Deep Roots
My maternal grandparents were farmers in southeast Kansas. It was a farm like most farms used to be I reckon; cows, pigs, chickens, a big wolf-like dog named Tuffy and an old draft horse named Chief; a tall narrow red barn with a hay loft and a silo nearby. A 1942 John Deere B took shelter under a rusty tornado beaten pole shed.
There were other out buildings; one for farrowing, one for roosting, one for smoking meat and a couple more dappled about for miscellaneous needs. I loved going there as a child; matter of fact I still do. My cousin Lisa owns it now and we’re very close. The only two structures still standing are the two story white American four square house and the barn. She raises goats and Highland cattle for a meat distributor in Texas.
Mom’s side of the family came out of Kentucky in the early 1800’s. The influence from those early settlers especially their speech, has been passed along through the centuries. Out of all the relatives, I probably have the strongest sub-conscious remnants of that unique vernacular.
It was first called to my attention when I lived in Los Angeles. People assumed I was from the Deep South somewhere and when they questioned me and I answered Missouri, they’d say, “Yep, that’s it!”
“Wait. What?” I thought. Missouri isn’t the Deep South, learn your geography.
If the car needed some attention because of under inflated rubber, I had the tendency to say, "I gotta flat tar."
If my clothes were dirty, I needed to do some ‘rawsh’.
If I couldn't find my shirt or jacket, it was probably hanging on the door ‘nawb’.
If anything around the farm had a strange tilt to it that wasn’t supposed to be: an animal, a tractor or a windmill, Grandpa would say, “That thar is kinda 'sigogglin' definition: crooked or out of balance; a word that lingered from the hills of Appalachia two hundred years ago.
Many times around the kitchen table after we did the morning chores, Grandma would serve us breakfast, and Grandpa would say, “That thar is ‘larapin’ good, ma.” Larapin was another Appalachian word meaning ‘very’.
As an adult now, things still slip out when I’m excited or passionate about something particular; like food.
After a long day in the yard for example, I’ll ask “What’s in the ice box?” Margaret just laughs, “It’s called a refrigerator sweetheart.”
Walking into the mudroom after work recently, the floor was wet. "Dagnabbit," I said, "the hot water heater musta finally given out." Again, she just laughs, tells me I’m cute and says, “It’s a water heater honey, not a hot water heater. It isn’t hot water until after it’s heated.”
I call the plumber and leave a message; the message is not returned but he shows up early the next morning; since the lights were on he just knocks and opens the door. “Bill?” he yells.
“Yeah, come on in. It’s right there in the closet,” I say. “Yeah, I remember, I installed the last one about 15 years ago,” he says, “got another one for you on my truck.” And sure enough, the date written in Sharpie on the tank says June 2009.
“Hang on a second Boss, I’ll get that vacuum sweeper out of your way,” I tell him. Margaret stands close by, sipping her coffee, and giggles.
“What?” I ask her.
She leans toward me and whispers kind of flirty, "It's just a vacuum sweetheart, not a vacuum sweeper, just a vacuum.”
“I entertain you, don’t I?” I ask. “Every day, love,” she responds, “Every day.”
