Talk to Me Pretty

I miss colorful language. One might argue, I suppose, that modern discourse is filled with color - or maybe off-color. That's not the kind of color I crave. What I long for is the rich language of the south, positively luxuriant in its bounty of simile and metaphor, rooted in the country, delivered slowly, drawled, virtually sung.

My parents grew up in North Texas, almost to the Red River, sixty miles from Dallas, which along with Houston was the only "sophisticated" city in the state, in those days. Texas was really part of the south then; maybe not the "deep" south, like Alabama or Mississippi, but deep enough to have many southern characteristics. Among them certainly were gentility, courtesy, and sweet talkin', liberally infused with the ubiquitous y'aaaaaall. Texan communication that my parents knew was bright and rich and fertile with phrases that told stories, conjured pictures, conveying with florid precision the true spirit of the tale.

But this couple of kids from North Texas went north, past Oklahoma, out into the great unknown, where there were probably giants. All the way to Canada they went. And when they landed in a small Canadian community, they were foreigners indeed. The subdued, reserved Canadians, with their clipped, quick articulation, were impossible for Texan ears to understand, and conversely, Canadians could only widen their eyes in wonder at the elongated parlance coming from my parents' mouths. To some they sounded like hayseeds; but some found them charming, and would ask questions just to elicit the tones, the cadence - no matter the meaning.

Through the years, my parents lost much of the color. Their ears became accustomed to northern confabulation. Gradually all those sweet phrases evaporated. They sped up their own speech without even knowing, which caused great consternation among Texas kin when they returned home for visits.

In my parents' minds, Texas is lodged as it was more than 50 years ago. They think the language is still as luscious as it was then. Their ears still want to curl around that speech, as Texan as katydid or locust song in the summer. But, with the exception of some small towns where the older Texan generation is waning and disappearing, we Texans generally talk a lot like the full amalgum of all Americans who have moved hither and thither across the country, picking up idioms, losing others. We are homogenized. We don't talk so pretty anymore, for sure.

I long to hear the pretty, so on the occasions I do, I'm tickled beyond the words.

I've been making some changes in my medical care - new specialists and a new primary care physician. I visited him for the first time last week. His examination was thorough, and he remarked that I had a little (ahem) build-up in one of my ears. I made a face, and he said, "Don't worry. It doesn't look like it's been there for a century."

I said, "Hey, you shouldn't use words like 'century' when you're talking to someone as old as I am."

He winked his young, sly eye at me and said, "Aww, your breath still smells of mother's milk."

"I loooooove you," I drawled out, in Scarlet fashion, barely stopping the word "Suuuuugar" from following. (After a certain age, you can get by with that, though, you know.)

I suspect I have a pretty talk cohort.