When I was a little kid, my dad used to tell me and my brother jokes, or use provocative turns of phrase (mostly provoking his mother-in-law), that relied on some mild but forbidden-to-children vocabulary. He knew how hard it was for us to stay bottled up and not shock the general public (or my mom’s folks), or cause our teachers to be up in arms. We were only moderately successful in not driving the conservatives to their fainting couches.

We attended a Protestant church (for a relatively short time), and I remember the following conversation when my dad came to get us from Sunday school, where the teacher had us all wait until the rest of the kids had gone:

Bluenose:  “Your sons used the s-word in class today.”

Dad: “You lucky bastard.”

Bluenose: “What?”

Dad: “What was it? Sin? Suckling? Boys, did you say ‘swine’?”

Bluenose: “You know what I mean.”

Dad: “Boys, don’t say ‘shit’ around Mr. Smith. It’s not in the Bible.”

Us: “Okay, Dad.”

Dad: “Say ‘sodomy’ instead. That’s a Bible word. Say it: Sah-dah-me.”

Us (chanting and marching): “Sah-dah-ME! Sah-dah-ME! Sah-dah-ME!”

Bluenose is not happy.

Dad: “See? A little ‘shit’ isn’t so bad, is it?”

Bluenose: “I will report this to the Bluenose Board.” [I paraphrase here.]

(In the background: “Sah-dah-ME! Sah-dah-ME! Sah-dah-ME!”)

Dad: “You should tell them I told you to ‘fuck off’.”

(In the background, sudden silence as we stare at Mr. Smith.)

Bluenose: “Why would I…” as the light dawns.

Dad: “Fuck… off.”

So, yeah, my dad was not the reason that we went to church, although he did love the weekly ritual of getting coffee and huge cinnamon rolls at the Gingham Gal diner on the way… of which we were all fond. They weren’t the new-fangled fist-shaped type. They were flatter and plate-sized and amazing… just what Jeff and I needed before being expected to sit quietly. I remember that Arlee Scott attended the same church, and for some reason we went to his house and saw him carving a big sign for Delta Community College (with a paddle wheeler on it).

Anyway, my dad offered us the right amount of scaffolding to help keep us from feeling ostracized and muzzled; crucially, he had learned this from his father. Dad would also tell us about some of the things that grampa would say in order to: a) amuse his well-belovéd son, b) tease our grandmother (although she might have preferred the word “annoy”), and c) establish his compelling perceptibilty in a world that didn’t know ‘autism’ by name, and where Tourette Syndrome wasn’t officially much older than he was.

So here’s the song about my grampa’s sayings (that we heard about a lot). Remember, he said it, not me.

And here is the referenced obituary.

Lyrics

Whenever it was time

to dismiss our grandma

and amuse his well-belovéd son

our grampa would proclaim:

“Talk to my ass, my head hurts.”

He dazzled the senses with colorful language

and no accounting for taste.

Whenever it was time

to refuse our grandma

and delight his well-belovéd son

our grampa would insist:

“I wouldn’t have it up my ass if I had room for a sawmill!”

He dazzled the senses with colorful language

and no accounting for taste.

Whenever it was time

to obey our grandma

and tickle his well-belovéd son

our grampa would declare:

“I’m gonna strap on a tin bill and pick shit with the chickens.”

He dazzled the senses with colorful language

and no accounting for taste.

Whenever it was time

to annoy our grandma

and regale his well-belovéd son

our grampa would command:

“Get a lot while you’re young… real estate!”

He dazzled the senses with colorful language

and no accounting for taste.

Whenever it was time

to offend our grandma

and crack up his well-belovéd son

our grampa would remark:

“Old Italian women don’t need a bra - just a sturdy belt!”

He dazzled the senses with colorful language

and no accounting for taste.

Whenever it was time

to cherish our grandma

and treasure his well-belovéd son

our grampa he would say:

“I love you, my marvelous dears.”

He valued emotions with terms of endearment,

his warmth with which we were graced.

And when it was time

to bury our grandma

our grampa howled out of his mind.

Stark mad for a week,

he worshiped her with all of his soul.

And when it was time

to bury our grampa

his well-belovéd son got locked away.

Stark mad for a week,

he adored him with all of his heart.

They dazzled our senses with colorful language

showing love for their children's taste.

And when it was time

to cremate our father

we were his well-belovéd sons

deciding we would write

A dazzling obituary in colorful language

with no accounting for taste.

Plus, ya know, we planted a tree.