Below is a blog my mom did but it didn't make it into Singing To The Cows. I just couldn't include every blog. However, this one is cute and I wanted to share it.
Have you ever thought about all the different methods one employs to get along with people? At times I’ve thought, why can’t I just be myself and let others worry about getting along with me?
My kids used to giggle at the, often, sickeningly sweet voice I used on the telephone, especially with folks I didn’t much like. Since she’s not here to defend herself, I think I’ll blame my mother, at least partly, for that. Just as plain as day, I hear Mother’s voice – “Well, you are just so kind to ask but I’m sure we’ll feel well enough to get to Sunday School, next week. Tell me, how your dear mother-in-law is holding up with her AA program? I was so sure I saw her entering the Drunken Duck Tavern about noon recently. Collecting for the March Of Dimes? Well, I suppose those people were happy to share their little change with the less fortunate souls.”
As the young wife of a small town banker, I was called on to do every tedious job the older wives were tired of and could push off on me. I watched and listened and learned. There is a fine line between being efficient --- and being deemed bossy or overbearing. So I learned how to say things like: “Well, ladies, I’ve worked all weekend on this list and you are all just so smart and talented I’d be too embarrassed to make all these flower arrangements and place cards etc. I’m just not artistic so this is the list of what each of you are to do and have in the church social hall no later than 6pm , Friday. Got to run, now.”
I get tickled sometimes at language nuances.
One expression that was popular in our town was “over served”. For example, most everyone knew that a certain well-known judge was nearly always over served at the country club on Saturday nights. This often resulted in his being given a ride home by various friends. I never heard anyone even remotely say he’d had too much to drink. But being over served surely implied that it was the fault of someone else and the judge was too polite to refuse. By the same token, in most small towns, the difference in the size of their bank accounts explained why some guys were alcoholics but others were just plain drunks.
There is one form of communication I really rely on. My parents had a special whistle to call or alert one another. We were taught that whistle almost before we could talk plain and strongly encouraged to use it. We knew that we should pay immediate attention when we heard it. Later, we taught our children to employ it and now, my grandkids. The grands told me recently that their Uncle Bruce has taught them a shorter version that he uses with them when they are camping or shopping. Many, many times in my life when I have suddenly realized that I am separated from a loved one --- then, am so comforted to hear the family whistle. I answer immediately so we can find each other.
Of course, sometimes English is a foreign language right here in America.
The first Monday after we moved into our new home, in Tennessee, I could not turn on the oven in my new stove. I had carefully read the directions to no avail so I called the phone number on the instruction sheet. After finding a male human to listen to my troubles, I explained the problem, very politely, I thought. When I slowed down, a rough male voice said, ”Lady, I ain’t unnerstood a dang thang you jist said. Git somebody else to call who tawks raaaght.” Needless to say, the stress of realizing nobody in East Tennessee was going to be able to understand my Georgia accent, upset me terribly. I was crying so hard when I called my Tony at the bank, they got him out of a meeting. Using great self-control to refrain from laughing, he wrote down the phone number and got it straightened out. You’d have thought any fool would understand plain English even IF spoken with a very slight southern accent…. [Note from Dee: Mom had quite a pronounced southern accent!]
We lived on Venice Road when we first moved to Knoxville. I was startled when I talked to another repair guy and he couldn’t understand Venice, like in Italy. I finally started to spell it and he said “Awww, you mean venus, like the planet!”
We had a maid during the early years in Tennessee, and her accent was so thick sometimes I had trouble understanding her. One morning she came in and said, with a heavy sigh, “Lord, mah har feels lak war!” Dee had to translate that. What she said was, my hair feels like wire.
All that East Tennessee eventually influenced Dee to an alarming degree. I realized that the day she said “Ah’m gonna take a shar,” meaning I’m going to take a shower. I started her on voice lessons right after that, and her accent returned to normal.
During my education classes, in college, we were told to be careful to say to a child about his picture, “Tell me about it.” Never ask what is it? and never say what you think it is. Sure as hell, you’ll just have called a child’s beautiful drawing of his granddaddy, a clown or worse a gorilla etc. But this little hint works in other aspects of our everyday life. If you see someone who needs to talk about something, just say tell me about it, instead of God, what’s wrong with you?! The gentler tell me about it suggests that you have the time …and are prepared to listen. After all, communication is a two-way street!
