Like the little kid in "A Christmas Story", my father had taken cursing to a high art and I had been exposed to it regularly, though with my strict Catholic upbringing, I learned what I could and could not say without problems. One big problem happened about at age 6 when my great uncle Marcel had been released from a TB sanitarium. He had contracted TB during WWII and he I had been swapping letters since I was about 4 or so - I learned to write early and he had the patience and the time to deal with responding to a barely literate kid, and send me stamps from all over the world that he gathered from his fellow inmates. He had used his pay to buy a Buick convertible (this was in the '50's) and had promised to stop in and take me for a ride. A few days before he came back to Maine, I was downtown with my dad and a fellow charged across the street and hugged my dad calling him "you old perckerhead", and he went into a local general store and bought me a pop-gun before we went into the only tavern for a few drinks (mine were root-beers). When Uncle Marcel pulled up in his Buick, I ran out to his car hollering "Uncle Marcel, you old peckerhead!" Mom was flabbergasted and didn't know what to do, but Uncle Marcel came to my rescue with a smile and a gentle admonition to my mother that kids don't always know what they're saying. Years later, he told me how much fun he had that day and how funny the situation was.