As the youngest of Dad's five children, I was often subjected to more "grown up" things than say a first born child. Despite Mom and Dad's attempts to send me to bed so the teenagers could watch Dirty Dancing (I watched from the stairs peering through the balusters), or make me Shirley Temples so I'd feel like I had a cocktail (only to sip from their's without them noticing), I managed to absorb all the wrong things.
I can thank Dad for my first profanity.
I believe I was around 4 or 5 years old. I was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and garage, holding the heavy door open. I was watching Dad, he was working at his work-bench on his HO scale trains. I can't imagine anyone who knows Dad doesn't know the size of HO scale, but for those who do not know, they are the small ones. He was concentrating pretty hard, and then he fumbled with something.
"Dammit", Dad yelled.
In the next half second, I realized that this was probably not a good moment to bother Dad, yet my curiosity peaked.
"Dammit!" I shouted back.
I knew it was bad, but I did it anyway. I let go of the door and by the time it swung shut I was half-way across the house. He never came after me. I thought I'd get in trouble, but really, he was probably thinking he could get in trouble.
When telling Molly this story, she recalled another situation. Apparently, the whole family overheard me around the same age use this word in context when I was unable to open the toothpaste tube.
Those ridged caps can be pretty painful when they are stuck.
Dad
in his backyard haven
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