My dad’s old college roommate was going through his stuff and found a letter he had written in 1955 while visiting my dad’s family in Atlanta.
It’s a fascinating little historical slice, using such deprecated language as “aircoach” and talking about things as they could really only be seen through the eyes of an 18 year old.
One passage in particular caught my attention. It’s about my grandfather, who died about six months before I was born:
Izzy, Mr. Shapiro, is a good-natured patriarch, addicted to listening to major league ball games and swearing, although no one else is supposed to or does.
I’d heard stories about my grandfather’s legendary vocabulary of cuss words, but it’s amusing to see it independently confirmed.
Apparently, swearing like a drunken sailor skips a generation.