Recently, my mother called from back East and told me that my four-year-old granddaughter had to have a time-out. Her little mouth had gotten her into big trouble. It seems her pre-school teacher asked the class of children what they would do if they stumbled upon a snake. Being the first to raise her hand, without any hesitation, my charming granddaughter blurted out, immediately, “I’d kick its ass.”

Now, after my sides stopped hurting from laughter, I paused for a moment of obligatory consternation regarding this little four-year-old’s potty mouth, wondering which flavored soap would be best to send to her parents for the ceremonial washing out of the tainted angel orifice. They lived in Kentucky at the time of this incident, so I considered the environment and understood that a more lenient sentence might be appropriate.

However, “sparing the rod and spoiling the child” is still a great proverb, but would serve us better if it were actually applied . . . to adults, first, in this continually devolving society where the lack of ethics, shaky morals and the irresponsibility of role models prevail.

From those who flip each other off in the Senate or on the freeway, steal from pension funds and profusely proclaim their innocence while raping, pillaging and plundering America, our children are poorly served. I believe that to raise a well-disciplined, considerate and respectful society, you cannot spare the rod. A good Singapore caning is, sometimes, in order. A well-timed hug and “I love you” goes a long way, as well.

Regardless, my son and daughter-in-law handled my granddaughter’s faux pas, I’m sure, so I’ll keep the soap and hope her vocabulary and social graces will improve with their move to Maryland, last month. No, they were not booted from Kentucky due to my granddaughter’s war cry.

Yet, from a tribal and primal perspective, I’d rather my granddaughter err, slightly, on the side of bold inflammatory invective than meek fear and inhibition. It’s probably genetic. Like great-great-grandmother . . . like great-great-granddaughter.

My mother’s mother is an Appalachian granny that reminds you of the Beverly Hillbillies, in some ways. She’d rather shoot first and ask questions, later. Her fear and loathing of snakes is legendary and would make any Bible-thumper proud. So, it seems my granddaughter is merely the victim of a genetic predisposition toward violence against reptiles, much like the Fat Broad in the B.C. comic strip.

And certainly, I am not one for expecting others to speak eloquently, since my mouth would make the 7th Fleet blush. Usually, I’m capable of refraining from foul language in most civilized settings, having spent my life on the radio since I was sixteen.

I remember when our young family had just returned to the home state of West Virginia after my discharge from the Air Force in 1982. Being a struggling, coal-fired household with both mother and father working to provide for a two-year-old son, plus another on the way, we gladly accepted and deeply appreciated the grandparents’ gracious offerings of classic babysitting expertise. The advantages, financially, were immeasurable, of course, but there was the occasional tension.

One evening at my grandmother’s, as I returned from work to pick up my son, she glanced across the room at him and then gave me that sideways squint like she was sighting down her 12-gauge at a red squirrel, obliviously husking a nut in a hickory tree, which meant she was “a fixin’ to give me a talkin’ to.” I asked her if there was a problem.

She said, barely above a whisper, as though not to frighten the unsuspecting squirrel from its perch before she could blast it into tomorrow’s breakfast gravy, “Do you know what your son said, today?”

I was hoping the correct response was the Emancipation Proclamation or Thoreau’s treatise On the Duty of Civil Disobedience, but the look in her eye told me it wasn’t going to be nearly that highfalutin.

“Uh, no,” was about as brilliant as I could mutter, in that moment, a little disconcerted that I had not more thoroughly studied my Clairaudience for Dummies handbook.

“He said the F-word,” she hissed, like the snakes she despised so well.

Now, feigning shock was something I had learned many moons prior – out of sheer survival’s sake – since every child (especially me with a younger brother who always had a nasty habit of telling our parents about everything I may or may not have done to him) has to quickly respond beneath the glaring spotlight of inquisition to all forms of accusation or interrogation simply to avoid the switch, the belt, the hand, being sent to their room, doing without TV or whatever heinous torture the parental units deemed fit, if they didn’t believe what was being shoveled in their general direction.

A good set of facial expressions can go a long way toward instilling doubt in your average authority figure. Shh, don’t tell anyone, but I’ve earned my Oscar many times over and I don’t care if the Academy ever gives me a statuette, though some were, truly, astounding improvisations.

Close-up: My face was transfixed. Eyes wide and mouth opened in the universally accepted expression of disbelief. I’m still surprised and dismayed that the Our Gang Preservation Society has not Fedexed my Buckwheat Commemorative Bust and laundry room doorstop for this particular performance.

“You’re kidding,” I gasped, the slightest exhalation punctuating the horror of it all, as neither his mother nor I had ever heard him say such a thing. Knowing the toddler’s grandmother, she may very well have driven him to his wit’s end, in which case, anything is justified.

Doing the Tupelo Two-step, I assured granny that, being a military family and having lived on-base for several years, our home was regularly overrun by rude, coarse and foul-mouthed types who were more comfortable on the tarmac changing a jet engine than changing a diaper. With grease under their fingernails and a couple beers under their belts, I’m surprised those ruffians hadn’t taught the little tyke a litany of lewd elocution. Certainly, that must be where my son had heard such a word.

Whether she bought it, or not, she didn’t say, but granny handed over my “evil” sponge-minded boy and I carted him back home. You can’t reprimand a two-year-old for mimicking anything he is exposed to and I was, ultimately, responsible for his behavior, whether the source of his inspired discourse was from my lips or someone I had brought into our home. Apparently, I was a “bad” father. That his own daughter, now, twenty-four years later would be punished for saying “ass” is only too humorous, to me.

Over the years, granny’s chastised me for my occasional use of the words “damn,” “hell,” or worse in front of her, and I probably only do it to annoy the woman, since I feel she wants respect for her beliefs, but doesn’t seem to understand or reciprocate when it comes to the beliefs of others. To me, a word is just a word and it can’t hurt me. “Sticks and stones . . . .”

Interestingly, when our granny becomes perturbed to the point that she, too, erupts with verbal “profanity,” her favorite swear phrase is “frizzle-frazzle.” I’ve heard her say it over the years in the many places I would have just as easily inserted my “F–word.”

We were playing dominoes a couple years ago at my parent’s place along the Ohio River, when granny – or Mama (rhymes with PawPaw in that Appalachian drawl) – a spry 82, at the time, didn’t think too fondly of the bones she had drawn from the pile, which meant that she had far too many points in her hand and would probably lose.

“Well, frizzle-frazzle!” she exploded, clacking the dominoes down on the oak table top – her pure, palpable frustration pouring across the table in a wave that paused the play. We stared at her, at first, and then everyone began laughing.

Though it had been over twenty years since she had admonished me for my oldest son’s innocent outburst at the age of two, I decided she may have matured enough to hear what I decided to say.

“You know, Mama, that language is uncalled for, especially with children present. We don’t allow the ‘F-word’ in this house and, incredibly, you’ve managed to use the ‘Double F-word,’ so your time-out will need to be twice as long.”

She gave me that side-long squint, again, and I was thankful her shotgun was hidden under the bed at her house, but she started to laugh and we all joined her. She got it, I believe, at least in that moment. However, I still wouldn’t consider saying my ‘F-word’ around her, because as much as anyone might “get it,” I don’t think she would find it funny.

Suffice it to say that her daughter (my mother), too, frowns upon such language and it’s probably a good thing that someone, somewhere, helps to keep me in check, helping to balance out the level of profanity I’ve generated, though I think they’re horribly outmatched. Ponder, as well, the possibility that, if it hadn’t been such a horrible sin, the allure of the language may not have held such an appeal, but I doubt it.

Should my granddaughter grow up, having only said she’d kick a *snake’s ass, then I think I could live with that. Something tells me we might be in for a long, winding and bumpy road.

As for granny or any puritan soul that frowns upon coarse language, when I am in their world I usually take a break from my expletive-laden expressiveness, out of respect, even when it isn’t reciprocated. Though their hypocrisy may grate upon me, at times, I mostly smile and play their game. If I am attached to my way, then am I not suffering from the same lack of perception and low tolerance of that which I accuse them?

Still, it doesn’t seem fair that she gets to say frizzle-frazzle, while I must bite my tongue. Ah, what the fuck.

The Kat

* That snakes do not, technically, have asses bears no impact upon the validity of this debate, though I’m more than willing to discuss it with my granddaughter when she begins her zoological studies . . . and I stop laughing.