelemenopy as a cussword. This word was invented by John Ciardi in his book, “A Browser’s Dictionary,” because the author wanted to father a word. He defined kelemenopy as a sequential straight line through the middle of everything, leading to nowhere. It’s from k-l-m-n-o-p, which occupies the center of the alphabet, with ten letters on each side. Ciardi didn’t create it as a substitute for a curse word, but it does the trick. Plus, people might remember you after you’ve grumbled such a word. Kelemenopy! It works.

I figure if my school’s behind-the-wheel driving instructor didn’t find the need to swear, there is no need to swear.

I know, I know. Swear words are just words. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. I prefer kind words. Kind words are, well, kinder.

I favor the mildest of oaths. One that works on every planet. It means nothing and it means everything, but it passes all understanding.

It’s “Uffda!”

 

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.