A Story I Couldn’t Tell Before: The Time Dad Cussed At Me

I only remember my father swearing at me once. I heard him curse in general on occasion—a “hell” or a “damn” when he pounded a finger while hammering or the like. And he’d call politicians “damn idiots” sometimes. But he didn’t even say these things often in my presence when I was a kid.

The incident I remember happened on a Sunday morning during the summer when I was sixteen or seventeen. The whole family was vacationing at our cabin on Coeur d’Alene Lake. We were heading across the lake to Mass in Harrison, Idaho, in our boat. I’ve written before about boating to Mass in Harrison.

On this particular summer Sunday morning, I was driving the boat. I approached the dock at the Harrison marina at a shallow angle, just as one is supposed to do. Admittedly, I approached the dock rather rapidly, but I had it under control.

“God damn it, Theresa!” my father shouted, as the left side of the bow careened toward the dock. “Slow down!”

As the words left his mouth, I slammed the boat into reverse, just as I had intended to do. The boat made a perfect glide into the dock. True, the passengers were jerked around a bit, but my dad and brother easily jumped onto the dock and tied us up.

My father continued to berate me about driving more carefully for the entire walk up the hill from the marina to the church.

I was in tears at his unjust accusations—I had been careful. I’d known exactly what I was doing. And I was particularly upset that he had sworn at me. That wasn’t appropriate at all, I thought self-righteously to myself.

I had a lump in my throat all through Mass. I didn’t listen to the scripture readings nor to the homily. All I could think about was how poorly my dad had treated me, and how unfair life was—as only a teenager can do. I was so indignant I couldn’t even mutter the proper responses to the prayers, and spent the hour brushing tears out of my eyes.

Late in the service, it was time for the congregation to offer the sign of peace to each other. My father turned to me and said, “I guess I overreacted, didn’t I?”

I nodded, swallowing that lump in my throat.

He hugged me, and I hugged back. The incident was forgiven on both sides. But I never forgot.

My dad could be strict, and he had high expectations of his children.

But he was a fair man, and he admitted his wrongdoing, once he got to the point of acknowledging it. And he must have learned something from this, because he never cussed at me again.

Now I wish I’d asked him before he died if he even remembered the incident. If we had laughed about it together, maybe then I could have written this story sooner. And I’d have let him swear at me again if I could have spent Father’s Day with him yesterday.

What apologies do you remember from family members or friends?