I remember when frequent use of foul language started in school, by some of my friends’ parents, and by people in public. It was in 1967-1968 when I was aged 10-11. My mother and grandmother told me the same thing as JOAN’s parents. Bad language, whether blasphemy, profanity, or vulgarity is used by those unable or unwilling to properly express themselves.
It wasn’t tolerated in my home, not by we children or by our friends, or by adults. If we children used holy names in vain or uttered profanity, the punishment was to taste the top of the Palmolive (dish soap) bottle, say or write the Act of Contrition a number of times, and if below puberty, get our age in swats to the derrière. If older, then another physical punishment, usually performing vigorous exercises for one's age in minutes. For vulgarity, we still had to taste Mrs. Palmolive, and then think of and repeat or write more appropriate words. Example, “derrière, bottom, were acceptable, “butt, ass, were not!
Of course, most of us tested the limits from time to time, myself included. I didn’t often get severely punished, but once, while on a road trip with our Nimrod tent trailer, our car, a blue Dodge station wagon, broke down on I-40 outside of Nashville, TN. It failed to shift properly and the rear brakes kept sticking. Dad pulled into the far end of a Sears parking lot, set up the trailer, and we stayed the night. First thing in the morning he limped off in the car to a garage, leaving Mom and us in the trailer. There were no trees anywhere, so as the sun rose, the trailer got hotter and hotter until it was intolerable. The baby vomited from overheating, so Mom gathered us up and we set off across the huge lot for the air-conditioned Sears. All was well while we looked at everything there was to see, but after a time boredom set in. Mom bought dresses for we girls, and toy trucks for the boys. Then we went outside and tried to play on the sidewalk where the building cast a little shade. It was still too hot, so back inside we went with the idea to go through the store finding something that started with each letter of the alphabet, a good idea in theory, but not in practice with seven kids. We either got too excited or bored. We began playing on the escalator, running, hiding in clothes racks, and my youngest sister, age four, had a “meltdown.” Mom gathered us up and we were already being herded towards the door when the manager “invited us to leave.” Halfway across the broiling asphalt, I could feel the heat through the soles of my sneakers. Everyone was cranky and Mom had a migraine. I looked up and realized I’d fallen behind and ran to catch up, all out of breath, grumbling that my feet were burning up. Mom asked me why the bad attitude. I replied, “ ‘Cause it’s so G__ d___ hot, you can fry a f____g egg on the sh___y sidewalk!”
My mother was shocked and said, “Would you care to repeat that, young lady?” So I did.
Let’s just say I got a good taste of Mrs. Palmolive, got writer’s cramp from four pages of the Act of Contrition, and my bottom strapped by Dad upon his return. Next day, we left, the car repaired, but not before finding a church where Dad knocked on the rectory door and arranged for me to go to Confession! I was very embarrassed and wanted to wait until Saturday to find a priest, but Dad knew what was needed. I remember the priest who came out of the door was ancient and amazingly skinny. He looked healthy enough, but I’d never seen anyone so thin and straight. Even Dad remarked on his physic. None of us, Dad included, could remember his name except that it was something Irish. We referred to him as Fr. O’Pencil! He was an excellent confessor, that I remember. The name of the church was St. Patrick’s. I’m sure he’s gone to his reward. RIP, Fr. O’Pencil.