If I have a failing, and I know you’re thinking that I can’t possibly have one, it is my ability to swear. I can lay out a perfectly layered litany of colourful nouns and adjectives that would make a high seas pirate blush.
This is not a skill I picked up at home. In fact, one of the worst encounters I ever had with my father occurred shortly after he heard me using the “f” word in a friend’s home when I was about 10 years old. And while I knew that little dandy pretty early in life, I can’t say I really picked up much from school either. The odd little phrase, for sure, but nothing serious.
No, my penchant for profanity was acquired while I was a part of the bridge construction industry. For some reason, people engaged in that worthy endeavour seem prone to use the occasional curse word or 50.
My real teachers were two short, recently immigrated Scottish carpenters who helped me build (I did have a bit of help) a bridge for a new expressway in a nearby big city in 1967 when I was 16. These two characters could not so much as comment on the weather without invoking a lot of the worst word combinations ever thrown together.
I was impressed. This early introduction to the most terrible items the English language has to offer was followed up with my Phd (piled higher and deeper) in swearing which I picked up at another construction job and two factories I toiled away in.
To this day, when I get frustrated, a torrent of colourful words springs immediately to my lips and sometimes that is inconvenient. With the nice weather this past week, I have been doing a lot of work outside and have let loose now and then when I’ve hit a finger with a hammer or a knee against a wheelbarrow handle. When I finish, I look around to see if any neighbours might have heard.
I don’t feel particularly bad about my nasty habit. Besides, it’s not my fault. If I could just catch up with those two little carpenters from Scotland I would let them have it in language that only they could truly appreciate.
©2011 Jim Hagarty
