There comes a time in every mother’s life when she simply has to put her foot down.

Dad recalls the first time Mom did this. It was in the mid-1960s, we were living in Pittsfield, and there was too much cussin’ going on in our house.

“Mom got on my case,” he remembers.

I asked Dad, “So what was it, mostly ‘hell’ and ‘damn’?”

” … bastard, too.” The response came much sooner than I would have expected.

For those of you who weren’t around in the ’60s, let me assure you that “nice” families didn’t swear.

With three grade-school children plus a baby in the house, Mom was determined to “nip it in the bud.”

It was time to hit everyone in the pocketbook.

A Swearing Jug.

We were all on the honor system. Say a swear word, drop a coin in the jug.

The price? A nickel for the kids, a quarter for Dad.

Bill was a toddler at the time, much to his relief: “If Mom and Dad had continued the Swearing Jug tradition with me they would have a permanent slot on the Fortune 500.”

Here’s oldest brother Harry‘s recollection (he was 10 at the time):

“Of the siblings, I’m sure I was the largest contributor – a nickel per bad word.

“I also remember some awkwardness about deciding what to do with the money when it got full. I think we ended up giving it to the church one Sunday morning as a sort of ‘sin tax’ but I could be mistaken.”

It turns out you are mistaken, Harry. One of our babysitter’s absconded with most of the loot. When Mom asked her about it, the teen confessed that she needed it for tuition.

I haven’t heard back from Dave yet, but I think he contributed a few nickels, too.

Goody-two-shoes me? I managed to save my nickels for buying groovy 45s (“Hello, I Love You” by the Doors comes to mind).

That didn’t last, though. But at least I was out of the house when my vocabulary went to hell (see?).

And I blame her:

Meet Nancy, my college roommate. She looked like Snow White and was just as sweet and kind. Smart, too.

Nancy had a rather high-pitched voice, she just did. Guys liked to call her a “space cadet” and I would defend her good name fiercely. It was the late ’70s and time to roar (RIP Helen Reddy).

Early in our sophomore year, we discovered our new dorm had a Sunday evening tradition – some fool would pull the fire alarm. The first time, Nancy and I dutifully scurried down the six flights of stairs, worried our belongings would go up in flames.

A few weeks later, we ceased the evacuation process and just stayed in our room. The alarm buzzer was right outside our door and it was incredibly loud. It was torture.

That’s when it happened:

Fuuuuuuuuuuck!

Nancy cussed. The big one. I was shocked.

And delighted.

There was something about that high-pitched, breathy voice (a cross between Marilyn Monroe and Jackie O) flailing an F-bomb that took out the wickedness.

Nancy, hun, that night you unlocked something in me. Thank you.

Gary‘s favorite cussing story involves a priest. Of course it does.

This was back in the ’90s. A young priest had just been added to the lineup at church. Gary knew that Father Jack had grown up on a farm and asked him if he missed it.

Turns out he did. Father Jack shared that he especially missed the physical aspect of it and then eagerly accepted Gary’s invitation to help load up some hay for hauling the next week.

Although Gary grew lots of his own hay, alfalfa didn’t thrive in our clay soil. Since alfalfa was extra good for milk-producing moo cows, he purchased some from farmers who had sandier soil.

A few days later, Gary picked Father Jack up in the farm truck and they headed to Ronnie’s farm, several counties away.

I feel it’s important to tell you that the priest was in his civvies for the outing. No collar. No cross.

When they pulled up to Ronnie’s barn, he was up in the loft, ready to toss the rectangular bales to farmhands Gary and Jack below.

As Gary tells it, Ronnie must have been having a bad day:

“It was G-D this and S-O-B that. He was really venting.”

Gary didn’t join the conversation. But Father Jack did.

When Ronnie finished a diatribe about how little money farmers make – swearing all the while – Father Jack jumped in …

“Yeah, I know what you’re saying. And I managed to find a career where I make even less than farming.”

Ronnie’s response was no doubt expletive-filled, but he was curious about what could possibly be worse than farming.

Well, I’m a priest.

Gary still laughs out loud when telling this story: “Ronnie’s jaw dropped. and that was the end of his cussin’!”

Meanwhile, Dad still has the Swearing Jug. It looks a bit like a chalice, doesn’t it?

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