Dirty Words (part 1)

My father was a good man with a very "colorful" vocabulary. He did not use curse words indiscriminately or lightly. He never used them in casual conversation and never in mixed company. His use of colorful language was limited to himself. When frustrated over something he was working on or something just wasn't going right, out would pop a new word. He new them all, too and used them in unique and interesting combinations. My vocabulary has been forever enriched by the loudly exclaimed words heard through the floor between our first floor apartment and his basement workshop.

Dad was a man of his generation, born Aurelienne (Aurel) Donat Caissie in Bouctouche New Brunswick Canada on January 8th 1928. He spent his first nineteen years living with 13 (!!!!) brothers and sisters in the same area, occasionally moving from Bouctoush to Scoudouc, both to this day very small towns on the Acadian Coast. He never made it past the eighth grade, but not because of a lack of intelligence. It was what the men did there at that time. After a certain amount of schooling they went to work to help pay the family bills. He was an intelligent man, just not from formal schooling. He always had simple needs and never really cared for many material things. He cared about his family more then anything else in life. His simple dedication to family above all else dictated all of his beliefs. More than any other characteristic I inherited his deep belief in the family as the center of life.

Growing up we were not rich, by any means, but we were certainly better off than his or my mothers childhoods. I'm not even sure we could be called middle class, by today's or any day's standard. We got by. My parents owned their home, a three decker in the beautiful industrial city of Worcester Massachusetts. We never lacked for food or other essentials and I would always spend a week or two each summer at my aunt and uncles cottage on Cranberry Lake. We grew up understanding the difficulties of making ends meet each day and trying to better our, and our children's lives.

My parents and other friends and relatives gave me opportunities that I feel indebted to pass on whenever possible. It can be argued that I took advantage of those opportunities and made much of them, but I can't deny that without those critical pushes in the right direction, I might still be hanging great big leather hides in a room filled with moist hot air and breathing chemical fumes from mixing leather glue. After all, I am still in my heart one of the greatest procrastinators of all time.

My mother visited a few weeks ago and she was a little different. She is now 79 years old, but looks and acts considerable younger. We went for a boat ride and at one point she was staring off the boat, resting her hands and head on the edge and staring out at the shoreline. She quietly remarked "you live a good life", and it has really started me thinking about where we came from and how we got here.

It's going to take more than one edition to get around to the point...