It's a day to hearken back.
What seemed important to me growing up has little importance to me now. The most important thing to me when I was 13 was to figure out a way to kill my brother. He was a real dick. He's still a dick but I no longer have the youthful energy required to plot and connive as I once did.
The house my parents rented while I was living this story had two staircases. The main staircase was just off the living room while the service set of stairs was off the kitchen and narrow enough for the old tyme narrow people.
My brother and I fought a lot. We'd chase each other through the house up one set of stairs and down the other all the while creating a terrible ruckus.
My mother, being a religious zealot in good local standing would abide no taking of the Lord's name or any other offensive talk in her house. Unspoken and understood.
One fine day, brother and I were racing and chasing each other up and down the stairs. At some point, we lost track of who was chasing who and both ended up tearing down opposing sets of stairs. We stopped short in the living room on either side of Mother who was bent on ending our foolishness once and for all.
Although we were both taller than her, she still seemed quite formidable. The devil possessed me for a moment and I looked my brother square in the eye over Mother's hair and asked him sneeringly what are you gonna do now you stupid cocksucker?
A dozen tiny blood vessels burst in my head at more or less the same time. I had but a moment to act. I did the bravest thing possible in the circumstances and tore up the stairs to my bedroom and stayed there until I thought the coast was clear.
I came back downstairs 20 minutes or so later only to run square into Our Lady of Intermittent Lashings again.
She looked at me and said in as quiet a voice as she could manage Don't you ever let me hear you use language like that in my house again. And I never did.
I waited until we moved again.