What'd He Say?

Dear Boo and Bubble,

We went out last night with our friends Rick and Freddie Bloneshine, a couple we met last summer through tennis. Although they have been coming up to our area for years from Florida, our paths had never crossed. They recently decided to make the mountains their permanent home and what a delightful addition they have made to our pool of buddies. Our evening excursion took us up to the nearby town of Blowing Rock for dinner and a bluegrass jam at the American Legion Hut.

Since moving here, Rick and Freddie have immersed themselves in the community, volunteering at the local Chamber of Commerce and acquainting themselves with opportunities to help through non-profit organizations. Apparently, in the mix was the Seven Devils Volunteer Fire Department where Rick decided he should offer his services. As we drove up the winding curves of Shull’s Mill Road to Blowing Rock, he recounted to us the experience of attending his first meeting with the group—comprised of mostly lifelong locals.  

“Well…it was like being in a two-hour session with everybody speaking what sounded like Russian.”

Rick had hit what I call the “Brogue Wall,” whereby those of us born and bred in the South…who talk funny to almost everybody who comes from another part of our country…run headlong into the nuanced, muted, almost indiscernible pronunciations of the simplest of words that flow from the mouths of natives in these here mountains.

I’ve had such an encounter myself. Almost ten years ago, Captain and I decided to move our residency from South Carolina to North Carolina. There were several underlying reasons which precipitated the decision…not the least of which was a viable option of health insurance for Captain…and when we inquired about how to accomplish the switch, we were pleased to find out all you had to do was get a North Carolina drivers license. However, our new chosen state wouldn’t just give it to us…we had to provide our Social Security cards and take a written test.

We went to the DMV in Newland, our county seat, located in a cubbyhole tucked amongst other governmental offices in a rather nondescript building downtown. Folding chairs lined the wall outside the DMV door and there were several patrons sitting in them—ranging from silver-haired seniors like ourselves to nervously twitching teenagers. We grabbed a couple of seats and waited our turn.

In  a few minutes, the manager of the DMV came into the hall…the quintessential stereotype of the southern law enforcement officer…just like he stepped right off the set of “Smokey and the Bandit” (yeah…I know…you have no idea what that is)…with his bulging belly stretching the buttons of his shirt to their maximum capacity…and half-moon reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. The only thing missing might be a wad of tobacco tucked obscurely between his gum and cheek. He called the next in line to come into the office.

Soon, it was our turn. Captain came fully prepared with his Social Security card in hand. I, on the other hand…not being able to find mine…hoped to beg my way into taking the test with copies of tax returns. Nope! He wouldn’t budge. No smile…just deadpan officiousness.  I’d have to come back another day. (This proved to be beneficial in the long run. Captain had trouble with the test and had to take it over. I learned that I had to really study for it.)

It took several weeks to get my card. When it came in the mail, I drove back down to Newland to find him there…just as we had left him…same uniform, same dour expression, same glasses.

He invited me into the office and instructed me to take the chair in front of a computer screen on the wall opposite his desk. I took a deep breath…remembering Captain’s experience…and, upon his signal…looked at the first question as it popped up on the screen before me. For the next twenty minutes or so, I plodded through the test, especially sweating bullets when an obscure reference to the speed limit for farm vehicles demanded an answer. Finally, after going back over all the questions, I told him I was through.

I remained seated behind him as a printer whirred softly and spit out my test results on a piece of paper. He peered through the half-moon glasses and began grading it.

“Well…looks like yuh done passed.”

“Whew!” I responded.

“Now…I gots tu ask yuh sum q’estions.”

“Okay.”

“How ole ur yuh?”

“62.”

“How much yuh weigh?’

“130 pounds.”

“C’lurse yur eyes…”

This one stumped me, and I contemplated what he was saying for a moment before I complied with his request…closing my eyes. I sat there with my lids shut waiting for him to say something and wondering what closing my eyes had to do with anything.

“Whut c’lurse yur eyes?” he finally spoke in that same monotone, deadpan, “nothing you do can excite me” tone of voice.

I slowly opened my eyes.

“Hazel…my eyes are hazel!” I answered, realizing through my embarrassment what he had asked.

I laugh every time I remember this story…but I bet I don’t laugh as hard as he does. Can you imagine what he was thinking while I sat there with my eyes closed? Maybe he figured I had to ponder real hard to remember their color…or that maybe I had mirrors on the inside of the lids so that I could see the color! I would love to hear what he told his wife that night when he went home from work.

Yes, sometimes even the most southern of us can't interpret what these mountain folks are saying. Probably makes them a lot smarter than we are.