“Kaylee, come here, ya daft, ol’ beggar!” My dog had bolted for a cat, and I hauled on her tether to get her inside where we could stop her barking. While I fought a tug-of-war against our 60-pound pooch, I thought of another gift my father had left me.
I hadn’t used profanity.
Today’s salty language is omnipresent, but a foul mouth was far more rare in my youth, and I never heard Dad swear. Not once. The worst I can remember is his expression of distaste whenever my behavior made him drop what he was doing and correct me.
I knew that look, eyes narrowed, mouth stretched wide in a flat line. Not anger, just disappointment that I hadn’t lived up to his expectations, and I grew to hate it, vowing I’d never show that same disappointment to my children.
He taught me more than how to correct a child. I learned humor with his “dad jokes,” like the one when we drove over a railroad crossing. “Hey, Bill, a train’s been by here recently. How do you think I know?”
I shrugged.
“You can tell by the tracks.”
I winced. Got me again.
I pulled myself back to the present and wrestled our mutt, full of pride at protecting us from a 10-pound kitty, back inside and went to my desk.
James sat behind me at another computer where he played an interactive online game. He wore headphones with an attached microphone and his voice came loud to my ears. “No profanity, please.”
Ian went into the kitchen and fixed a bowl of food for our dog. “Kaylee! Come here, ya daft ol’ beggar.”
Despite my best efforts, I’ve failed at keeping Dad’s look of distaste off my face. But, I may be doing something right.
William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.