Cursing is not a flattering form of speech for the speaker and certainly not for any intended or even incidental target.
Of course, in Texiz and much of the Old South, we don’t say “cursing,” we refer to the vile verbal bile as “cussin’.”
My mother’s list of unacceptable words was endless. On the other hand, Dad’s raising was more hard-scrabble. He was a cowboy-rancher-farmer, who was orphaned at 11 and destined to a boyhood and pre-teen years as an unwanted Depression cast-off by his relatives. His youth knew little tenderness or refinement. His language could be salty.
However, Dad knew better than to bring cow lot talk into Mom’s house.
Some of Dad’s raising was in his maternal grandfather’s household. Tom H. Smith could be a bit profane, not to mention owning a wide ornery streak.
Grandpa was born in the Civil War’s aftermath, amidst a mood of resentment at losing the war and downright hate for the occupying Union Army.
However, old-fashioned Southern gentleman schooling called for the cow pen cussin’ to be put aside around wimmin-folk. That led Grandpa Smith to develop expletives that depicted an uncivil disdain for Blue Coats and anyone from above the Mason-Dixon Line, particularly anyone who challenged and fought against the slavery (“states rights, bigawd!”) issue central to that conflict.
Prior to the actual total outbreak of war, there were lots of skirmishes, raids and battles with predictable bloodshed, turmoil and upheaval.
Up until a few years before the outbreak of the War Between the States (Civil War), militant abolitionists (for abolishing slavery) conducted war-like actions against areas, people and institutions supportive of owning other human beings.
One of the most militant abolitionists was one John Brown of Kansas, about whom at least one song was written.
Thus, the name “John Brown,” was a cuss word to many Southerners. It was the lead expletive in vile vernacular for Grandpa Smith.
Grandpa’s choice of foods matched his temperament — hot and spicy. While he might use !@#$%^&* in front of Dad, and once in a while in front of his male great-grandchildren, he was mindful of the Southerners’ reverence for wimmin-folk, thus the spewing of “John Brown!” when something displeased or upset him.
As an octogenarian widower, and rapidly losing his eyesight, he was dependent on relatives for some supervised homecare as his health began to fail as rapidly as his vision. He loved barbecue, but young Dr. Jack Cox, who lived across the street from us, cautioned Grandpa that he needed to eliminate spicy foods from his diet.
Mother, being the wonderful, considerate human being she was, tolerated Grandpa’s orneriness but tried to keep an eye out for his physical health. She fixed dishes that fit his doctor-prescribed menu but still prepared traditional dishes to which Dad and their four boys were accustomed.
One evening, she put Grandpa and his “menu” at one end of the table and the boys and barbecue at the other end.
We all began to eat, when all of a sudden Grandpa’s head snapped up as he crinkled his nose and said, “John Brown, Ruth! I smell barbecue! Why didn’t you give me some of it?”
“John Brown! How’s a man supposed to survive on that stuff you’re feedin’ me!”
Mother relented and Grandpa chowed down on the barbecue.
He went to bed at his accustomed 9 p.m. but by 10, he was moaning and howling, “John Brown! I’m dyin’! My belly aches somethin’ terrible! Get that young doctor from across the street, Ruth!”
As Dr. Cox arrived, of course Mother told him the problem.
“Well, Mr. Smith, I understand you ate something you weren’t supposed to.”
“John Brown! I don’t know why a man can’t eat what he wants to!”
Dr. Cox gave Grandpa something to ease the stomach discomfort and was about to bid us all good night when belly-aching Grandpa asked politely, “How much do I owe you, Doc?”
“Six dollars.”
“John Brown! Six dollars just for walking across the street!”
But, Grandpa paid him and Mother gave the young doctor a jar of her wild blackberry jelly to salve his feelings, which had to have been singed by Grandpa’s diatribe.
Willis Webb is a retired community newspaper editor-publisher of more than 50 years experience. He can be reached by email at wwebb1937@att.net.
