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Christmas Cookies
by Larry Blakely

I'm not much of a cook but every Christmas, to honor the memory of my parents, I make special cowboy cookies using oatmeal and chocolate chips, walnuts and raisins, cinnamon and nutmeg and, well, other ingredients I am not at liberty to disclose. Baking the cookies, I try to take care not to burn them, but if I do I also take care not to utter any profanity.

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When I was a little kid, I liked to spy on people. For reasons I cannot fathom but are no doubt fraught with dark psychological implications, I got a kick out of watching people when they didn't know they were being observed.

One drizzly day in late December when I was five years old I had my father under close surveillance, peeking through a crack in the back door of our ramshackle single-car garage. Actually, it was a no-car garage as my dad dare not park our dark blue tank, a 1950 Buick, in that aged structure whose walls looked ready to collapse with the next puff of Oregon wind.

Inside the Leaning Garage of Astoria, my dad, who was good with his hands, labored at his cluttered workbench crafting what would turn out to be an all-time favorite Christmas present—a racecar built from scrap lumber. After sawing the end off a 2x4 that he was fashioning into a brake, dad paused, scraped a wooden match with a fingernail and lighted an unfiltered Pall Mall cigarette, then returned to the task at hand.

A short while later my father performed that classic carpenter's trick, smacking his thumb with a hammer. The cigarette fell from his lips and the hammer fell from his hand as he clutched his thumb and yelped the single most glorious word I had ever heard: "Son of a bitch!"

Now there was a word.

I loved the sound of that dynamite word—I thought it was a single word of course—repeating it over and over inside my noggin, getting the cadence just right. Sonofabitch. As I slipped away, I whispered it again and again under my breath. Sonofabitch. What a sweet word rolling off the tongue.

From the context I vaguely understood this wasn't a mere peashooter of a word to be launched willy-nilly into everyday conversation, but rather was the heavy artillery, reserved for those special occasions when things went amiss in a major way. Naturally, I couldn't wait for a chance to show off the latest addition to my vocabulary.

The opportunity soon presented itself on the morning of December 24th.

While I entertained myself with a picture book in the corner, my mom was baking her secret recipe cowboy cookies when she got a telephone call from one of her friends. She was yakking away and completely forgot about the cookies in the oven. Mom finally remembered, said a hurried good-bye and raced back to the kitchen. When she threw open the oven door, heavy smoke billowed out, filling the air with the festive holiday scent of charcoal.

Snatching an old flour sack that served as both dishtowel and potholder, mom tossed the pan of blackened cowboy cookies into the sink. As she did she said something tame, something altogether mild, something nowhere near potent enough for the occasion. Something along the lines of, "Oh, my."

Fortunately, I was sitting nearby and happened to know a far more appropriate word, so I proudly uncorked the big gun. "Son of a bitch!"

My mother was not favorably impressed. In fact, she pretty much came unglued, a reaction that seemed to suggest this word somehow had a mysterious meaning well beyond a simple declaration that things had gone amuck.

Once she regained her composure, mom sputtered, "W-w-what did you say?"

I elected not to go for an encore for it appeared she had heard me quite clearly the first time. So I sat mute.

Next she threatened a most perplexing punishment.

"Do you want your mouth washed out with soap, young man?"

"Uh, no." The answer seemed self-evident, but I could see no connection whatsoever between such a handy word and having a bar of Ivory shoved into my mouth.

Then my mom demanded to know where I had heard such "gutter language."

That gutter association was lost on me, but to my credit I didn't give up the old man. Instead I sat staring at the speckled linoleum, shrugged and said meekly, "I dunno."

Although I cannot recall any, possibly my mother made other threats that day, perhaps even went so far as to suggest Santa might bypass the house of a pottymouth. I do remember that mom wasted no time relating the incident to my father, who I suspect was hard-pressed to stifle a smile as he tried to feign shock.

The afternoon of Christmas Day, while my dad and I fine-tuned the steering on my snazzy new vehicle, we had a little man-to-man chat about certain words that were best left inside the garage so to speak. Frankly, I still didn't quite get it.

But rest assured, whenever my mother hovered within earshot, that most wondrous and powerful of words never again escaped my lips.

About the author:
I'm a weary old baseball writer who was all set to retire next year until my retirement accounts wound up in the toilet. Now my accountant says I need to keep working till I'm 127.

This story may have sparked a lifelong passion for words and their peculiar power to provoke strong reactions. And, I'm happy to report, my mouth remains a soap-free zone to this day.