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Phrases from long ago

3/1/2017

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A few days ago I yanked at the waist of my pants and commented to one of my friends that I nearly lost my britches.

“What is a britches?” she asked.

That little slip of my Southern tongue caused me to smile.

Later that afternoon I took a little stroll through my family roots, which I am so proud of.

I love that many generations of where I come from still cherish beautiful, rich fields. Other people might see dollar signs and housing developers. We see history and peace.

As a kid I plucked tomatoes, peppers and a few ears of corn from the garden and shined them under the garden hose. Then I hauled my full 5-gallon bucket around in the nearby housing addition, selling my wares.  
When it was time to bale hay it got on my nerve that my dad insisted on riding with me every single year for a few rows, like I never drove that old Case tractor before.

In the spring I still look for new calves, and the scent of freshly cut hay is also still a comfort.
While I brag about what great cornbread-making skills I have – to serve with my big pot of pinto beans and fried potatoes – northerners salivate over cheeseburgers and fries.

Grits … no sugar, mind you, and hominy too, are just a couple of Kentucky staples.
At the weathered old country store down the road from my grandparents’ farm, the grandkids got to pick between a moon pie or a chunk of pickled bologna. I don’t guess the health department was a concern back then since the store owner stuck his chubby bare fingers inside that giant jar to cut pieces of pickled bologna with his pocket knife. We also got to choose a small glass bottle of soda, which we later placed in the creek to keep cold.

When my grandma found a tick on her leg she lit a match and stuck it right to her skin. I thought she was some kind of super woman. She never even flinched. And she cured ham in a cellar that scared me to death.
   
I miss hearing certain phrases that I rarely hear across the state line. Phrases like, “He pert near took the whole side off the barn when he lost the brakes on that old truck,” or “You look peeked. Are you comin’ down with something?” or “That boy would rather climb a tree and tell a lie than tell the truth on the ground.”

If someone suffered from a bad cold, they talked about being “all stoved up.” If a kid was being scolded for not listening, the words often came out like this, “I told you plain to stop that.”
If you were acting extra terrible, you might also hear, “There is a switch out there in the yard with your name on it. You hear me?” or “You’d better straighten up and fly right.”

I learned very young to appreciate being surrounded by all things green, not houses and souped-up cars and people yelling out their front doors. So I have made peace with the fact that I will always wish for a quiet little house in the country.

Maybe I fell in love on my own with summer evenings under the stars. All I know is that I still wish to hear tree frogs talking under a beautiful moon. I still wish to see my grandpa trudging from the barn, stopping on the porch to wash his hands in that huge bowl my grandma always left on the porch railing, with a bar of soap next to it.

Today’s children are surrounded by every possible video and computer game. They have no freckles on their faces from playing in the sun. They are missing out on so much. And none of it costs a dime.  
        
Sherri Coner is an award-winning journalist and humor writer who speaks to women’s groups. To learn about her books for women and to join her on Facebook, visit www.sherriconer.com.
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The talking pants

2/22/2017

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For a while now, I have been bellyaching about my weight. And sometimes it is a challenge to whine when three donuts are stuffed in my mouth.

Every time I decide that yes, I am definitely getting away from gravy and biscuits, ice cream, cookies and cake, I just eat more of those zillion-calorie choices.

I tell myself stupid things like, “I might as well eat all the donuts. Tomorrow, they will be stale.” And “Tonight I deserve to happily eat most of this pizza since I will be so sad tomorrow when I start dieting.” 

Anyway, while recently looking through my closet for maybe one piece of clothing that is not black, I ran across my favorite pair of pre-fat jeans. 

“I’ll just test these,” I whispered under my breath. “Let me just see for myself how far I am from wearing these again.”

The minute I plucked the jeans from the hanger and stepped into them, the denim started to laugh.
“Are you kidding me?” my jeans cried. “You can’t get me above those monster thighs.”

“You can just shut your zipper,” I hissed as I pulled and yanked on the fabric. 
But my jeans were right. 
At midthigh my efforts were brought to a cruel stop. 

“I haven’t worn them in a long time,” I muttered.
“Three years,” my jeans said. “You haven’t removed me from your closet in three years.”

“Well that’s the problem,” I said with a shrug. “You need stretched.”
“I’m not a trampoline,” the jeans snapped. “I cannot possibly stretch enough to accommodate your chunky, pear-shaped body.” 

“You are awful,” I sniffed.
“And you are fat,” my jeans said with a giggle.
Again, I pulled on the jeans. But this time I hopped around in the bedroom, yanking with each hop. Well, yanking until I stabbed myself in the stomach by falling against the doorknob.

“Give up, before you need an ambulance,” my jeans said. “Give me away to a woman with the butt size you had three years ago.” 
“Never,” I shouted.
“Give up, jello butt!” my jeans yelled. “Stop jumping around! You’re making me nauseous.” 

“Oh my gosh, you’re right,” I sobbed. “I should be giving you away and replacing you with a pup tent.” 
Until my doctor told me, I did not know that many women gain 30 to 35 pounds while going through breast cancer treatment. Between the small pharmacy of medications and the fact that mobility is so limited for such a long time, I have turned into a walking blimp. My age is working on me too, since I now have the metabolism of a turtle. Add my addiction to all things sugar and the end result is a full-feathered chick who cannot possibly squeeze into a size 8 again. 

As in ever. 
So this morning I decided to use my jeans as motivation. 
“This is a waste of time,” my jeans complained as I hung them on the closet door. 
“Shut it,” I said stiffly.
“What is your plan?” my jeans asked.
“Every day I will admire your much smaller waist,” I said. “I will remember who I once was and I will want even more, to go back to her.”

“That horse left the barn,” my jeans said with a laugh. “Your waist has completely disappeared. You can’t find your belly button, either.”
“I can work on that,” I said quickly.
“Give up,” my jeans groaned. “I can’t stand to see you punish yourself this way.”
“I said for you to just zip it,” I said sternly.

This afternoon, as I sailed through my bedroom, looking for my camera, the right leg of my jeans rose in the air and slapped a Twinkie right out of my hand.   
As I bent over to grab my snack off the floor, that mean old denim leg again slapped the Twinkie from my grasp. 
​
“Dang,” I glared at the jeans for a long moment.
“If you are serious about getting rid of your lard, you’d better trade the Twinkies for celery,” my jeans said seriously.    
“Oh that is just a sad thought,” I said as tears welled in my eyes. 
“And that is such a massive hind end,” my jeans said with a laugh.        
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    Sherri Coner

    A former Southsider and an award-winning journalist and humor writer, Sherri Coner resides in southwest Florida. To learn about her books for women and to join her on Facebook, visit www.sherriconer.com. She also speaks to women’s groups.    

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