Southern talk

Someone once noted that a Southerner can get away with the most
awful kind of insult just as long as it's prefaced with the words "Bless
her heart" or "Bless his heart." As in, "Bless his heart, if they put his
brain on the head of a pin, it'd roll around like a BB on a six-lane
highway." Or, "Bless her heart, she's so bucktoothed, she could eat
an apple through a picket fence."

There are also the sneakier ones that I remember from
tongue-clucking types of my childhood: "You know, it's amazing that
even though she had that baby seven months after they got married, bless
her heart, it weighed 10 pounds!" As long as the heart is sufficiently
blessed, the insult can't be all that bad, at least that's what my
Great-aunt Tiny (bless her heart, she was anything but) used to say.

I was thinking about this the other day when a friend was telling
me about her new Northern friend who was upset because her toddler is just
beginning to talk and he has a Southern accent. My friend, who is very
kind and, bless her heart, cannot do a thing about those thighs of hers, so
don't even start, was justifiably miffed about this. After all, this woman
had CHOSEN to move south a couple of years ago. "Can you believe it?" she
said to my friend. "A child of mine is going to be taaaallllkkin' a-liiiike
thiiiissss." I can think of far worse fates than speaking Southern for
this adorable little boy, who, bless his heart, must surely be the East
Coast king of mucus. I wish I'd been there. I would have said that she
shouldn't fret, because there is nothing so sweet or pleasing on the ear
as a soft, Southern drawl. Of course, maybe we shouldn't be surprised at her
"carryings on." After all, when you come from a part of the world where
"family silver" refers to the large medallion around Uncle Vinnie's neck,
you just have to, as aunt Tiny would say, "consider the source."

Now don't get me wrong. Some of my dearest friends are from the
North, bless their hearts. I welcome their perspective, their
friendships and their recipes for authentic Northern Italian food. I've
even gotten past their endless complaints that you can't find good bread
down here. The ones who really gore my ox are the native Southerners who
have begun to act almost embarrassed about their speech. It's as if they
want to bury it in the "Hee Haw" cornfield. We've already lost too much.

I was raised to swanee, not swear, but you hardly ever hear anyone
say that anymore, I swanee you don't. And I've caught myself thinking twice
before saying something is "right much," "right close" or "right good"
because non-natives think this is right funny indeed. I have a friend
from Bawston who thinks it's hilarious when I say I've got to "carry" my
daughter to the doctor or "cut off"" the light.That's OK. It's when you
have to explain things to people who were born here that I get mad as a mule
eating bumblebees.

Not long ago, I found myself trying to explain to a native
Southerner what I meant by being "in the short rows." I'm used to
explaining that expression (it means you've worked a right smart but
you're almost done) to newcomers to the land of buttermilk and cold
collard sandwiches (better than you think), but to have to explain it to
a Southerner was just plain weird.

The most grating example is found in restaurants and stores where
nice, magnolia-mouthed clerks now say "you guys" instead of "y'all," as
their mamas raised them up to say. I'd sooner wear white shoes in
February, drink unsweetened tea and eat Miracle Whip instead of Duke's than utter
the words, "you, guys."

Not long ago, I went to lunch with four women friends, and the
waiter, a nice Southern boy, "you guys"-ed all of us within an inch of our
lives. "You guys ready to order? What can I get for you guys? Would you
guys like to keep you guys' forks?" Lord, have mercy.

It's a little comforting that, at the very same time some natives
are so eager to blend in, they've taken to making microwave grits (an
abomination), the rest of the world is catching on that it's cool to be
Clampett.

How else do you explain NASCAR tracks and Krispy Kreme doughnut
franchises springing up like yard onions all over the country?

To those of you who're still a little embarrassed by your
Southernness, take two tent revivals and a dose of redeye gravy and call me in the
morning.

Bless your heart.