family story

A Glimpse into Historical Language: Dialect Words Explained

When I was a kid I was fascinated by the dialect of those of my grandparent’s generation. I am referring to family members born between 1884 and 1887. Their language was unique and intriguing. Manners were much stricter then and children were forbidden to interrupt. I learned to listen very carefully and inferred meanings from their use in context. Should I not be able to interpret, save the word until I could ask my parents. Language was intoxicating. I’ll share some from my collection below, used in context, the way I learned them.

Airy: “Airy(any)one of them tablecloths will be fine.”

Nairy: “Nairy(neither) one of them is worth the powder it would take to blow them away.”

Na’arn: Ain’t na’arn(none)of them gals acting right.”

Et: “I et(ate) all I could hold.”

Het: “She got mighty het up(angry) when her man run off!”

Heared: I just couldn’t believe it when I heared(heard) it!“

Holp: Holp(help) me with

Holpt: He holpt(helped) us quite a bit.”

Fur piece: It’s a fur piece(quite a distance) over there.”

Tolerable: I’m feeling tolerable.” (not well, but better)

Fitten: That slop ain’t fitten(good enough) for the dogs.”

Thanks for: Thanks for(please pass)the beans.”

Cyarn: That place smells like cyarn.” (Carrion)

Pert’near: He ought to know better than that! He’s pert’near (pretty near) grown!”

Young’uns: They got all them young’uns(children) to feed.”

Chillun: All their chillun(children) eats dirt.”

Farred up: Too late for talking. He’s all farred upready to fight.”

Passel: “Oh, they got a passel(a lot) of hounds under their porch.”

Navigating Life with Seniors: Lessons Learned

image

imageI wonder if I do a lot of “old person” stuff? It’s probably one of those things your kid would have to tell you. Let me explain. After we went to the grocery store, I took Mother to Gateway to pick up her car. She took her small bag of groceries with her and went in to pay and get her keys while I waited in the lot off to the side, To be sure everything worked out okay. I knew I should have gone in with her. A few minutes later, she pulled behind me, blocking me and two other drivers. As the other drivers honked, Mother left her car in the drive and came over to talk to me.

“They just had to fix the front brakes. The back ones were fine! It only cost one hundred twenty-one dollars.” She was beaming.

“That’s great, but you need to move your car. People are honking!”

“Well they’re just gonna have to wait. I have to get my groceries.” She replied, huffily.

“Mother, you already put your bag in the car.”

“Oh, I forgot. Anyway, I had to tell you everything was okay.”

Annoyed at my nerve, she got in her car, pulled out and cut it too short, running over the curb as she pulled out.

About fifteen minutes after I got home, I got a call, “Could you see if I left my phone in your car. I can’t find it, anywhere.”

She had.

You Poor Baby

vintage baby
I had no idea Cousin Carol was four years older than my sister Phyllis till she announced her marriage. It sounded like a joke. Less than two weeks ago she’d spent the night with Phyllis. Sixteen was ridiculously young to get married, but back as late as the sixties, many parents felt it was expedient to allow their teenagers to marry. Her sister, Sue, and I were the same age. We were constantly at each other’s house for the night. Their brother, Troy, was the age of my brother, so on weekends, holidays, and in summer, there was always a jumble of kids spread between the two houses. Carol was extremely spoiled for some reason, though I could never imagine why her mother favored her. With her fair skin, black, curly hair and startling blue eyes she would have been very appealing had she not whined, wheedled, and cried till she got her way. At our house, she just pouted and whined. Of course, us younger kids went out of our way to keep her blubbering, since you didn’t usually see that in a girl that age, expecially rewarding since she wore gobs of makeup and we liked to see it run.

Back to the romance, Carol had been going to the picture show with her older sister Yvonne who was slipping around with Donald Duck.(not a joke) Yvonne brought a sweetie along for Carol and they really hit it off. The sister’s romance with Donald Duck fizzled, but within weeks Carol was to be a bride. The whole thing puzzled me. How could she go from being a kid with Phyllis to getting married in almost no time? Soon there was to be another miracle! Carol announced her first pregnancy. From that moment forward, I don’t think I ever saw her not pregnant, claiming to be pregant, or with a newborn. Before she retired from her thirty-year delivery service, Carol had eleven kids and claimed to have had God only knows how many pregnancies. Her first marriage, lasted only long enough to produce three children. She kept hoping to reconcile, so she had about a three year vacation from babying. She was terminally lazy and a rotten mother to boot, so she spent this time convalescing in her parent’s home in South Louisiana, where they’d moved not long after her marriage. She inveigled Aunt Julie’s cooperation in making use of my Cousin Sue as a captive babysitter. If someone else didn’t change the babies, they just sat squalling in sodden, filthy diapers. Her mom still gave over to her crying, whining, and wheedling, much to Sue’s sorrow. My aunt and Cousin Carol would dump the babies on Sue, taking off for hours, leaving instructions to have the house clean when they got back.

We had the misfortune have Cousin Carol land at our house a couple of times after brief attempts at reconciliation with her erstwhile husband. After a week or two of connubial bliss, he’d dump her and the dirty babies off, saying he’d be right back with milk for the babies. (Carol was a slow learner. It happened twice) That milk must have been on Mars since he never came back. Carol figured it out after an hour or two and started blubbering. The baby or babies helped with the crying, since they were hungry. Already furious at being stuck with unwelcome and unpleasant guests, Mother had to dig deep to find money for extra milk, knowing we were stuck with Carol and her squallers for a day or two till her folks could make the trip back up from South Louisiana to get her. Carol was lazy and worthless to start with. On her arrival, all the baby clothes and diapers were dirty. “Linda, change Bobby’s diaper and give him a bottle. You’ll have to put one of your Mama’s diapers on him. Mine are all dirty.” She wasn’t lying about that. She had dragged in a foul bag of diapers and left it on the front porch. I looked to Mother for rescue. Accustomed to being catered to, Carol was offended when Mother expected her to do her laundry and care for her own babies. “I’m sick! I feel an athsma attack coming on!”

“I’ve got two babies of my own and more than I can do. If you are going to stay here till your folks can pick you up, you’re going to have to take care of your own kids.” Carol pouted, but she got up to put a borrowed diaper on Bobby. Poor Bobby hadn’t seen many clean diapers lately. His poor, burned up bottom looked like raw meat. There was even pus running from one sore spot. “Oh no,” said Mother. “that poor baby. You’re going to have to keep him changed. He’s starting to get infected. Linda, go put my diapers on the line so Carol can get hers in the washer right now. This baby’s got to have clean diapers. Here, Carol, put some of this medicine on his bottom.” Grudgingly, Carol washed, medicated, and diapered poor Bobby’s sore bottom.

Unaccustomed to such ill-treatment, Carol angrily dragged the stinking bag of diapers from the front porch, all through the house, to the kitchen eventually reaching the enclosed back porch to Mother’s washer, leaving a malodorous wet-diaper ammonia stream. Furiously, she pulled a mess of heavy, filthy diapers from the mix, dumping them in the washer. Turning it on, she left the rest hanging out of the open bag to perfume to back porch. The stench was pulled into the kitchen by the attic fan till Mother told her she’d had to put the rest in the backyard to wait. Only when the washer stopped did Mother realize Carol hadn’t bothered to rinse the well-seasoned lumps of poop from those diapers. It was all waiting for Mother when she opened the lid. She was critical!

To be continued

Growing Up During Farm Life: A Brother’s Experience

When my brother was a growing up, Daddy had him out working all summer and every Saturday, bush hogging, piling brush, whatever he could think of that Bill could do to relieve his own work load. The fact was, Daddy had bought a farm and bitten off more than he could chew. He laid out a day’s work for Bill every day he wasn’t in school.

Don’t worry. Daddy didn’t neglect me. As often as not, Daddy set me to work right along with Bill. The Louisiana heat was and is miserable. Daddy kept Mother stretched to the max going for tractor parts, transporting power saws to and from the shop, picking up feed from the feed store. That left me to get meals on the table, and do “women’s work” while she was on the road. That meant, the house had better be clean and the TV off.

I digress, the point of the story it. Bill had to be working every day. Poor boy. He’d sweat so much even the insoles of his shoes were soaked through. He only had one pair of work shoes, so they never dried. During this period, the younger girls acquired a cute little lap dog. They made him a tiny bed in which he stored his little puppy treasures. Late one afternoon, Bill was recuperating from his labors and stripped off his socks, dropping them on too of his sweaty shoes. The little dog streaked over and snitched a sock for his treasure trove. Apparently it was too rank for him. In half a minute, he was back, returning the offending sock.

Memories of a Girl Lost Too Soon

The city had crept on the gracious old house making it out of place among the bustling businesses. One blistering afternoon the streets were cordoned off and the neighborhood nearly impassable. The parking lot at the funeral home was packed. Crowds of people in black pressed up to the doors unable to gain entry. Speakers broadcast sad church music. Even to a young child it was obvious this was a sad occasion.

Mother and Grandma had us play quietly indoors rather than our usual romping on the large porch. My questions about the goings on across the street were brushed off. Mother and Grandma settled at the dining table for afternoon coffee after Barbie and Billy had been put down for a nap. Determined to learn what was going on, I stretched out on the cool hardwood floors near enough to follow the conversation. With my back to the dining table, I hummed as I pretended play, then feigned sleep.

Soon enough, the low talk turned to the events across the street. It turns out, the funeral was for a sixteen-year-old girl. Her boyfriend had stabbed and mutilated her when she attempted to break off with him. In my desperation to learn more, I forgot my stealthy plan to eavesdrop quietly. I sat up and and barraged the coffee drinkers with excited questions. A scolding broke the conversation up and I learned no more.

I’ve recalled that conversation and wondered about that poor girl many times over the years. I was young enough at the time that she was no more real to me than a television program. More than sixty years later, I am thinking of that girl who will be forever sixteen.

Little White Lie

This story can never get back to Mother.

Quite a few years ago, Mother went to a cute bobbed hairstyle. It cost her thirty-five dollars.

Kathleen Swain

Everything was fine until she slipped up on setting up an appointment with the hairdresser. She asked if I could trim it. Foolishly, I accommodated her. While it didn’t look good, it probably wasn’t the worst home haircut anybody ever got. I’d inflicted that one on my sister many years earlier. Mother appreciates a bargain and the price was perfect. I was trapped. She never made another appointment.

As time went on, I got less enthusiastic about doing the job. I made a deal with my hairdresser. If she’d cut Mother’s hair and charge ten dollars, I’d pick up the rest of the tab. Mother loves Diane and looks forward to their appointments. That’s how its been ever since.

Mother recently moved to an independent Living facility which she loves. The good news is, they have a hairdresser on site. The bad news is. She charges forty-five dollars. That relationship never got off the ground. Mother couldn’t wait to get back to Diane and her ten dollar appointments.

Here she is, getting her $10 bob.

Uncle Albutt Part 4

Uncle Albert had an interesting vocabulary.   Even when he didn’t get words right, he forged bravely ahead.  When his energy was low, he didn’t have much image.  When the doctor diagnosed him with emphysema, he referred to his ‘zema. Air conditioners were air positioners. He called my sister Phyllis, Phillips.  I liked that one.  I was Linder.  I didn’t like that quite so much. My mother Kathleen was Kathaleen.  He called Daddy “Willie”, his real name instead of Bill, the name Daddy gave himself once he left home.  

Daddy cringed every time he was called Willie. The only other person who got away with it was his mother.  I wouldn’t have wanted to be Willie, either.  For some reason, Daddy’s brother Parnell named his daughter Willie Carol.  She was a whiny, sullen kid, maybe because of that name. It makes perfect sense to me.

On occasion, we saw some of Aunt Jewel’s relatives.  Her sister, Lucille, who incidentally had married one of Daddy’s cousins, had the hairiest legs I’ve ever seen, man or woman. The wearing of seamed stockings only made it more obvious.  A good proportion of the wiry hairs worked their way through the stockings, trying to escape, while the rest were imprisoned flat against her legs.  I don’t know which fascinated me more, the swirling mass of flattened ones, or the wild escapees.  I never got to look enough, and certainly wasn’t allowed to comment. Mother warned us off when she knew we’d see Lucille.  Daddy swore her legs had gotten hairier because she shaved them!  That just sounded nuts.  How would hair roots know a razor threatened?  He was death on leg-shaving, ascribing to the old wive’s tale that shaving made hair grow back thicker.  I don’t know what planet he was from that made his daughter’s legs, shaved or unshaven, his business, but Daddy thought he was God and his wishes,  commandments.  More likely, he may have feared he’d be stuck with his girls forever should we sprout hair like that. 

Of course, Mother never volunteered the information that she shaved her legs.  I guess she didn’t want Daddy to know what was in his future.  Naturally, I shaved my legs as soon as I could get hold of a razor.  I can’t tell you how happy I was to get away from home.

Daddy’s methods did ensure he never had to deal with adult children boomeranginghome.  Times just didn’t get that hard.

Depriving Bonnie

I love, love, love my sisters-in-law, however, to protect the guilty, in this story, they will remain nameless. I also love to can all kinds of food. Taking advantage of chicken I’d caught on sale, I canned up several quarts of chicken and dumplings, saving back plenty for dinner when Sybil((alias) and her husband were to join us.

At dinner, Sybil told us of her friend Bonnie’s recent accident and broken leg. Concerned for Bonnie, I gave Sybil two quarts of my chicken and dumplings for the unfortunate Bonnie after reminding Sybil to extract a promise to tell Bonnie I had to have my jars back, My generosity does not extend to jars. Like all canners, I am territorial about my precious jars.

Sybil took my jars. A few evenings later, Sybil and her partner in crime found themselves at dinner time with no particular plan. My chicken and dumplings sat innocently on the counter, awaiting their trip to poor, hungry Bonnie. Reasoning Bonnie didn’t need two quarts, hunger overtook them, They put Bonnie’s dinner on to heat for their dinner. Before the dumplings came to a simmer, another sister-in-law showed up hungry, with her starving son in tow. Sybil made them her willing accomplices without a thought for Bonnie.

Needless to say, Bonnie’s dumplings were soon history. The good news is, I did get my jars back.

So, if your name is Bonnie, you broke your leg, and nobody brought you chicken and dumplings, it’s not my fault.

Cousin Raymond

Cousin Raymond was the family icon of greed. I grew up with Bud, sharing many meals at his house. His mother was polite enough not to slander me so freely, so I never tired of hearing of Cousin Raymond’s gluttony. She resurrected him often to shame her children in the throes of greed. They were raised just like us. Desserts were usually reserved for Sundays and holidays. Also, after school and in between meal snacks were probably dried-out breakfast biscuits, flapjacks, or a piece desiccated cornbread languishing on the stovetop. Sometimes, a day or two after payday, peanut butter and saltines miraculously survived.

I don’t imply we were too picky to gobble anything that didn’t bite us first. We just didn’t look forward to breakfast rejects. Should an errant plate of cookies or bag of chips show up, we fell on it like ravenous beasts, ate all we could hold, and tried to get more when we felt a little better.

When at his family was at their greediest and most in need of shaming, they’d be accused of being just like Cousin Raymond. It seems when Cousin Raymond’s family had company for dinner, big old, dumb Cousin commenced bawling like a bull calf. “ They’re gittin’ it all, Mama! They’re gonna eat it all. Don’t let’em eat it all!”

Cousin Raymond’s mama indulgently heaped his plate with goodies before anyone else had a chance to even line up instead of whooping his behind like any right-thinking person expected! That Cousin Raymond had it figured out!