What about this arctic blast?  Land a’Goshen, it’s cold outside!  Around home, in polite company, folks’d say it’s cold as a titch’s witty.  If it’uz just menfolks listening, the beginning letters would be put back in the right order.  Somebody’d more likely than not comment that aforesaid witch was probably on the shady side of an iceberg doing pushups in the snow.  Folks might also say it’s colder’n a brass monkey (or certain of his anatomical parts, anyway, if ladies aren’t present.)  However you want to put it, it’s cold!  Too cold for the South.  Way too cold.

It’s good fireplace weather.  I was saddened on New Year’s Eve, whilst picking up a last-minute item or two from the store for my lovely wife, to see a fellow checking out ahead of me with some of those fake logs you can buy.  I reckon he was going to go home and build a chemical fire. 

 It astounds me to see folks taking the easy way out with fireplaces, for it seems to me if you’re going to build a fire, you ought to do it right.  Shoot, it’s a point of pride with me that the gas starter in my fireplace has never been used — that’s baby stuff.

The right way to build a fire is to start with a good, thick bed of ashes.  Then wad up a heaping helping of newspaper and lay it across the grate.  Don’t skimp on the paper.  Then get you several knots of lighterd and spread out on top of that.

Lighterd, for the uninitiated, is nearly petrified heart of pine.  Living on a farm as I do, there’s always plenty in the woods to pick up.  But for those who don’t live on farms, there’s no shame in buying lighterd — many stores sell it in bundles after someone has gone to the trouble to cut it into nice, uniform, rectangular strips.  I use three or four knots, typically, so I imagine it would take perhaps twice that many slivers like you buy.

Atop the lighterd, you’ll want loosely to stack two or three or four good, seasoned, split pieces of hardwood, though I like to use a little cedar when I have some available.  How many you use depends largely on the size of your firebox.  I could cut my firewood on the farm, and occasionally do; but generally I buy oak by the pickup load, already split.  If you’re going to cut your own firewood, it’s best to do it in July so it can cure properly.  That brings to mind the following adage:  he who cuts his own firewood is twice warmed, particularly if he’s cutting it in the summer as he needs to.

Once you get your fire laid out as I’ve written, strike a match or two to it.  In a few minutes you’ll have a wonderful, attractive, crackling fire in your fireplace, perfect for snuggling up beside with your sweetie.  It’s a purely natural thing, too — no chemicals, no gas, nothing fake. 

So get you some lighterd and get going.  It’s too cold not to.  And do you want to lay odds on the probability of a mini-baby-boom occurring around the first of next October?

By DAN LANGFORD

I’m not sure how to spell this word, and am open for alternative suggestions.  For those who don’t know, it’s the common Southern vernacular pronunciation for the word “children.”

I suppose it’s the way some Southerners actually say the word, though in my experience, it was more often used as a term of affection.  Mama, a precise-speaking English major and high school English teacher before motherhood, would say it when addressing her children in masse, in a variety of circumstances.  “Chillun,” she might say in a light and fun moment, ”how’d y’all like to make a churn of ice cream?”   In an ordinary, hum-drum comment, she might say, “Chillun, jump in the station wagon.  It’s time for piano lessons.”  On occasions when our behavior was taxing her patience, she might say, “Chillun, I’m'o sell y’all to the gypsies if you don’t behave.”

Mama obviously knew (and knows) that the word is both spelled and pronounced “children,” but reverting into “chillun” as a term of affection and endearment has long been an accepted way of relaxing in the language.  And that’s what Southerners do best — relax in the language.

By DAN LANGFORD

Wouldn, couldn, and shouldn are common Southern pronunciations for the contractions wouldn’t, couldn’t, and shouldn’t.  “Wouldn” rhymes with “wooden,” as do “couldn” and “shouldn.”  Most of us, when relaxing in the language, feel no need to pronounce the terminal “t’s.”  Naturally, we’d write them correctly, but why go to the effort of saying it so precisely?

We probably shouldn drop letters like that, and wouldn if it made a bit of difference.  It dudn (there’s another one - for “doesn’t”), so what’s the harm?  I couldn care less, could you?

By DAN LANGFORD

I’m not sure how to spell this expression, but I’ve heard women say it all my life.  Men use it on occasion, but generally default to “I swear!”, which I suppose in the genteel South seemed a bit harsh for women to say.  Both phrases mean the same thing — some combination of amazement or disgust or frustration — as in, “I swannee, I don’t know what I’m gonna do with that boy!  I can’t think of enough things to tell him not to do!”   Very rarely one would hear, ” I swannee to God,” which would indicate that the phrase’s origin was in an oath of some kind.

A marvelous website (www.word-detective.com) provides a perfectly plausible answer to the very reasonable question of where this odd but often-heard phrase came from.  It seems that in old England, folks said “I shall warrant you,” instead of “I swear;” both being said in the more traditional sense of swearing to tell the whole truth.  In the north of England, the dialectic pronunciation of the phrase “I shall warrant you” was something like “I s’wan ye,”  which goes a long way toward clarifying where this funny old phrase comes from.

I swannee, it’s amazing what one can find on the internet, isn’t it?

By DAN LANGFORD

I heard a parishioner after church yesterday saying to another, “Bless your biggol heart.”  Hearing that warmed mine, for there are two good Southernisms in a single phrase.

First is “Bless your heart,”  which is used as an expression of empathy or sympathy, and which I believe is distinctly Southern.  If you doubt me, ask yourself a simple question: can you imagine somebody from Brooklyn, Los Angeles, or Peoria saying it?

The other is that wonderfully descriptive adjective, “biggol.”  Something may be humongous, huge, large, or merely ample; but sometimes in speech those don’t quite impart the right degree of emphasis.  “Biggol” will usually do the trick in such cases.  We might write, “Stone Mountain is the largest piece of exposed granite in the world,” but that would sound rather stuffy if spoken.  We’d be more liable to say, “That’s a biggol rock right there.”

The moral of this story is to keep on blessing hearts.  You’ll have a biggol reward for it someday.

By DAN LANGFORD

Many Southerners drop lots of their R’s in speaking.  Hollywood, in portraying Southerners, never seems to get this right, a fact brought to my awareness in my recent viewing of two old movies — JFK and Forrest Gump.  In the former, the show’s star character, New Orleans D.A. Jim Garrison, is continually referred to as “Mistuh Gahhison,” or some abomination like that.  The “Mistuh” part is fine, but the butchery of the surname is unconscionable. In the latter movie, the main character is referred to again and again as “Fahhest” or “Fawest,” both of which are ludicrous.  Both words are pronounced just as they are spelled — Garrison and Forrest.

Simply put, we don’t drop R’s that begin words, those that follow most consonants (such as in “ludicrous” and “travel”), or those upon which syllable changes hinge.  Most if not all other R’s get dropped by those who are R-droppers.  Robert might be “Robuht,” Martha might be “Mahtha,” were is often “wuh,” cedar is usually “ceduh,” and Hardy might be “Hahdy.”  Harry, just one letter different, is always “Harry.”  That’s the catch Hollywood can’t seem to get right.

Here’s a phonetically-written sentence that may help illustrate the difference:

Pita (Peter) Harrison and Morris Hahcoat (Harcourt) wuh (were) half-brothuhs (brothers), who had the same muthuh (mother), but different fahthahs (fathers).

The R’s in “Harrison,” “Morris,” and “different” are all necessary — the others (othuhs) are (ah) not, and are often dropped.  Hollywood would have us saying “Ha-isson,” “Ma-iss,” and “diffent,” which is nothing more than carnage visited upon our lilting manner of speech.