I'm from here, but I'm not sure I speak the language
Connie Nowlin Managing editor
I thought sure as the world that when I moved back to this part of the country that I would be able to stop explaining every word and phrase I use.
Apparently, though, that what I thought was just a hangover in my vocabulary from a Panhandle childhood is instead a conglomeration of living all across the South.
I can call myself looking, and most people get it, but when something takes a long time, and I say I could have lost a crop of collards in the meanwhile, I get blank stares.
The rest of the staff here calls them 'Connieisms' and when I find a new word or phrase, I make it part of my repertoire. Most of them, though, are old country sayings.
For example, the other day when there was a power outage, the office got blacker than the inside of a goat's belly. At the same time, outside, it was raining like a cow … well, something about a flat rock. The same rain could be called a pitchfork rain or it may come a gully-whomper. Or a toad-strangler. Goose-drowner. You get the idea.
There are about two thousand ways to say hurry. Like rattle your hocks, which is what a herd of cows does. Then there is jingle your spurs, which happens when someone wearing spurs walks quickly. Of course, no one who wears spurs walks anywhere he can ride to, but that is another column all together.
There are also a lot of ways to talk about food. Like rooster bullets, or hen fruit. Cackleberries.
Then there are girl biscuits, which is another name for doughnuts, because they are sweet.
And please do not get offended if I should call you or yours 'pieface.' It is a term of endearment, meaning sweet and pretty, just like a well-made pie.
There are a pretty plenty more, and you all can send them to me. But like that thing about not walking when you can ride, that is another column
Connie Nowlin is managing editor of the Atmore Advance and may be reached at 368-2123 or email at email@example.com