Fresh from making mud pies, Paul and I were coated in dirt from our elbows to our fingertips. We walked into the kitchen to clean up for lunch, where we found Rafe leaning against the wall, shaking, and crying uncontrollably. His face, wet with tears, was red, and a line of drool hung from his open mouth.

I was shocked. I couldn’t imagine anything that could make Rafe cry. He was powerful; twice my size and twice my age, he was the first older boy I had ever been associated with. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

He mumbled incoherently, so I asked, “Are you hurt?”

Just then, Frank, the brother between Paul and Rafe, walked into the room. “He isn’t hurt. He said a bad word, and Mother washed his mouth out.”

As a four year old, I couldn’t conceive of what that meant. I didn’t know what a bad word was, and neither had I heard of having your mouth washed out. But from the look on Rafe’s face I knew it must be horrible, and I was terribly frightened. A moment later, their mother, my Aunt Doris, came in and herded Paul and I over to the sink to wash our hands.

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