CSA

No, you read it right: C-S-A. Not CPA. Not CSI. Or ASPCA. Definitely not NAACP. Nor NBA, PB & J, E & J [that's a brandy]. Nix on IRA and NRA. Simply borrow the third letter of the alphabet and loop it to the rear of the line-up, hook the nineteenth letter, swing it back 'round and nab the first letter. Now, you are in possession of a nearly perfect reliever for stress, anger, frustration, perplexity, and a host of assorted incidents and accidents, to be used as the spirit moves you.

For me, one not overly prone to profanity, not a big fan, however useful it might be - though I'll admit the last several years have been a bloody burr beneath the saddle - the spirit moves sparingly but fittingly. It works. 100% guaranteed or . . . you can feed me pickled chicken feet, one bony toe at a time. The more profanely advanced students out there might consider back-burnering your tried-and-trues and take CSA for a spin around the block. You may want a trade-in . . . no cash-for-clunkers needed!

Before I go on - and I do manage to go on, don't I? - let us journey back thirty-five years or more to the little town of Eklutna, Alaska. Me, my sister and two brothers, Gary yet a toddler, and mom all reside in this picturesque village situated roughly 26 miles northeast of Anchorage. I have fond memories of cats, bicycles, learning how to 'play' with my spit, and one vivid mental picture of the day a shovel made contact with the bridge of my nose and the head wound of all head wounds transformed the icy hole beneath my hands into a gory crimson snowcone. (I swear on my Oreck vacuum cleaner that this incident is the reason I wear glasses!)

Having three children myself, each spaced with almost exacting precision at three years apart (brilliantly planned and executed by my uterus, but since it has not the power of speech, I'M taking the credit), I can extrapolate and postulate as to the challenges a single mom must face with four small children - three of them separated by a mere year and the fourth yet a wee one. Doubtless, we played hard and fought even harder. Knowing Gary as I do, I'll bet he managed to toddle and waddle his way into a few hard-to-reach corners. We would have tried the patience of Condoleeza Rice.

I don't recall explosive outbursts ever erupting from my mother's direction when we were disciplined: she did what she said she would do. What she TOLD us she would do. There was not much in the way of yelling or threats of punishment with multiple one-more-chances which never ended. She did not curse at us or call us unkind names. We had friends whose mom's yelled and screamed and carried on, utilizing in grand manner a colorful array of unmentionables we'd never heard within the walls of our home. Much of it would now be considered, and rightly so, verbal child abuse. But what did we know then?

Mom tells the story of little Johnny Boy (coined by our dear friend, Eldon) back when we lived in Anchorage in an apartment complex for lower income families. Generally speaking, people who find themselves in this living arrangement are not at their character's peak and it manifests in their behavior, often filtering down to their children. Though humorous in the recollecting, there was an element of sadness inherent in the lives of the residents. One little boy in particular rode everywhere on his bicycle, cussing a blue streak which trailed behind him like a banner of foul air as he repeated phrases and terms his own mother levied at him on a regular basis. Of course, we all played with him - kids gravitating toward other kids. And, we all were privy to his extraordinary vocabulary. This was a sore area for mom, but she couldn't very well stuff our ears with cotton. We'd just pick up lip-reading.

As the tale goes, she hears five-year old John - please, please, PLEASE envision the sweetest round face, framed in white-blond hair, two deep dimples, and soft brown eyes that smiled every bit as wide as his constantly grinning mouth, cherubic I tell you, and I refrain from comparing anyone to an angel, but surely Michelangelo would have paid mom a tidy sum to use him as model - muttering something out the second story window of our apartment. He is repeating it over and over. A mantra of sorts. Her curiosity no doubt turns to horror when she draws close enough to actually decipher his utterances. What he is saying in a three-peat to the copious cusser on the bike down below the world of our window sill, this beatific boy, testing the feel and taste of it on his unsullied tongue, is, "F*cky, f*cky, f*cky! . . . F*cky, f*ucky, f*cky!" Just generously giving back what he had received, with no malice or forethought. He is a happy kid, that one, "F*cky, f*cky, f*cky!" Mom educates him on the merits of NOT saying such things. She does not yell. She does not fuss. She most definitely does not CUSS.

Which makes CSA all the more perfect in the role in which it has been cast by me.

There came a day in the house in Eklutna where some mundane occurrence or another, child-initiated, perhaps Gary-initiated, found my mother in a depleted, weak moment, unable to muster a decent description of her feelings at that precise moment. I can imagine the sharp intake of breath. The furrow in her brow with that deep vertical line between the eyes, grasping for her sanity in the midst of this maternal morass. She reaches into the verbal storehouse, groping blindly, and emerges with this, the worst of the worst for her, the most unholy trio of letter-groupings she could muster from her tired soul, "Crap . . . Sh!t . . . A$$!" She surely exhales, surprised by the lift of the shoulders which follows her unexpected foray into the land of expletives. Maybe she looks around the room, down at Gary and whatever mess he has managed, and laughs with equal parts dismay and relief. The moment lifts and is gone.

Gone, that is, until mom repeated this wonderful account to me in my adult years. Never have I laughed so hard. I considered my mother's mouth to be virgin territory, untouched by rough coarse language. It is very telling that the most awful of words for her are considered somewhat tame against their wilder, woollier counterparts. I wanted to memorialize this family tale and incorporate it into my life somehow. I repeated the story, often getting it a tad twisted, mixing John's verbal escapade with mom's, and it amused my limited audience. Then I tucked it lovingly away, awaiting the next opportunity to uncover the humor, sometimes for longer than a year. Until there came my own day, and the usual "oh, brother" or "good golly" (yes, I actually said that on a pretty regular basis) just didn't cut it. Before I could identify the well from which it had sprung, "Crap-Sh!t-A$$!" flowed forth. I was surprised at myself. I peeked to my left and right. I giggled. Around the room and back it rippled, over my feet and between my toes, cooling me, restoring the yin and the yang. And that was that. CSA moments were born.

Quite often, it is the initials we employ. Yes, WE. Me, mom, and when they intuit my outward signs and helpfully fill-in the blanks, my kids. But, I must confess my weakness and reveal the full pronunciation still makes appearances for very limited engagements. I mean, the last time I used it was . . . was . . .well, this morning. Late for an appointment and rushing out the door, shoes barely on my feet, wet hair flapping, I skidded to a halt before the dog food bin. I couldn't possibly forget her morning feeding AGAIN. I inhaled deeply, slinging my eight-plus pound purse behind me while the plow-lines invaded my face. I grabbed the top bin and dropped it to the floor, "Crap!" I yanked the lid off the dog's food container, "Sh!t!" and I scooped a cup of kibble before emptying it in Panda's bowl, "A$$!" I exhaled. Dropped my shoulders. Repositioned my purse. Gave the dog her breakfast . . . and sashayed to my truck and onward. The moment lifted and was gone. And THAT, folks, is the correct way to use C-S-A.