The Cussing Bridge

By Danny Maybin

Looking back over the years at the likes, dislikes, and decisions that helped shape who I became as an adult; I have to admit that the art of blackguard, cussing or course language was very appealing to me as a child. Learning the words and their placement was easy. Anyone who can speak can readily learn where to properly put them. But early on, it became obvious that one man could say these forbidden utterances to his own disgrace, leaving folks with the impression of an ignorant and distasteful man, whilst the same folks would listen with rapture as another would use the same words and phrases and, aside from a few winces from the women folk, be left spellbound, as it were, convinced that this man was apparently of above-average intelligence and obviously an authority on the subject at hand.

At nine years old, these sorts of things were very puzzling. I knew for a fact that some of the former were kind, smart and gracious men. I also knew that some of the latter were liars and deadbeats, though not all. By my estimation, there were fine men and scoundrels in both camps. So what did it matter? It seemed to me, being the recipient of a fine Christian raising, there was no choice but to try be as honest, wise and prudent as a young man should be, but I did so enjoy hearing someone well versed in the artful use of the forbidden language with such precision. To my nine year old reasoning, this was the zenith of maturity. To exhibit all the virtues of manhood, display the ability to delight and transfix those listening, with intelligent and dynamic speech while possessing the talent of throwing in the bad word in such a way as to actually enhance the discourse.
It was at this point, when I began an earnest, self-taught study in the discipline of “artful cussing”. As a reference, the word “cuss” is not as ignorant or slang as you might think. Cuss is merely the word curse. After a couple hundred years of the beautiful southern dialect, in which the r is dropped in virtually every one and two syllable word, the word cuss is more proper than curse; at least down here. To say someone said a “curse word” would be a dead giveaway that you’re not from the south. At any rate, I had set forth on the path of artful cussing.

At that time in my life, I spent a lot of time with my grandpa. He was the caretaker of the Argyle plantation in Flat Rock N.C. or as the locals called it “the King Place”. Mr. King, as I was instructed to call him, was the son of the Honorable Judge King. Judge King was responsible for the majority of the 19th century migration of wealthy Charlestonians to Flat Rock, trying to avoid the tuberculosis plaguing the south in that era. Mr. King’s son was a lawyer out of Atlanta. When Mr. King would come up to Argyle, grandpa and I would sometimes walk up to the cottage behind the “big house” where Mr. King would stay on his visits. The big house, or Judge King’s home, by then, had been relegated to heirloom status and no longer provided even temporary dwelling. It had proven far too expensive to keep up. It was on these infrequent visits that I picked up quite a few clues to my earnest endeavor. Mr. King was a fairly small man with white hair on the sides and none on top, by that time in his life. He had a look, if you can imagine, of stern softness with questioning eyes and a poorly hidden smile. To a nine year old boy, he was disarming, endearing and demanding of respect, all at the same time.

I have known a few others with that great mix of qualities but that was not what interested me most. Being a young boy, in what was the still “ the old south”, I’d had repeated instruction on speaking only when spoken to and listening carefully, especially when we visited Mr. King, since he was the owner of the plantation. It was on one of these infrequent visits with me listening, instead of talking, that I came to know a true master, in my estimation, of the forbidden language. Mr. King would listen to updates on farm business and talk with grandpa about those sorts of things but then he would magically bring me in to the conversation and proceed in telling me a story, usually consisting of southern history, always with a hint of morals and virtue. He would never have used guttural language, even with an adult-only audience, but the “damns” and “hells” and so forth, were so eloquent, I’m sure he could have taught Sunday school using them and been revered for it. This, in my mind, confirmed my theory. Here was a man, powerful in presence, obviously learned, wealthy and virtuous, using the words I was usually punished for using, except he used them in a way to enhance his presence and stature amongst those around him. In his latter years, I doubt he spent a tenth the time at Argyle as I did. I spent many a summer day exploring the old plantation.

Going south from the front of the “Big House” and parallel with the Robert E. Lee Memorial Highway that ran a quarter mile in front of the King Place, was the old entrance to Argyle. On this road was an old plank bridge that crossed, of course, King Creek. It was here on this old bridge that I began my quest for “self enhancement in” the art of cussing. The old bridge was the perfect place for several reasons. First, it was far removed from any of the goings on of the plantation. It was also situated just below a large rock shoal. This gave adequate sound cover, so that I could, at full volume, practice emphasis and inflection without someone at ten paces, being able to clearly hear what was being said, in case someone came up without my noticing. Lastly, there was water under the bridge and where there is water, there are fish. Consequently, whenever I felt like practicing my cussing, I could just tell grandpa I was going fishing.

Those summer days at the old plank bridge were many. Not all were serious study and practice, but there were more than enough sessions to satisfy what I felt to be at least a “minor” in the art. Looking back, I’m not sure those words were of any real value, but at that time, they sure made an impression on me. I’m not trying to justify the words or my interest in them. This is just the remembrance of a little boy, fishing on a plank bridge, trying to figure out life.

Danny Maybin’s family have fished and hunted in the area of Lake Summit for at least six generations. He is a state firearms instructor a, blacksmith, musician/luthier, and his favorite, a fishin’ and hunting resort facilitator. He also does voice acting, copywriting, and short story humor.