I Didn't Mean To Say It

"Mom was saying 'sh#*!" a lot when we checked the bees yesterday," Trinidad told Sam as we ate lunch together. Sam giggled and looked at me disbelieving. He and I have been discussing the potential consequences of swearing.

"Yeah," said Trinidad, who had been suited up and manning the smoker beside me the day before. "We took apart the boxes and she said 'Sh$*! Baby bees!' [these, white and undeveloped, exposed to the sun above the frame] then we looked some more and she said, 'Sh&$! There's the queen. Sh%^! Sh@#! We can't squish the queen!'"

Sam rolled his eyes at me and giggled again.

"I guess," I said (humbly, mind you) "that there is a secret place in your Mama where the sh%* is stored, and in certain extreme situations, the door just flies open and it all comes out."

Trinidad's broad grin showed his half-chewed lunch. Sam fell off the picnic table bench laughing.

"Now, Mom," Trinidad reasoned,"the time you almost skidded our car off the icy road and you were saying 'Da^%!' and 'Sh*^!' I could understand, because it was a life-or-death situation."

"I did say the Lords Prayer afterward and forgave my father [the earthly one] for all that I held against him. I did do that."

"Well, yes," said Trinidad, "But the beehive wasn't that bad, was it?"

"30,000 bees lost and 25 pounds of surplus honey, all gone with us responsible. I'd call that bad."

He thought a moment. "Sh&#," he said.