Listen At It Thanksgiving time and all the relatives were gathered 'round the long table, or seated behind TV trays. The television was on and some folks were watching it while visiting with one another. Something on television got their attention and one of the adults said, "Listen at it!" Someone else replied. "Well, if that don't beat all." Simple phrases were spoken by folks whose language was simple and concise. They had several idioms that were just as colorful; Phrases and words that brightened the room and warmed the conversation. In school we were taught to speak differently. The way our relatives spoke was discouraged. Sometimes our parents would say things we weren't taught in school. They'd often correct themselves, as if erasing a mistake. Of course we learned some of their phrases and used them. They were comfortable words to utter, familiar. We liked to spend the weekend with our grandparents. Grandma spoiled us whenever possible. They had an old home in the heart of a small town city. Their backyard was overgrown with fruit trees, cacti, berry vines, flowers, and shrubbery. And taking refuge amidst this were feral cats our grandmother fed. When my brother and I went into the backyard to play, the cats scattered, disappearing into neighbors' yards. My brother once asked where they went and Grandma said, "They jumped clean over the fence, Hon. They don't take kindly to anyone but me." She did sewing, ironing and laundry for folks in town and she often admonished us about the proper way to launder clothing. She used a washboard and a wringer machine, then hung the clothes on a line to dry. She didn't use a dryer because as she put it, "Your clothes will draw up and be too small for you." She told us when he was little our father was seriously ill with a high fever. One night while delirious he screamed at his father, "Shoot the lights out, Daddy." She loved telling us that story. Our father was her only child and she doted on him to a fault. It wasn't just their speech that was different. They did things that other folks didn't do. Our grandfather drank his coffee in a saucer and with so much cream the coffee was almost white. He'd break his cornbread up into pieces drop it all in a bowl and pour milk and sugar over it--eat it like a cereal. Our father's side of the family was from Arkansas and Oklahoma and they spoke with the accents native to their birth states. Their voices musical and often high pitched, it was easy to pick up that inflection in our own speech and at school my brother and I were often teased for the way we spoke. Our mother's side of the family came from Illinois and they had a tendency to talk fast. They had an accent, too, and my brother and I added that to our own speech, confusing the kids at school all the more. Our father's side of the family loved to laugh and have a good time. Our mother's side of the family was more serious about how they took life in; their joys more silently experienced and enjoyed. It was a rich tapestry of culture and mores from which to draw from and it gave my brother and me a multi-faceted perspective at life. Thanksgiving holiday was always an easy going day, comfortable and anticipated. It was the first real holiday of the season when everyone came together in one place, and a durn good time was had by all. As the years played out, more of the family passed on and the get-togethers grew smaller and smaller. The gentle melodious tones that once filled the home during the holiday had thinned out. Where the room was once filled with TV trays and long tables, now only one table is set. The food is still great. But the room is more quiet, the mood subdued. "Care to walk a spell?" My brother asked me after the meal. "Sure!" We put our jackets on and stepped outside. "Which way?" I said. He shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Down the road a piece." He pointed to the left and we took off. It was a chilly Thanksgiving afternoon, late in the day and the air was hazy with wood smoke. The streets were quiet as we strolled through the neighborhood we once played in. Remembering the families that once lived in certain homes. We passed the field where we dug the earth out and created a fort. The two trees we used for tree houses. The flood control basin where we caught lizards and tadpoles and took our dogs to let them run free. Somewhere in the skeletal trees that lined the sidewalk a Mockingbird sang loud and clear, breaking the solitude. My brother punched me in the shoulder, the trace of a smile breaking on his face. "Listen at it!" I shook my head. Laughed. We walked on and my eyes filled a bit with tears as I heard the refrain in my head from a room filled with relatives... Listen at it! Copyright 2003 Kathy Pippig Harris |
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