Well along with being fiscally responsible, he had also married a rather sophisticated lady from New York City, and was considered a gentleman farmer by the majority of his rather rough-cut neighbors. After 30 years in the wilderness of Missouri, Gramma still spoke (and does yet) with a strong New York accent, and would not permit anyone in her presence to use profanity. Those who made the mistake of uttering an obscenity within earshot of Gramma were in for a reprimand they would not soon forget.

Thus it was that I was well into my fifth year of life before I heard GrandPap cuss. My younger brother Jeff and I were visiting the farm one weekend when GrandPap decided that he needed something from town. Gramma didn't have the patience for a couple of mischevious brats underfoot, so off we went with GrandPap.

GrandPap never did get along with the column shift on that truck. Second gear was seldom achieved. It seemed he always hit reverse on the way to second, so he just quit trying. His usual routine was to wind it as far as it would go in first, then double-clutch it and go straight to third. On this particular day, he pulled out of the lane onto the road and wound the Chevy for all it was worth. Off the gas, on the clutch, shift - ggrrriiiinnnnndddddddddd!!!!! "Dag-nabbit!", was all he said as he let off the gas and pulled it back into first gear, then he was back on the gas for another try. Gas, clutch, shift - ggriiinndddssskkkkssssclunk!!! He was getting red in the face by this time; "Good gosh-a-mighty, what's wrong with this dad-blamed thing today?" he exclaimed.

My brother and I were already wondering what was up, as we'd never heard anything like this come out of GrandPap's mouth before. He pulled the shifter back down into first and gunned the engine once more. In went the clutch, and he pulled the gearshift towards third, but hit reverse once more on the way out of first. Gggrreeiinnndddssskkksssggrreeiiinnnnnddd!!!!!!!!! Our tender ears were not prepared for the string of expletives that followed! Words whose existence we'd only heard rumors of were flying from GrandPap's mouth like grain from an auger. He finally forced the protesting transmission into gear and continued down the road as if nothing had happened. Jeff and I just stared at each other with mouths wide open, neither one of us daring to speak.

When we reached our destination, GrandPap bought us each a grape Nehi and an ice cream sandwich, and said, "I'll thank you boys not to mention anything to your GrandMother about what happened in the truck this morning."

Not a word of the incident was spoken until nearly ten years later. GrandPap and I were eating lunch under a shade tree after cutting hay one morning. I asked him if he remembered that day when he got mad at his truck. GrandPap got a silly grin on his face, and said, "Greggy-boy, you can't follow a horse for as many years as I have without knowing a few choice words to let the sons-a-bitches know who's boss."