Every once in a while, I will hear someone say something that catches my attention. It usually isn’t anything particularly meaningful or deep — or even interesting, to be honest. There are turns of phrase or terms which aren’t used any longer and once in a blue moon, they magically reappear in someone’s everyday speech like a silver dime in a handful of copper ones.
The other day, a guy called me “buddyrow.” The correct spelling of the term is up for debate. In researching this column, I found it spelled “buddy row,” “buddy roe” and “buddy-ro.” I did find a “Buddy Rowe,” but his real first name was Melvin and he was a private investigator in Killeen, Texas. He asked that I not tell the world his name was actually Melvin, but I think I am safe as there are no folks in Killeen, Texas who read this newspaper. The term is mostly used these days as a male term of endearment, kinda like “pal,” but when I was a kid it was much less positive. My friend Jimmy’s dad would always call him buddyrow as he pulled a switch from a bush in the yard when Jimmy had done something wrong. If you got called buddyrow, a session with the switch was soon to follow. I grew up in the north, but Jimmy and his family were southern bred and their ways of doing things were different than ours. My father never called me buddyrow and he used a fraternity paddle and not a switch.
An old girlfriend used to say someone or something was “uglier than homemade sin.” I never knew what that really meant, but she said it often enough that it eventually made sense. I eventually figured out it meant something was exceptionally unattractive, but that was a mouthful and not nearly as colorful. Years later, as I type it, I realize I still don’t know what it means or where it originated, but I really don’t feel like digging up old skeletons to find out.
A lot of it has to do with where you are from geographically. As mentioned before in this column, I am originally from Maryland. Maryland is one of those states that is southern in some areas and northern in others in terms of culture. In Baltimore, a young girl might have a baby doll, where in the western part of the state or the Eastern Shore, she might have a doll baby. I hear “doll baby” a lot here in North Carolina. There’s nothing wrong with either way, but some may think the other has the words backwards.
Grandparents seem to have different names wherever you go and there never seems to be any rhyme or reason. My grandparents were always “Grandmom” and “Granddad.” My wife had “Grandpa and Grandma” on one side of the family and “Gran and Gramp” on the other. I have seen Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop, Memaw and Pepaw and similar variations. One kid I went to school with just referred to his grandparents as “The Silvermans.” It doesn’t sound that odd until you find out that his grandparents were named “O’Reilly” and not Silverman at all. My grandson calls me “Grandpa Joe” and that’s okay with me. My own grandfather was named Joe, as well, and being called Grandpa Joe makes me think I am in good company as far as grandfathers go.
Whereever you may find yourself in this great nation, you will eventually have to shop. Whether you are in the grocery store or the supermarket, you will have to use something that has a number of different names. Quite simply, it is the shopping cart. In the south, it’s a buggy. In some areas, I have heard it called, albeit rarely, a carriage. My mother called it a basket. I guess it’s kind of a basket, but when I think of a basket at the store, I think of that thing with the sticky handle that you hold with one hand. That thing with three good wheels and one with its own agenda is called a cart.
It took me a while to adjust when I first moved down here. I have been here for nearly seven years now. I was unaccustomed to the way folks spoke and I was equally unaccustomed to some of the things said to me. It did not take me long to realize that I was the one who sounded funny. I was the one that said things that sounded like they were from another planet. I think it only took a hundred or so folks telling me “bless your heart” that I suddenly came to the conclusion that this was an incredibly polite, extremely tasteful, and very southern way to verbally give me the finger.
If there is something you say that is a little different, it’s okay. Some of us are fans of the English language. Some of us enjoy the variations of how words are pronounced and used. That is the joy of language, both written and spoken. Each time you hear something or read something different, mentally put it away somewhere safe so you can use it later.
You can use a bag. Or a sack. Or a poke.
Contributing columnist and Baltimore native Joe Weaver is a husband, father, pawnbroker and gun collector. From his home in New Bern, he writes on the lighter side of family life.