I wasn’t born in the South but I got here as fast as I could. It’s a phase that I used to the delight of my many southern friends. It is a Southernism that I have learned over the intervening decade.
When I announced that my family was moving to Alabama my Yankee friends said, “Oh my, I’m so sorry.” Which translates into southern as “Bless your heart.” When my cousin heard the news he said. “Jamie, that’s a ludicrous idea.” I later learned the phrase translates to, “That dog won’t hunt.”
One of the first things I learned upon my arrival was that you have to choose. “Choose what?” I asked. My work colleagues replied. ALABAMA or ALBURN? I choose wisely.
Buying a house also included another lesson in the Southern lexicon. Our real-estate agent pointed to an opulent home and said, “He must be walking in high cotton.” My wife and I looked at each completely baffled. We could see no cotton - tall or short in the neighborhood. A work colleague soon set me straight. The agent clearly meant - well heeled.
After purchasing our lovely home the agent gave us quick demonstration on how to operate the air conditioner. He pointed and said, “Just mash this button.” Yankees push buttons. They save mashing for potatoes, turnips and other garden delights – but never buttons.
Our new neighbors were very welcoming and invited us to dinner soon after we moved in. My wife and I enjoyed a fine southern meal of chicken and dumplings. After dessert, my neighbor pushed back from the table and declared, “I’m as full as a tick.” I immediately checked myself for any unwanted and attached sucking insects.
We had some home improvements done and I learned that “half a bubble from plumb” in the Southern lexicon means “Not level” in Yankee. That “Cut the stove flat” means to those of the Northern persuasion as, “Turn off the gas stove.” That it wasn’t "abysmally cold" but rather it was “So cold it would freeze a lizard’s tail six feet deep” Or that it wasn’t "pitch black" outside but rather, “Black as midnight under a cast iron skillet.”
Feeling under the weather I made an appointment with our new MD. He took one look at me and offered, “You look puny there, son.” I was perplexed. No one had called me puny since I was a skinny kid of ten. And at six feet one inch 225 lbs. I am anything but small.
Perhaps one of the highest complements my Southern friends have paid me occurred outside a local conference. On break we were discussing the speaker and some of his more peculiar attributes. My friend Tony asked, “How would you describe him?”
Cynthia, another friend replied, “Oh I don’t know ... he’s so - Yankee.” To which the group broke out in gales of laughter. Seeing the concern on my face, Cynthia said, "We don't mean you, silly." I was thrilled and realized that I had been accepted and no longer considered someone of the Northern persuasion.
Sadly, I do not have that lilting southern accent that I find so enchanting. But I hasten to that I’m no Yankee. You see I was born in the south – but the south of England. Nor do I have an English accent despite English parents and my birth claim. My parents were vagabonds and we seldom lived in one place long. London, New York, Montreal, Chicago, LA, the list is extensive. And after a decade's long Army career, I seemed to have acquired the same moniker. If you were to pin the birthplaces of my wife, my sons and daughter, and me on a globe, those pins would encircle it.
I find that being a Southern is a much a state of mind as a declaration of birth. And, after a lifetime of travel and residency in three continent, four countries and countless states I have finally found my place in Sweet Home Alabama - even if I have yet to master the intricacies of the Southern Lexicon.
Roll Tide!
