Southern Fried Gamers

Down around these here parts, we like to do fun things like:

cow tipping
mud riding
bottle rocket wars
lawn mower racing
bike racing
car racing
turtle racing
dog racing
rabbit racing,
baby racing
racing

We like to drive and get lost in the country on purpose.
We like to find ourselves in the middle of a cow pasture late at night - skipping over cow patties - to get to a clear spot where we can lay a blanket down so we can lay there and look at stars.
We like to blow things up. In general.
We like to roll houses, fork 'em and decorate them with flamingos at 3 AM to show our affection and appreciation for our best loved friends. We'll even help them burn the paper a few days later.

Whachall do up thar?

G-d helping me . . . .

G-d helping me, my inner southern belle needs to make herself more evident in my attitudes, thoughts, and actions.

I remember the attitudes of certain women I met in the South and in those who were from the South, and I really admire a lot of them. (Certainly, I met some whose attitudes and actions were certainly NOT admirable, but these are not what this is about.)

Now, I am definitelty a Westerner and a Yankee, but I am 36% southern Belle. I know this for sure: I took the test! You can take it, too -- right here!
I didn't score quite as I expected on the next test -- I got "21% Dixie. You are a dandy Yankee Doodle." That test is here.
(You might want to check this out as well.)

But this is about the word gracious.

I recognize that some of the southern ladies I have met smiled sweetly and called people "honey," but as soon (or almost as soon!) as they were out of earshot, they had some biting things to say about those people. I am also aware that some southern ladies had a special way of talking to some people that would make them think they were being complimented -- until 15 minutes later, at which time they would suddenly comprehend that they had been solidly put down, lower than a worms' belly, by a woman with the sweetest smile on earth!

But there were also Southern Ladies who were an actual study in genteelity of the most unaffected kind. They were gracious. They were noble. They came across as cultured and kind, thus the capital S and the capital L on Southern Ladies here.

Such manners were not what I learned in my first fifty years. Let me change that -- in my first 55 years. I have been (as I have mentioned before) rough-and-tumble, loving the say-what-you-mean-and-mean-what-you-say attitude, holding no courtliness -- and-proud-of-it. Daring and once wild, I embraced and coddled what I see as my semi-hippy-like demeanor, holding it boldly in the face of anyone who was put off by it.

But I started a journey some 5 years ago that took me in a different direction.

For one thing, I was raised to be a Bible-thumper, and I am a Bible-thumper. But I simply did not realize what the Bible actually says! I read it through the dark, dark glasses of what I was, rather than reading it for what it says. Furthermore, certain people who were very influential to me reinforced this with meanness and vitriol that I swallowed and lived.

But having been away from such folk, gathering information from a different set of people, I began to see something different -- a different way to live. Only then did I see what the Bible had said all along: Be nice! Be nice! Be nice! It's in the Torah. It's in the Psalms. It's in the books of the prophets. It's in the books by the apostles.

So I began to take on those ways.

Then I met a certain young southern lady who told me, "That's your inner southern belle coming through!"

She was teasing, of course, but I began to consider that those very special southern ladies were like and decided that I could take that description on as well as declaring that I am simply learning what the Bible is actually saying about how I must conduct my life.

So fine! I am better off now for seeing how the Bible says I ought to act and trying to follow it, but I am also learning from the southern ladies -- the real Southern Ladies -- regarding how I can carry out biblical principles. I am sure the L-rd won't mind!

Fred Meyer vs. Piggly Wiggly

Do you have Piggly Wiggly stores up there in the North?

They're probably extremely different actually. Piggly Wiggly is more a grocery store than anything and if I remember right, Fred Meyer has a little of everything ...like a Super Target? Please correct me if I'm wrong, I've only been in a town with a Fred Meyer in it once and we didn't go there. I only heard about it.

Shopping. I must confess that I enjoy it at times. I prefer to go knowing what I'm looking for so that I can get in and get out. There is the rare occasion that I go simply to window shop, but I really have to be in a mood. Shopping for someone else can be fun. Shopping for me can get quickly depressing and make me want to jump out of a size 16 window, but whadoya do?

So how does my southern shopping differ from shopping in the north? Probably doesn't. I dunno, I haven't really shopped in the north. Hmmmm, I should try that some time.

Question: What is a southern lady's most developed muscle?

The flexor digitorum superficialis -- the muscle used to flex the forefinger upon the nozzle of the hair spray.

Today

10 days ago.... 3, maybe 4 inches of snow on the ground.

Today...... cloudless, 86 degrees with very strong winds.  I'm just sayin. I think we're swinging back to balanced weather.

Forgive me! Please!

Forgive me! I haven't had time to read or write lately! Not even now! But I thought this was hilarious!

See this. Hilarious!

Weird-O Weather Woes

Ok! What's up with our weather huh?

Tzav, my pal, I do believe we've traded places again.

Friday: 75 degrees and a beautiful cloudless sky to enjoy with perfect breezes
Saturday: Temp drops to mid 60s, severe weather...later that evening, SNOW and 32 degrees. 1 inch or less they tell us. Dangerously windy.
Sunday: I wake up to 3 inches of snow on the ground and more falling, temps in the mid 30s and still very scary wind.  This afternoon, it's melting, closer to mid 40s and I can see the grass a little now.  Wind is blowing so hard that when it gusts, the blinds on the sliding glass door bump into my table. Woah that's windy.

Normal weather this time of year is upper 60's -mid 70s... I think it should be back to normal later this week. The snow is beautiful, but I want to wear my capris and flip-flops again!


Tzav, I know you're a busy bee. When you get a chance, will you please tell me what the weather norm is in your section of the country? Has it been normal this year for yous guys?

My Grandfather, born in Quitman, MS

Please forgive me for writing again so soon! I just put the following poem on another blog, then decided that it belonged here as well. It is about my Grandfather, who was born in, and lived several years in, Quitman, Mississippi.

I had a wonderful opportunity to know Grandfather. I especially loved him, a tall, muscular man who was so gentle toward me. He strongly impressed me with his kindness and intelligence, even more so when I became a woman.

The following is titled "A Visit to Grandfather's Garage." It truly was Grandfather's garage, but Grandmother's touch could also be seen in it.

---

A Visit to Grandfather's Garage

An ancient car with rounded fenders
sits undisturbed, immaculate,
surrounded by painted shelves.

Ancient tools in careful order,
Mason jars of prism colors,
each in their labeled place.

For us, on the workbench,
a box of fresh walnuts,
two others of apples and pears.

They blend their fragrances.
From the door,
Grandfather laughs.

---

Grandfather had a voice that was absolutely arresting. As a child, often, I would hide inside their house, my ear pressed against the wall, listening, while he talked with some adult. I had no real reason to hide there, except for the fact that I wanted nothing to disturb the resonance of his voice -- not even my presence.

His voice was incredibly deep, and although he had lived in California for years, he retained his southern way of speaking slowly, each word spoken with deliberate accuracy. Each word sounded like it was spoken from inside a deep cavern. I have tried to tell my children what it sounded like, but it was far beyond description. The closest I came to describing it was to tell them to imagine the deepest human voice they had ever heard, then imagine what that voice would sound like, if they cupped their hands over their ears.

Grandfather was probably the most intelligent person I have ever known in all my life. He did not attend college, yet he knew more about the world, and about so many things -- more than I can ever imagine knowing. He had set himself to learn, and he was a voracious reader.

Grandfather was well over six feet tall, and Grandmother wasn't quite 5 feet tall. Grandfather seemed to be always smiling, and Grandmother was loving but very serious. Grandfather would lope when he walked alone, and he could be across his back yard before I could have hardly started. But when Grandfather walked with me, he never seemed to be waiting for me, yet he paced himself with my footsteps. Grandmother took quick, short steps that could keep pace effortlessly with my longer ones. What a pair they were!

Question

My last post brought up this question: What's the deal about cooking vegetables all day?

Both my parents came from the Quitman, Mississippi, area, and mother cooked the vegetables all day long -- especially the green beans. I never understood that, or gave it much thought, until the following incident, because I just thought it was her way.

So when my first husband was drafted for Vietnam, and I moved to Laurel, Maryland, to be with him, my parents decided to come out and visit. At that time, we were dirt-poor (I learned to say that in the South!), living on 19¢ pot pies for dinner every evening, and we scrimped every penny in preparation for their visit, so that they would not know. The day they were to arrive, I went to the grocery store and bought a roast, fresh vegetables, and everything else we would need to keep all well-fed while they were there.

We'd been away all day their first day there, sight-seeing the historic battle grounds. Home again that evening, I quickly ran in to cook our meal, quickly steaming the fresh green beans. "Almost ready!" I shouted from the tiny kitchen of our little barely-furnished apartment.

Mother came in to see how things were and spotted the green beans on the stove, the burner already turned off. "You can't serve these!" she told me.

Puzzled, I asked, "Why not?"

She replied that they were poison! "Poison?" I asked, "Why are they poison?"

"You have to cook them all day, or they will kill you," she told me.

I just stood there, looking at her, trying to figure out if she was kidding. She wasn't. And she was firm: she was not going to eat them, and I was not to serve them to Father, either.

Dollar signs swam past my eyeballs, laughing at me, jeering. I wondered what I could put on the stove quickly to serve them, but we only had those pot pies and just enough food to feed them for three days. Those beans were certainly not poisonous, and that was what I had bought to cook that night. I decided to be firm with Mother.

"Okay," I told her. "You don't have to eat them, but Pat and I are going to eat them, they will be delicious, and we won't die."

She was silent through the meal, as we ate our green beans, and the next day, we went sight-seeing again, somehow living through the whole thing.

I later learned, through my travels, that some people from the South do cook green beans, corn, and some other vegetables all day. Now, I know that I am not much of a cook, but I barely cook my vegetables, except for potatoes (which I invariably prefer to have completely over-cooked). -- Oh, and any time I can serve my vegetables raw, I do. Furthermore, I refuse to cook either mustard greens or other greens: they just go in my salads.

So is this just another proof that I am a bad cook, or are the differing cooking practices truly regional? -- Or is it an age thing?

My First Mississippi Wake

I really can't tell you much about it. I was not yet nine, when we were invited to our first wake. I don't even know who the lady who died was! As far as I know, I had never met her. I just know that she was lying inside that darkened house. I wasn't sure if she was dead or dying -- I thought she was dying.

But my eyes popped when I saw that yard! People milled about, not particularly sad or anything, but they seemed a little quiet -- like they had been expecting her to pass away, and perhaps they were at peace that it was "her time."

But the main thing I, the 8-year-old from Northern California, saw was the U of tables in the front yard of that tiny, unpainted, wooden home! There must have been at least nine tables, all of them laden down with more food than I had seen in my whole entire life!

I stood there, just looking in awe, when one kind lady told me to get a plate and fill it up. I did.

Now this was my normal time for breakfast! And they had all the breakfast foods: coffee, biscuits, sausage, ham, coffee, scrambled eggs, pancakes, waffles, coffee, syrup, butter, gravy, coffee, sweetrolls, molasses, hashbrowns, coffee, jams of every kind, . . .

Then I saw something I had never seen before for breakfast: fried chicken, roast beef, hot rolls, corn, fried chicken, potato salad, mashed potatoes, green beans (that most likely had been cooked all the previous day), fried chicken, loaves of homemade bread, mustard greens, turnip greens, jambalaya, okra, . . . and on and on it went!

So I ate. I avoided the foods I already knew I didn't like -- what we in the Northwest call "soul food" -- and ate my fill of many other things. Finished, I sought a place to put my plate and utensils, but the same lady came up behind me, leaned over me, and said, "Honey, you hardly ate a thing! If a wind comes up, it'll blow you away!" And she served me some warm blackberry cobbler and homemade ice cream, right out of the oak ice cream maker. I thought I would burst, but I had no desire to turn it down!

And when I finished, there she was again with her admonition about getting blown away, but I told her I was through. All the time I lived my 3.5 or so years in the South, I would hear the same admonition over and over, from other ladies' mouths, as though there was a script they all had read.

I will keep this post short. I just want to write that I had never before seen anything like that wake and have not again, since leaving the South.

Java Chiller

Now this is something I KNOW to be fact because I have experienced it first-hand.

In the south, we like our coffee strong. Chewable. The kind that "Puts hair on your chest". I've always been told, "If you can't stand a spoon up in it, add another scoop to the brew." That is an overstatement of course... I suppose.... well, maybe.

Picture it - Eeeearly in the morning, landing at a Chicago airport and the sun is barely up.  Been up since well before dawn and slept through most of the flight, so I missed the beverages. I knew it would be a long day and needed to gear up with morning go-go nectar.  So I rush to the hotel to primp and prepare a little before the chaos was scheduled to begin and make a room service call for coffee (No machine in this room, where the heck am I?). A few minutes later, they come in with my brown water.

Ok, so that place definitely wasn't going on my list of 'places to get a cuppa', but oh well, next stop. Cabby runs me through McDonalds - they usually have drinkable coffee. *sip sip* Hmmm, more brown water. Maybe a new crew member made it... I'll wait. Now, I am an addict and I can admit that. I typically don't wake up without coffee unless I'm really excited to be where I am, and while excited, at this point I was too caffeine depraved to even remember why I was there.

So I get to my meeting. Oh PRAZELUJAH! They've got coffee. Yep, brown water. OY! Forget it! Longest day ever.

Next we go into Indiana and then a separate trip to Ohio.... all repeats of my Chicago misadventures. More trips this past year to New York, Vermont... the same. What?

Not long after that, a new member joins our team, Mike. Mike is a great guy, originating north of the Mason Dixon line. We never had his kind in our neck of the woods before, so this was certainly an experience. FIRST THING we noticed is that he made brown water. SO we had little secrets.(Mike, if you read this, you know I love you and we've already confessed to doing this.) I was in the front office and if anyone in the back offices saw Mike headed towards the front, my phone would buzz to let me know that I was to run to the coffee pot to try to start a new pot BEFORE he got there. We were meanies, but coffee is a serious thing in the south especially in our office. 6 of us would go through 2 large canisters of the most intense Folgers we could buy every month. It took several months of his watering down his cups of coffee that I made before he started slowly learning to chew the real stuff. Now he doesn't like it weak. I knew he was good people.

Mike told me, it was because he was from the north.

Do all northerners drink their coffee weak? No!  Is it wrong to make weak coffee? YES! It's against the rules!

Ok, no, it's not wrong... to each his own, but this is certainly a notable difference between the north and the south. We still love ya'll.


Proper southern coffee:
6 -7 standard canister scoops - heaping to 10 cups of water

Served piping hot and black as midnight. It should at least stick to the sides of the mug a little when you swish it around. Mmmmm yummy.

My thoughts: People in the north are generally healthier than us southern fried styles. While we NEED the coffee to get going in the mornings, northerners simply run outside for a quick hike in the mountains through 50 ft of snow both ways. I'll drink to you!

When I moved to Mississippi,

I was 8½. I was angry at being moved with only what I remember as a day's notice, angry at leaving my friends and the only home I knew, and angry about what I quickly learned were the differences between California and Mississippi then. My parents were absolutely ecstatic to be there and did their best to help me become a proper young southern lady.

I wanted desperately to return to what I knew and understood, to what was "home" to me. After awhile, in what I am sure was exasperation with my profound unhappiness, I was told that I had better forget California, because I would never see it again. At that, I basically gave up on life and all things good.

The political climate was very difficult for me back then, as were the heat, humidity, school, church, mosquitoes, etc. However, there were things about Mississippi that, if I'd had a different attitude, would have been wonderful.

Please forgive that child, my Southern friends.

The Birds!
The Mocking Birds were magic! The first one I heard was in a tree above where my sister and I had been playing hide-and-seek together. One day, my sister and I heard someone teasing us from somewhere in the back of the house we rented, calling, "You're it! You're it!" We looked everywhere! -- even in the huge tree in the back yard -- and found no one. We ran in the house and told Father, and he immediately knew what it was. A mocking bird! We never saw it, but we were thrilled.

Another bird I fell in love with was the Cardinal. Wow, they were gorgeous! -- especially in the snow.

And another -- those lovely sky-blue Blue Jays. Up here, I have yet to see one like those, even though I have read that we have them; rather, we have the Stellar Jays.

And you have Bob Whites! I had never heard one in Eureka, CA, but I have heard some here in Washington.

Fire Flies!
I loved them, too. What child would not? At first, we poked holes in a jar lid, put a few drops of water in the bottom, added some grass and a sprig or two, then filled the jar with fire flies. How disappointing the next day to find them dead. So we learned to put them in the jar for a little while, then open the window after a few minutes of enjoying them as "night lights," to let them go.

And I learned their other name, too. Lightning bug!

Frogs and Crickets
I was not allowed to find and play with them, but I could not be stopped from enjoying their music!

The Panther
The little old man who lived in Brandon loved to brag about the big black panthers he had seen in the woods behind his house, and my sister and I would give each other looks. Yeah. Sure. A panther in the woods behind his house in Mississippi. And when we were alone, we would giggle about his stories. Obviously, they were not true . . .

Except I read a few months ago about the panthers that most certainly DO live in Mississippi!

It was our ignorance that made us laugh at the old man.

Steel Magnolias

Ever watched Steel Magnolias?

I think that movie is one of the best, most accurate depictions of southern women that I have seen.

Magnolias are big, beautiful, fragrant flowers that bloom from around mid April - late June. They stand out on the trees, their fragrance fills the streets and while delicate,  they are able to withstand the intense southern elements.

BIG and beautiful: Southerners do things BIG. BIG hair, BIG cooking, BIG hospitality, BIG mouths and so much more. Again, I love that movie because of it's on-the-nose accuracy. I've always heard, "If you're gonna do it, do it BIG!" You can always count on us to do the gargantuan. If we have a party, a dinner or whatever, you can simply expect that it's going to be an EVENT to remember. Even our small is BIG.

Fragrant: Southerners are known to be the most thoughtful, hospitible persons ever. Their "sweetness" fills an entire room, except that I can name a certain Northwesterner who pretty much takes the cake. SHE thought of EVERYTHING when I visited. Amazing Tzav! I used to live in The Hospitality State (Mississippi). We will share our entire lives with you, accepting and loving you as family even if you are a stranger. We will inevitably give you pet names and call you "dahlin", "suga pie", "honey" and "precious". We will always "Bless your heart" at every opportuntiy.



*** We will not only share our lives with you, but the lives of everyone else as well.
It is common knowledge that southerners are into everybody's business. It's the truth. Having worked as a stylist in a southern salon much like what's shown in "The Steel Magnolias" movie, I can tell you - southern ladies are just exactly like that. We want to know everything there is to know about you and then we will call everyone we know and tell them all what we learned. If it's good, we'll praise you and try to get you elected as mayor. If it's not, we'll talk sweetly to your face and raise our eyebrows behind your back. Bless your heart.

Able to withstand the elements: Southern people are often the brunt of jokes, but they are some of the strongest around. Southerners (and this I certainly know from experience) have a bit of a pride issue. We may be dying on the inside, grieving and suffering intense pain, but you will never know it and we will pass it off with a "fiddle-dee-dee". Our home-life may be shattered, but dahlin', we'll invite you to a dinner party at our house and all you will see is 'the perfect household'. We may be sick, tired, depressed and ready to crack on the inside, but our hair will be done, our nails polished and our lipsticked smile will give you the direct opposite impression. I think that's why there are so many "family secrets" in the south, though that may be common everywhere.

There is an unspoken culture that when something is wrong, you are not to let anyone know, it will all eventually work out. If you're hurting, you don't share it, you deal with it. To do otherwise would be you are weak, and being  mean and cruel to the one you're leaning on. You pull yourself up by your own bootstraps, you work your way out and handle the situation. Granted, the south is also known for it's many that survive only on the welfare system, but even those on welfare will not often allow you to see what's really going on. We're just not that honest. Hmm, is this a strength? or a weakness? Depends on who you're asking. The Southern Gentleman is the one who thinks one thing and does another. The Southern Lady is the one who can make anyone comfortable in her presence. Anything else would just be wrong.

***********************************************************

Magnolia memory -

As children, we would climb the house-height magnolia trees, lay in their branches completely covered by the leaves and pick the inside flowers. We would tear the giant petals off one by one and roll them up. When you put pressure on the bright white petals, they would crinkle and turn brown at which point you would tear off the brown spots and let them drop to the ground. Why? We were bored and there were plenty of flowers to go around. We would tear each petal off, layer by layer until we got to the center. We would then pick it apart as well. First all the curly fuzz, but sometimes we would stop there and the core of the flower was like a pointy bulb about the size of a small lemon. They would be our toys. Sometimes we would keep picking layer by layer of what would have been petals until we got to the core and there was nothing left. This is what we did when there were no tad poles to play with. Ah, the bayou.


I found this link and just loved it. You have to visit this website.

Gree-its

Up here, we say "grits" quickly. The word jumps off the tongue like a bullet from a Remington, then leaves the room in stunned silence.

Now, with all I have said about Northwesterners taking their time to say things, embellishing the simple sentence with all kinds of flora, again, I say that "grits" explodes off the tongue and falls to the ground, stunned there in the silence of people looking at the speaker to say, "What?! Please explain!"

And as the speaker endulges in the best explanation they can come up with for the ignorant, they respond, "Oh! That stuff! I had some once at Aunt Emma Mae's house when we were visiting in Louisiana. Horrible stuff! I finally put cream and sugar on it and managed to . . . ."

STOP!
Don't --
Don't say another word!
Eww! You put sugar on your grits? Did your Aunt Emma Mae have a gun?

No! She did not! Because if she had, you would not be sitting here talking to me!

Sacrilege! The pure abominated gobbledygook of sacrilege
-- to put sugar on grits!

Deplorable ignorance! The stuff of treason against humanity!

Grits should be pampered, lolled-over, with melting butter, salt, and pepper.

Sometimes, cheese.

They should be savored; they should play long upon the tongue with a triumphant but quiet flair, then be swallowed slowly, exultantly, even while the spoon is seeking more. When they are all gone, they ought to be mourned with a yearning that will not allow the table any sustained absence of them.

And that is why Southerners do not say “grits” as Northwesterners do -- as though they are trying to rid themselves of the word.

No. Southerners revel in the sound, rejoicing in it, making it two syllables.
Gree-its.
And to do the word justice, hold each syllable out long and gloriously.

---

I was privileged, back in 1989, to have had a neighbor girl, age 15, whose mother seriously did not like her. Neither did her brother or sister. Finally, the mother kicked her out of the house in late June, with nowhere to go. She moved in with me and my children, just as we were going down the driveway on a cross-country trip to Portland, Oregon, in my new camper. It was her first trip out of Minnesota.

That August, she went with us on another trip to Murphysboro, Illinois. Reaching the southern part of the state, we stopped for brunch before pulling into our destination.

Now, Star was a very beautiful young lady, and I would say that the waiter was likely quite taken with her. He asked her what she wanted, and he wrote her order. Then he said to her, “Would you like grits with that?”

She thought for a moment, then replied sweetly, “Yes – one or two small ones.”

Foodies

Foodies

* So, SOMEONE sent me an email and said she was counting negative points in her diet for drinking "pop". Pop. I love it.

I call it "Soda" because other words have always bothered me. Now, in my stomping grounds, the name "Coke" is used for everything from Pepsi and Dr Pepper to 7-up and Sunkist. Ummm, remember Delaware Punch? Do they even make that anymore?



* Dutch Baby - before visiting my pal Tzav, I had never seen nor heard of such a critter. Is this a northern thing? Are they exclusive to the great Northwest? Thus far, every single person I've asked about it had never heard of it. Now everyone wants to make them.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you.....a dutch baby

* Tea - around here, unless you specifically request hot tea, you'll always get sweetened ice tea. That's just the rules.

* Fried Pickles - I understand that they're not quite as common in the north. Why is that? Maybe they are a healthier bunch than we are? I don't know, but they are a staple in every average southern restaurant.

* Italian Sodas Yeah - now you're cookin' with grease!  This was also something I was introduced to while visiting my Northwestern pal. NOW I'm finding them all over the place, but I've yet to try one. I'm kinda picky about my drink mixers lol. I've seen a lot of recipies online and they were exactly like hers, I just gotta find the syrup. So, apparently this one isn't just for a waaaaaay up thar, it's for down here too. I never saw them in Mississippi, or at least not that I am aware of.

Hmmmm, what else, what else.....

Mississippi Wife

Wish I knew who wrote this

MISSISSIPPI WIFE

The first man married a woman from OHIO . He told her that she was to do the dishes and house cleaning. It took a couple of days, but on the third day, he came home to see a clean house and dishes washed and put away.

The second man married a woman from MICHIGAN . He gave his wife orders that she was to do all the cleaning, dishes and the cooking. The first day he didn't see any results, but the next day he saw it was better. By the third day, he saw his house was clean, the dishes were done and there was a huge dinner on the table.

The third man married a girl from MISSISSIPPI . He ordered her to keep the house cleaned, dishes washed, lawn mowed, laundry washed, and hot meals on the table for every meal. He said the first day he didn't see anything, the second day he didn't see anything but by the third day, some of the swelling had gone down and he could see a little out of his left eye, and his arm was healed enough that he could fix himself a sandwich and load the dishwasher.

We don't talk as slowly up here, but what we have to say sure takes a lot longer

When my husband and I happen to get a workday off together, which occurs about every six weeks, we almost invariably spend at least an hour and a half in some bookstore somewhere. We did that this week, too, and as we were leaving, my eyes fell upon a title: Well Butter My Butt and Call Me a Biscuit. I didn’t buy the book, but it caused me to recall the colorful language of the South.


Up here, we just don’t have that. In fact, unless it’s going to come out in dollars and cents, our imaginations can be very limited, when it comes to our words. But we sure have plenty to say.


Did you already notice, as I did, how wordy my posts are and how succinct LLB’s posts are? I’ll admit it: although LLB doesn’t have what I would consider anything near a southern accent and drawl, I wonder if being a Southerner causes one to limit one’s words, because they take much longer to say and require so much more effort and calories. Up here, we just rattle on and on and on, as though people are dying to hear our opinions. You know -- it takes less time to talk here, so perhaps we have an insatiable desire to fill up our talk-vessels by saying a lot more?


After all, was it not in the northwestern states that the irrepressible “ya know what I mean” at the end of every second sentence – the bane of every English instructor in the nation -- was created? And was it not a famous Yankee (although he was admittedly from St. Louis) who invented “déjà vu all over again”? Furthermore, I know two young ladies from my synagogue up here who started the Redundancy Redundancy club on Facebook.


Oh, and listen to a Northwesterner praying publicly! Lotsawords! And no, the most oft-used word in their prayers is not “G-d” or “L-rd” or “we pray“ as might be supposed. In fact, it’s a filler-word, something at which the Northwesterner is particularly practiced. What is it? It’s “just.” That’s right.

. . . and L-rd, we’re just so grateful that You just stepped

right into that situation and just helped Moonglow and

Shia when they were just lost in the desert. We just thank

You that You just brought them back safely and that when

we just pray, You just show up every time. . . .

But perhaps the worst Northwestern verbal redundancy faux pas is the unexpected one that developed over the years I was away from the West Coast: the “is-is.”


As I was driving my little family from Minneapolis back to my hometown in California in 1983, I was listening to the radio, and I heard the “is-is” for the first time. I chalked it up to simply being an oddity of speech for the person I was listening to. However, I heard it over and over on the West Coast – on the radio, on TV news, at school, and more! Since you Southerners are probably completely stumped at this one, I will explain then end this long post.


This is what they say: “Well, the problem is-is that your strategy. . . .” I’m serious! You cannot be in California more than about a week before you hear someone use the “is-is!” “Well sometimes, the color is-is. . . .” Seriously! And one time, I was listening to the radio, and the speaker said “is-is-is”! No Kidding! Three in a row!

Worse, the “is-is” has recently crept out of California, as far north as Washington. It was only a couple days ago that I heard it on the radio here. Unnnnhhhhh!

If you'll just follow that dirt road down a yonder ways....

"Pardon me, Sir, but can you help me to find *****?"

"Why yes, ma'am! If you'll just follow that dirt road down a yonder ways until the grass starts up the middle, you're about half way. Keep on a goin' down and watch for that sharp curve as you're commin' down the hill; cows cross there, so you'll hafta watch for thems too. When you get to the big oak tree with the old gray dog sleeping under it, go just a bit further and take the paved road on the left. You cain't miss it!"

I have literally been given these directions before.

Now I live in a large city in Texas complete with road signs, traffic lights and of course - rush hour. You would expect things to be a little different here than they were in smalltown, Mississippi, but no, they're really not.

"Pardon me, Sir, but can you direct me to the airport?"

"Uh yeah, whichun you tryin' to git to?"

"***"
"Ok, well now you're gonna hafta get on thisa road right here (major highway) and go over that bridge down thar (we call it the High-5 for a reason) and keep headed straight until you get to exit ***. Git in the lef lane cause them folks drive crazy."

I suppose it depends on who you're talking to. We have a LOT of transplants here from all states and nations around the world, so the directions can come out differently if you're talking to someone from let's say, Washington ;~D

There are many things I appreciate about the north! Direct-ness is one of them.

I consider myself a Northerner. Northwesterner, to be exact.

I consider myself a Northerner -- a Northwesterner, to be exact. Born in Northern California, I had no clue that I would ever leave that area, until I was suddenly whisked away to live in Jackson, MS. Age 8-1/2, I had no idea until my arrival that things would be any different from California.

But they were!
And things were different again when, 3-1/2 years later, we moved to Kentucky.

And again in nine months when we moved to Missouri.
Then Minnesota.
Then Maryland.
Shall I go on?

Suffice it to say that I finally did get back to California, where I thought I would live, retire, and be buried . . .

Until I ran into the man who would be my husband, who would take me on what Had Better Be My Last Move, Because The Next Move Had Better Be Into the World To Come!

Washington may not be my favorite state, but I'm not moving again!
No, I'm not!
I'm NOT, I'm Not, I'm NOT!

So when my friend suggest this blog, I loved it, but I thought she was going to collect all the data and write it! After all, I have been away from the South long enough that I think Southerners are "cute" and we in the North are just . . . well . . . less colorful, more . . . blah.

Then I thought of my first encounters with Northwesterners after being away for many years.

Now, this was not in California, where people are a little more, uh, let's just call it either knowledgeable or more ready to recognize and be at peace with differences in others. I am not going to name the state or anything, because perhaps that would be mean, but it was north of California and south of Washington, and its beaches are bordered by the Pacific, with Idaho on the other side.

See, I can write all that, because seriously, those in this particular state are basically unaware of anything that is “on the other side of the mountains”! In fact, they won’t even recognize themselves in this little post – seriously! And I am not being mean – this is just a basic truth!

When I first took my children back to my old “stomping grounds” to visit in that particular state, the people would notice our accents and would invariably ask, “Where are you from?” I would respond, “Minneapolis.” Now, my children were also asked where they were from, and being young, they were completely puzzled by these people's responses!

And there was only one set of answers. They were:

5. “Where is that?”
4. “Minneapolis? Is that near Boston?”
3. “That’s way out in the sticks, isn’t it.”
2. “Well, what do you think, being in such a large metropolitan area as Portland?”

And the winner was – drum roll, please! –
1. (spoken with a particularly whangy, bored voice, similar to something that sounded like a profound state of the doldrums . . . ) “Oh. The other side of the mountains.”

---

Well, you have definitely already been introduced to some of the differences between Southerners and Northerners -- and you may recognize, also, that there are major differences between Northerners and Northwesterners! While I also lived in the North, I am coming to you now as a Northwesterner. We can tend to be bitingly honest -- or maybe you would call that simply rude! Shall I add crass? I would understand. In future posts, I will try to work on learning manners from my wonderful Southern friend. Perhaps, I will be able to tone it down some and not be so blunt.

-ISMS

Northern-isms and Southern-isms

"You might be a redneck if..."

Now, nearly everyone on the planet is familiar with Jeff Foxworthy's southern-antics. It seems to me that as I visit places and meet people, I find that the USA is one large union of hundreds of little countries each having their own distinct personalities. In the south, everyone smiles and waves their 'hellos' to passers by regardless of whether or now you know the person. A friend from New York asked me about it. While visiting the local gym, she thought every man was hitting on her and every woman was entirely too nosy with their questions. Different strokes for different folks.

I was daydreaming about this the other day.

A pal and I had spent some time chatting about life experiences in our varying cultures and I thought, "HOW MUCH FUN would it be to put it all in a blog!?!" So I asked if she would contribute, seeing as she has lived all over the country and I was born and raised in the south. She said "Yes"! Yay!

Tzav, my friend, I think this will be fun. Not sure if anyone but the two of us will read this, but it will be cool anyway.

Why ladies and gents, I'm so glad you're here readin' this lil ole blog, I hope you enjoy your visitin' and come back and see us again soon ya hear? And don't fret, the background will change at least a dozen times until it's right!