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Send a letter to the editor to P.O. Box 1600, Dawsonville, GA 30534; fax (706) 265-3276; or email to editor@dawsonnews.com.
DawsonOpinion
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 5,2022
This is a page of opinion — ours, yours and
others. Signed columns and cartoons are the
opinions of the writers and artists, and they
may not reflect our views.
Fixin to try and
explain how us
Southerners talk
I have met a
number of folks
recently who
migrated from
across the Mason-
You-Know-What-
Line and have set
tled in the Great
State of Georgia. We enjoy each other’s
company but there is a bit of a language
barrier. We all speak the same one —
English — but we speak it differently. They
talk fast and make their point quickly. In
the South, we tend to meander a bit and say
things softly and slowly.
I’m not really sure why we Southerners
talk like we do but the fact is that we do.
There is no question we are economical
with the language. Unlike other parts of the
country, we don’t find it necessary to stick
extraneous letters on our words. Like put
ting a “g” on the end of words. If you
haven’t figured out that we are saying “fus-
sin’” or “fightin”’ by the time we get to the
end of the word, sticking a “g” on it, ain’t
gonna make much difference.
Same with “r’s.” We use them on the
front end of important words like “Readin”’
and “Rasslin’,” but we don’t feel compelled
to put them on a lot of other words, like
“over” or “under.” We just say “ovuh” and
“unduh.” Even the Supreme Being doesn’t
rate an “r” in the South. We just call him
“Lawd.” (“Lawd, what’s all the fussin’ and
fightin’ about? I thought it was ovuh.”)
And then there is the word that defines us
perhaps more than any other: “Y’all.”
(Actually, it is two words, but just one to
Southerners.) Instead of going to all the
trouble of referring to “you people” or to
“those of you assembled,” we just say y’all,
Emigres may think we are referring to
yawl, a two-masted fore-and-aft-rigged
sailboat with the mizzenmast stepped far aft
so that the mizzen boom overhangs the
stem. Trust me, y’all. We ain’t.
“Fixin”’ is one of our favorite words in
the South. We use it like everyone else does
when we are going to repair something.
However, we also use “fix” as a substitute
for “preparation” which has too many “r’s”
and takes too long to say. We “fix” supper
and then announce to the family to wash up
because “we are fixin’ to eat.” But one
thing you will never hear a native
Southerner say is “I’m fixin’ to go to watch
me a little ice hockey.”
An expatriate from New York described
to me the shock she experienced when a
friend told her she was “fixin’ to pick up
Momma and carry her to the grocery store.”
It conjured up visions of lifting a frail old
lady out of her rocking chair, hoisting the
poor thing on her back and trudging off to
the grocery store.
In fact, what her friend was saying was
that she was making preparations to drive
to her mother’s home in order that the two
of them could ride to the grocery store and
do their shopping together. But, again, why
waste all those words. She knew what she
meant. So did Momma.
In the South, we use many of the same
words that people do in other parts of the
country. We just assign them different
meanings. Take the word “bard.” Your first
thought might be William Shakespeare, the
Bard of Avon. Here, “bard” means you
took something that doesn’t belong to you
and you had better return it when you get
through with it. (“Dang it, Honey! That
sorry brother of yours done bard my riding
mower again without askin’.”)
Noah Webster defines “moan” as “to
utter a low dull sound from grief or pain.”
When we say “moan,” we mean to get the
lead out and start moving. (“Moan,
Clarence, we ain’t got all day.”)
Same with “far.” Some define far as a
long way off. Far keeps us warm and we
can cook on it, too. To many people a ranch
is a place in Montana where Ted Turner
raises buffaloes. We have ranches, too, only
our ranches are more utilitarian. We have
pipe ranches and socket ranches and we
need them if we are fixin’ to fix things.
Finally, to my friends from up North, if I
say “Hi-U,” I’m not talking about a soft
drink or a place that rents trailers. I’m say
ing hello. That’s the universal Southern
greeting. It means I’m glad to know y’all.
And indeed I am. Now, if y’ all will excuse
me, I must go. I’m fixin’ to pick up my
friend and carry him to supper.
You can reach Dick Yarbrough atdick@dick-
yarbrough.com; at P.O. Box 725373, Atlanta,
GA 31139; online at dickyarbrough.com or on
Facebook at www.facebook.com/dickyarb.
I KNOW NOBODY
LIKES ME...
WHY DO WE HAVE to HOLD the MIDTERM
ELECTIONS to EMPHASIZE IT?
© 2022 CREATORS.COM
3AFTER CHARLES SCHULZ
WWW.TOMSTIGLICH.COM
In search of useful, unsolicited advice
The unsolicited advice
began the minute the test
turned pink.
Not sure what it is about
being pregnant that makes
total strangers give you ran
dom, unsolicited advice.
I could be standing in line
at the grocery store, trying to
skim through the National Enquirer in
peace, and have some person I had never
met before start telling me all kinds of
wild and sundry things.
Did I have heartburn? Was I craving
certain things?
“Drink some ginger tea.” one told me.
“Make sure you eat what you’re craving or
it will make the baby fussy.”
These strangers had all kinds of bits of
wisdom and insight for everything I could
possibly need as well as other things I had
never heard of.
Once Cole was bom, the advice kept
coming.
Burp him this way, hold his head that
way. “Are you giving him formula? How
do you warm the bottles? Don’t use the
microwave - it can get the bottles too hot.”
The well-intended assault came in pub
lic from strangers and over the phone from
extended family and friends.
The only meaningful advice I received
was from my childhood friend, Jane, who
called me at the hospital shortly after I
made it back to my room from delivery.
She must have known I was scared out
of my mind that I would mess things up
somehow.
“Just whatever you do, do it out of
love,” she said gently. “And you’ll do
fine.”
I promised I would. Some advice wasn’t
helpful or even wanted.
“Make sure he sleeps on his stomach,” a
stranger told me.
“Actually, it’s back to
sleep,” I said. There was a
whole poster in the pediatri
cian’s office about this very
thing.
“Are you sure?” the lady
questioned.
“Yup.” I had scoured
everything I could to make
sure and was certain the proper sleeping
position was on his back.
I was told not to let him have a pacifier
too long, not to give him sugar before he
turned one. not to let him sleep with a
nightlight.
All kinds of random, well-meaning
stuff, but I’d wager that about 99.99 per
cent of it was unsolicited.
There were plenty of things I needed
help with and I knew whose wisdom I
trusted, and it was quite limited: Mama
and Granny.
As he grew into a toddler, there was a
new slew of those insights that were given
from the peanut gallery.
Those arbitrary inputs came with each
passing year it seems, followed by the
instructions of how to deal with every
variety of milestone.
I was cautioned about the Terrible Twos,
about how to make sure he wasn’t a biter,
what to do if he was the one bitten. He
was an only child - was I concerned about
him learning to share?
Being an only child myself, that was not
something I was concerned about in the
least.
“Don’t blink, he’ll be grown before you
know it.” one woman commented. “Enjoy
every second,” I was also told.
After he reached the double digit age
zone, the influx of the advice seemed to
slow down somewhat.
Maybe it was the fact that some folks
realized it was a bit intrusive or maybe
they think parents should have a few
things figured out by this point.
I was thankful whatever the cause was.
Of course, as he entered his teen years,
some more advice began to flow.
I tried to just graciously smile and nod,
knowing that once again, people just
meant well.
Problem was, but no one ever told me
how to deal with him growing up.
How to handle the fact that he’s no lon
ger that little blonde-haired boy who
would run to me and climb up in my lap.
The one who’d wait for me all day just
to cuddle him and read to him.
Like those sages had warned, I some
how blinked and those moments were
memories.
He’s now 18, and in his mind, and to
most of society, he’s grown.
I know millions of other parents have
gone through this - this harrowing experi
ence of realizing your child is becoming
their own person and their life may sur
prisingly not revolve around you.
It’s scary and heartbreaking at the same
time.
As he grows more and more indepen
dent, I am always proud of the man he’s
becoming but still see that little boy in my
mind’s eye, the child that wanted and
needed his mama most of all.
“He’s growing up,” my husband will tell
me gently, when he knows how hard it hits
me. “You’ve got to let him grow up.”
“I know.” I respond wistfully.
Now, if someone would just tell that to
my heart.
Sudie Crouch is an award winning humor
columnist and author of "The Dahlman
Files: A Tony Dahlman Paranormal
Mystery."
SUDIE CROUCH
Columnist
DR. ANDERSON
Current top diseases down, but new ones could always arise
By Dr. Larry Anderson
Anderson Family Medicine
The news has been lack
ing on anything about
COVID or Monkeypox or
Avian Influenza. Does this
mean these maladies have
gone away? No. You just
have to look at different
sources.
This morning Rural
Radio had a report about
farmers being concerned
about baling straw and
placing them in their barns.
Will the straw have drop
ping from birds flying over
and contaminating the
straw and placing the farm
at risk by spreading Avian
Influenza?
COVID is finally
decreasing in our county.
Not sure what everyone is
doing but it seems to be
working. Good job! No
new news on monkeypox.
One final word on what
to do when you don’t know
what to do when something
bad breaks out again. This
is where we take a lesson
on public health from the
Bible. Place all the sick
people in one area, provide
the necessities like food,
water, shelter and clothing.
Have someone responsible
check them over when they
seem to be over the malady
and let them back into the
fold with the rest of us.
Talk to your Pastor about
this one.
The Ukrainians seem to
be getting stronger but still
have a ways to go. To quote
Yogi Berra, it ain’t over til
it over. Keep the prayers
going. We all need peace.
Thanks for reading
LETTERS
I am a victim
I am an old white guy. I am a south
erner and married to my first wife. It
does not look like there will be need
of a second.
I am a Republican, conservative,
Christian, military vet, and worst of all
a devoted carrier and student of west
ern civilization.
I eat meat and use electricity that is
made from coal. I have single handed-
ly destroyed the entire globe because I
bathe regularly and drive a car.
I helped raise our two children, got
them educated and set off in life with
out debt and they are self-sufficient
and not a burden on the government.
I do not blog or belong to the face
thingy. I have not served time in jail or
burned a building down to protest. I
buy my underwear at Walmart and
have never had to loot one TV.
I had to show up for the third shift
in hot weather and work hard. I had to
study for my school tests and practice
sports. I was never voted the best of
anything and my trophy shelf is pretty
empty.
I had my hinny whipped several
times by bullies and some girls turned
me down for dates.
You put all these things together and
yet according to what I read in the
national news I am the cause of all the
misery and want in the world. It is a
heavy burden to bear.
Gary Pichon
Marble Hill
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