Talk of the South

The other day a friend was pent up and tense, so I said something like, “You’re wound tighter than Dick’s hatband.” She froze and then proceeded to laugh.

More and more I catch myself using such expressions—in particular the ones my Mom or Dad used—which are common here in the South, but likely nowhere else. And to be clear, there are subdialects in the South that may be as different as Texas from Georgia, and certainly, Louisiana has more than one subdialect. Still, there are commonalities (scroll down after this post to see a list). As a young man, I’d have pitched a hissy fit if you told me I spoke like my parents. For you transplants from the North or other geographies, “hissy fits” are akin to tantrums. In contrast, “conniption fits” are going postal. Technically speaking, you never "have" either a hissy or conniption fit—you "pitch" them.

My three brothers and I rarely sent Mom into a conniption fit. When we did, however, her face turned red and her eyes burned like flares. She followed her growl through gnashed teeth with a demonic, “hellfire damnation!” That’s when we scattered for the hills, baby. Mom rarely used anything past “gosh!”.

But I digress. Parental-based expressions in our speech are not uncommon. Why we tend to do this as we get older is simply part of genetic continuity—as well as comfort. That’s especially true for those of us who are parents. Sometimes we go with default programming because kids tax your brain to the limit, and that programming comes from our parents. The perpetual, “Because I said so,” is a good example. The Southern version is simply, “Cuz I said so, that’s why!” Southerners like dramatic emphasis when they argue with their kids—it provides finality.

Of course, some things you just never let go of, despite your age. The iconic Southernism, “y’all” is one. However, usage differs for singular and plural. The singular is “y’all” whereas the plural is “all y’all.”

I uttered another ism when my middle son and I were replacing a flush valve in a toilet—good father and son time for Texas boys. Once we got 'er done I looked at Will with a smile and said, “Good enough for govement work, son.” I’d hear my Dad say that whenever he finished a repair. And, yes, down here the R and middle N are silent when speaking the term, "government." 

"Fix" is a quirky term, too. It can mean “to repair,” although more commonly it is used as an adverb—qualifying an action, such as, “I’m fixin’ to do the lawn,” or, “I’m fixin to go to work.” As well, “fixin” can be a noun when you add an S. “I got some fixins for the hamburgers and hot dogs.” Of course, you use fixins to “doctor” your food—that one I got from my grandmother on my mama’s side.

Family relations bring another ism into the conversation. Shaking hands with a senior Southerner, more often a woman than a man, you might be asked, “So who are your people?” That’s not an ethnic reference, simply a weird way of asking about your family lineage. Like a Klingon, you are who your family is.

You should also note that Southerners often refer to themselves in the plural. We don’t know why—maybe it stems from a limited gene pool in our rural past, or it’s just something unexplained and belonging in the X-files (Black Mirror for you twenty-somethings) of human behavior.

Southerners certainly have more isms and idiosyncrasies than Carter has little liver pills—that much I can say. These things seem to bind generations no matter how metropolitan our southern cities become or advanced we think we are. Both my parents were educated and, yet, they could sometimes sound as if they were from the sticks. Maybe that’s the secret: That Southernisms are like grandma’s pie—comfort food. When everything moves at warp speed—just kick your shoes off, set a spell, and get to jawin with a good friend or kin.

All y’all take care now, ya hear!

Note: This column originally appeared in the Bellaire Examiner, 27 June 2007.

Southernisms

A Southerner knows the difference between a hissy fit and a conniption fit, and
that you don't "HAVE" them, you "PITCH" them.

Only a Southerner knows how many fish, collard greens, turnip greens, peas,
beans, etc., make up "a mess."  

Only a Southerner can show or point out to you the general direction of
"yonder."

Only a Southerner knows exactly how long "directly" is, - as in: "Going to town,
be back directly."

Even Southern babies know that "Gimme some sugar" is not a request for the
a white, granular sweet substance that sits in a pretty little bowl in the middle
of the table.

All Southerners know exactly when "by and by" is. They might not use the term,
but they know the concept well.

Only a Southerner knows instinctively that the best gesture of solace for a
neighbor who's got trouble is a plate of hot fried chicken and a big bowl of cold potato salad. If the neighbor's trouble is a real crisis, they also know to add a large banana puddin'!

Only Southerners grow up knowing the difference between "right near" and "a
right far piece." They also know that "just down the road" can be 1 mile or 20.

Only a Southerner, both knows and understands, the difference between a redneck,
a good ol' boy, and po' white trash.

No true Southerner would ever assume that the car with the flashing turn signal
is actually going to make a turn.

A Southerner knows that "fixin'" can be used as a noun, a verb, or an adverb.

Only Southerners make friends while standing in lines, and when we're "in line,"
. . . we talk to everybody!

Put 100 Southerners in a room and half of them will discover they're related,
even if only by marriage.

In the South, y'all is singular, .... all y'all is plural.

Southerners know grits come from corn and how to eat them.

Every Southerner knows tomatoes with eggs, bacon, grits, and coffee are
perfectly wonderful; that red eye gravy is also a breakfast food; and that fried
green tomatoes are not a breakfast food.

When you hear someone say, "Well, I caught myself lookin'," you know you are in
the presence of a genuine Southerner!

Only true Southerners say "sweet tea" and "sweet milk." Sweet tea indicates the need for sugar and lots of it - we do not like our tea unsweetened. "Sweet milk"
means you don't want buttermilk.

And a true Southerner knows you don't scream obscenities at little old ladies who drive 30 MPH on the freeway. You just say, "Bless her heart," . . . and go
your own way.

And to those of you who are still having a hard time understanding all this
Southern stuff, - bless your hearts, I hear they're fixin' to have classes on
Southernness as a second language!

And for those that are not from the South but have lived here for a long time,
all y'all need a sign to hang on y'alls front porch that reads "I ain't from the
South, but I got here as fast as I could."

We Remember

Disasters, like any event, have attributes derived from the sting that holds each event in our memories. Their impact can be such that they instill a wariness in our collective DNA. And, sometimes those can fade as the generation that lived the experience passes on. An example is Pearl Harbor. That generation is all but gone. We remember December 7th as a nation, but few are left that can recall the surprise of an unprovoked and deceptive attack; the horror of wholesale destruction that cost 2,403 lives—both military and civilian, along with images of smoldering remnants of a once-proud fleet at anchor; and the ensuing fear that followed for months in anticipation of an Imperial Japanese invasion on the mainland. 

USS Arizona ablaze. Public domain.

My father served in World War II, so much of the wartime feelings he shared stay with me. I've certainly passed much of that on to my sons, but will their children even acknowledge the event ever happened—or understand what led to it and its lasting impact on current foreign policy? 

Hard to say.

More locally, Galveston, Texas recently observed the anniversary of the worst natural disaster to strike the United States—the 1900 storm that virtually wiped much Galveston off the map. Estimates put fatalities somewhere between 6,000 and 12,000. Much of the country is ignorant of that event but Texans, particularly those who live along the Gulf Coast, well understand the meaning and caution of that moment in history. A completely unsuspecting and unprepared population lie in the path of a horrific storm. It unleashed biblical damage and death from massive storm surge and winds. Imagine a struggle for survival so intense, so horrifying, that your entire personality might change as a consequence. 

Broadway Ave. Rosenberg Library

The next day, survivors emerged from the wreckage—the ruin. Few structures remained intact. Corpses, both human and animal, were everywhere. Disease, stench, starvation, and depression hovered a once-thriving metropolis anticipated to one day rival Manhatten. Gone--never to recover its fleeting glory. No one is left to give a first-person account of that night. We learn from diaries, interviews, and images. Still, when clouds gather in the Gulf, the memory stirs within. There've been subtle reminders from nature--Hurricane Carla in 1961, Hurricanes Rita and Katrina in 2005, Ike in 2008, and Harvey in 2017. Most recently, Laura in 2020. So in this case, we can imagine to some degree and identify with devastation.

Today we remember 911—another manmade surprise. Another out-of-the-blue disaster no one saw coming. It shares attributes most notably with Pearl Harbor. Lives lost were 2,977—and one might argue everyone an innocent. Like Pearl Harbor, 911 is a part of our foreign policy DNA. We are mortified by appalling images: People plunging to their deaths; towers aflame and collapsing on those in the streets below; a smoldering maw in the Pentagon; and a crater with remnants of Flight 93, not to mention the gut-wrenching recordings to loved ones before the crash. This one is still fresh in our collective memory. 

For each disaster, an iconic image emerges. For 911, the World Trade Center towers symbolize the day, in particular, the moment right before a second plane strikes one tower while the other spews flame and smoke from the prior collision. This now gives earlier pictures of the towers a ghostly, morbid feel. For the 1900 storm, one image stands out—Gresham's Castle, a virtually lone standing structure ruin and timber from an entire island laid waste. And, of course, Pearl Harbor leaves us with its indelible image of a mutilated battleship Arizona engulfed in black smoke and flames.

I started this intent on a completely different direction. Well, that was abandoned. So if this is going anywhere, maybe it's simply this: These events and images symbolize the worst—the worst in nature, the worst in ourselves. But then, on the flip side, comes the best in ourselves. Because humankind is really never at its best unless things are at their absolute worst. And that is worth remembering.

The Road Rules

Summer is here and with COVID-19 scaring people away from flying, households everywhere are considering road trips to anywhere and everywhere. Well, at least to wherever COVID-19 is not. I wrote this for a column years ago and thought it was timely to dust it off. My sons were all elementary school-age then, so I hope you'll forgive the nostalgia. F

For your consideration...

It’s old school, but my wife and I have always thought the TVs with DVDs built into SUVs or the advent of mind-numbing portable video games take away from the fun of road-trips. The road to anywhere is an adventure and the going is entertainment. Like my Dad used to do, we load up with igloos, snack bags, and tunes. Yes, tunes—CDs and smartphone adaptors (no Bluetooth then).

Once we’re geared-up we pull onto the open road in the Suburban. Back in the day, it was the family Galaxy 500 and we were headed for someplace as close as my grandmother's farm just outside of Chapel Hill; and sometimes that meant places as far away as Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Dad drove us there without a TomTom or other navigation aid. He traversed the highway system with a nose for direction and maybe a road map.

My wife and I have three sons. So we prepare for the fact that road-trips immediately trigger hunger in the human male, which is why my wife is sure to always pack large amounts of munchies. Road-rations include, but are not limited to Pringles, Chex-Mix, beef jerky, crackers, fruit snacks, and assorted sandwiches, and nearly all will disappear before reaching the county line. Actually, food serves as a sedative. After the boys eat, they each fall into a food coma for an hour or two.

When the boys wake up, the immediate discussion center on where we are, or where we are headed. The boys are into double-digit ages, so the road games and sing-alongs aren’t as popular as they used to be. Still, they happen now and again. But more often than not we just have good conversations.

The adventure wasn’t much different when I was a kid, although there were no satellite radios, CD’s, or iPods. So on long trips between towns of any size, we had AM radio because FM radio only went about 75 miles—at night under clear skies, if we were lucky. Yeah, the farm reports were really exciting between Amarillo and Raton Pass on the Colorado/New Mexico border.

Essentially, you were out of touch. It was a primitive time before cell phones. At best, you had a Citizen's Band (CB) radio mounted under your dashboard. A wire ran from the CB, under the front seat, up along the door and out a cracked window to a whip antenna magnetically held to the metal roof of your car. The speaker might crackle as you heard someone named “Bandit” or “Rubber Duck” say, "Breaker, breaker—come back." That was code for “hello, anyone there?” Talking on a CB made everybody sound like a redneck. You added an extra southern drawl to your speech, even if you were from New Jersey.

The airwaves were filled with slang like, "What's yer twenty?" or "That's a big ten-four, good buddy, I gotta pull over for a ten-twenty at that-there choke n' puke!" Translations: "What is your location" and, "OK friend, I have to go to the bathroom at this restaurant."

The codes were no secret–everybody knew them. It was just fun to hear the conversations among people who would never met face-to-face. CB radios were a reflection of the road-trip culture of those days. All these things combined to make any trip an event—connecting us to other people in other cars from other places.

Take away the cell phones or even the CBs of the seventies and driving in and of itself still has codes or a language all its own. This is especially true in the heart of Texas country roads. Headlights, for instance, are channels of communications—more so back in the day before radar detectors. But when you saw a car coming up the highway with its lights on during the day, you could count on seeing a State Trooper or sheriff a mile or two down the road just ready to write you a ticket. These days that’s a bit diluted because most car models have running lights illuminated day or night.

At night, however, the code for an impending speed trap is a few flashes of the hi-beams. How do you know the other driver isn’t signaling that you’re driving with your brights on? Well, most cars these days have auto dim on their headlights. Even so, if you know for sure your brights aren’t on and a driver is flashing his—the law is around the next bend waiting to introduce himself.

Day or night there is one signal a lot of people don’t know these days—and they should. This mostly applies on four-lane highways, but it can on two-lanes with a shoulder. When a car comes up behind you flashing its hi-beams, it is a signal for you to move to the right-hand lane. In other words, get out of the way because you are going too slow for the left-hand lane. The passing driver also owes you a wave, thanking you for your courtesy.

Speaking of waves

Once you get onto the farm to market and county roads, things often downshift to a decidedly different pace. You know the routine, right. We city folk like driving pedal-to-the-metal—if the speed limit is 60 we’re pushing 69-1/2 miles an hour (if not more). Life in the country, however, rarely strapped with the yoke of need-it-yesterday deadlines. So things happen in seasons, and that means our rural brethren will often do 50 in a 60 with an elbow resting out an open window.

My dad was a country boy. And while on the open highway he could cruise pretty quickly, once on the country roads he instantly defaulted to his more relaxed heritage, whistling a Bing Crosby tune while hanging a cigarette out the vent window. And one thing I picked up from driving with him a lot as a kid was the wave.

The wave is simple while as subtle in complexities not unlike a Japanese bow. It is just what it sounds like—a flick of the wrist hand gesture between drivers as they drive past each other typically on a two-lane road. Two fingers casually raised is a courteous acknowledgment—hello. A full-on raise of the hand is hello to someone you recognize. Combine your wave with a tap on the brakes and you have what equated to a drive-by hug.

Road trips in America are rich experiences if you turn off some of the technology and let them happen. Pick a place near or far, pack up the buggy, and hit the blacktops. And when you do, keep yer ears on good buddy and I’ll catch you on the flipside—ten-4!

Gift of the Immortals

Father’s Day is one of my favorite days of the year. The day is special because it’s about so much more than being a dad, than about getting the quirky gifts the boys may make, or being served coffee in bed and hanging out with the guys watching some Sunday marathon on TV. Certainly, my children—my sons—are at the very heart of it, but not for the reasons you might think.

My father died in late April many years ago, less than two months after my wife and I married. Even then, on that first Father’s Day without Dad around, I figured out that I hadn’t lost him. But now it’s just obvious. 

In the beginning, my brothers and I would all point out “dadisms” in each other. One of us would do or say something in a manner Dad used to. That provided a lot of private jokes and comedy, and it’s also when I got it. Then it was reinforced in spades when my sons were born. Pieces of us continue—even beyond the simple genes. 

For example, my youngest has a hearing loss in one ear. He never met my dad but when he is on the phone, he holds the receiver exactly the way my dad used to—and my dad had a hearing loss. Now as I get older and my hearing muffles a bit, I too find myself holding phone receivers at a slightly off angle to help clear the sound. It makes me smile when I see my son doing it or I catch myself. 

My oldest probably has the most pronounced manifestation of Dad's spirit. When he is mad, he looks just like Dad—his rigid composure, his stern facial expressions, and his stubbornness. When we disagree, his expressions and inflections sometimes remind me of those times Dad and I argued. He also has a similar chuckle and Dad’s ears. 

Then there is my middle boy. He is a bit turned inward as Dad could be sometimes. He thinks about things, and even broods, but doesn’t necessarily share what’s on his mind. One cool thing, he's as easygoing as Dad was.

Men have a tendency to measure themselves by their fathers—wanting to either be like them or wholly different. So finding those traits within yourself or from your children is up to individual opinion on whether they are good or bad. The trick is knowing how to embrace those traits and make them positive, or just laughing at them. Still, one thing is clear, our fathers live on in us—we never really lose them. That’s the father’s gift to his son—and one worth celebrating.

Get Hired by Volunteering

You’ve been laid off and it stinks, but it’s done and your first move is to move on—don’t lament over the event. And one of the most important strategies to employ is staying busy while you’re navigating the wilderness of unemployed status. Sure, you have to update and refine your resume. The same goes for your LinkedIn profile and, if you have them, your Twitter and Facebook pages. But once you’ve done all that, and, of course, uploaded your new info to every career site and company career platform you can find, what next? What comes after all that and the networking emails or calls to every person you’ve ever met?

Volunteering.

Giving of your time and abilities to a worthy cause does a lot of things to help you find your next working gig. First, it’s just a good thing to do—and it never hurts to bank some good karma. Doing something charitable also makes you feel good, which keeps you positive and helps people around you stay positive about you, too. Attitude is key while unemployed and, it comes through during job interviews.

Second, volunteering enables you to hone skills. For example, volunteer organizations are excellent testbeds for leadership, because there is no greater challenge than successfully leading those people who are in no way obligated or beholding to you. Philanthropic efforts can also help develop other skills not required by your last job. Take on a large project to hone project management abilities, or seize the opportunity to take on a task that is outside your comfort zone.

While this writer has a boisterous personality, client meetings and presentations were sources of petrifying stage fright. After having served as a cubmaster to a pack of about 120 boys and their families, requiring service as master of ceremonies for campfires, award ceremonies, devotionals, and pack meetings, stage fright faded. Ultimately, presentations skills dramatically improved, which fostered other public speaking opportunities.

A third benefit to working with other volunteers is the networking opportunity. You meet people you might not have encountered before. And they get to see you and how you perform, potentially serving as references and sources of openings not advertised.

All in all, volunteering is a win-win-win activity when you are in between jobs. It’s in every way a constructive strategy with more than one beneficial outcome. Stay on top of your resume and other job search tasks, but definitely find a worthy cause to support with your skills and time. And quickly enough, things will come full circle.