A Story . . .

So, like yesterday my pictures have nothing to do with the subject matter.  It's been snowing all day long and, while it's absolutely gorgeous, my eyes are ready for some flowers.

And I'm not yet done with yesterday's topic.

This story took place about thirty years ago. I'd taken my boys to Tampa to visit their grandparents and great grandparents. As we drove the long weary miles through South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida, I discussed with the boys  (ages 3 and 8, as I recall)  what kind of behavior would be expected of them in suburban Tampa -- no running around naked, no peeing outside, yes ma'am and yes sir to their elders and then there were certain words not to use. . .

Now this was foolish on my part. The boys didn't use 'bad' language at that tender age. But I knew they'd heard it so I just wanted to make sure they understood the rules.

And they did.

One morning as the boys and I were having breakfast with my grandparents, the three year old, angelic little Justin, his spoonful of cereal half-way to his mouth, fixed me with a solemn gaze and and said, quite clearly, "We don't say 'shit.'