Mr. Write's Page

Random observations / recollections / stories…

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Southern Speech

My North Georgia grandfather, Frank Byrd, was a bona fide native who lived in the same small town his entire life. And his speech confirmed it. Frank spoke in the same manner, using the same colloquialisms, as virtually all of his contemporaries.

Some years ago, I wrote a post on this blog entitled “Talking Georgian,” a subject I find fascinating and entertaining.

I was reminded of Frank and his manner of speech recently by the arrival of spring. Everything is waking up – the bugs, the weeds, the grass, the trees, the pollen – and as I watched my dog Jake trying to catch a carpenter bee, I recalled that, to Frank and his friends, a wasp was a waust.

Waust. Rhymes with lost.

The speech characteristics of my Savannah grandfather, the first Walter Smith, were radically different from Frank’s, but equally interesting. Natives of the Savannah/Charleston area (who call themselves “Geechees”) speak “Geechee,” which borrows words and phrases from African slaves, native tribes, and Europeans.

For one thing, Geechees pronounce the letter “R” only at the beginning of words. (People in the region can form the “R” sound perfectly well, but for some reason, choose not to do it.) Take, for example, this phrase:

Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s.

In Geechee, the phrase would be:

Renduh unto Caesuh the things that aw Caesuh’s, and unto God the things that aw God’s.

A waust.

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The Mortuary Business

In the South, most black people and white people attend separate churches and have separate funeral parlors. The old laws that required the separation are gone, but the systems remain in place.

In white society, morticians (undertakers, funeral directors) often are a source of jokes, owing to the services they provide, their stereotypical demeanor, and the prices they charge. Not so in the black community. Most black funeral directors are highly respected and honored.

Are the two images appropriately earned? Probably.

According to Ebony Magazine, the country had about 3,000 black-owned funeral parlors in the 1950s. Today, the number is down to 1,200, which is sad.

Years ago, my then-wife Deanna went into the florist business, with half interest in a small flower shop in Buford. As with most florists, funeral work was a significant part of the business. They dealt regularly with the local funeral parlors, both black and white.

On weekends and holidays, I usually helped out by making deliveries, so I also got a glimpse of how the mortuary business operated behind the scenes.

By and large, the black funeral director (Buford had only one) behaved like, and was treated like, a clergyman.

His two white counterparts, on the other hand, were ordinary guys who had inherited family businesses. Both behaved in a somber, funereal manner, probably because they felt people expected it of them. Around town, they were neither beloved nor especially respected.

One other interesting fact I learned about the funeral homes in Buford in those days: the black-owned mortuary had no refrigeration capability. None. The white-owned parlors made refrigerated storage available as needed.

I often wondered whether that vital service was provided gratis. Probably not.

A modern nine-cadaver unit.

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Petty Tyrant

When warm weather arrives, it’s time to take my RV to Mr. Clean Truck Wash in Athens to have the accumulated layers of mildew, pollen, and crud removed. The guys at Mr. Clean will scrub ‘er down and apply a coat of liquid wax for the lowly sum of $30. The workers at Mr. Clean do a thorough job and are a very congenial bunch.

Last year, the boss at Mr. Clean was a stoic black guy who handled the money, but otherwise just sat in a lawn chair and watched.

This year, in addition to the stoic black guy, the management includes a foremen – a plump, gray-haired, middle-aged, scowling white guy who bosses around the young black workers. He is, I regret to say, a jackass and a petty tyrant.

He and one of the crew started by spraying the van within a chemical that loosens dirt. Immediately, the foreman started yelling.

“Not straight on, you @#$% moron! Hold the sprayer at an angle!”

The worker’s expression remained blank as he changed the angle of spray. The foreman spat several more curses before he dropped the subject.

Every few minutes, he chewed out one of the workers for a transgression – handing up the wrong brush, leaving a hose underfoot, missing a spot, not controlling the overspray. By the time the job was finished, he had yelled at and cursed out all three workers at least twice each.

Here was a guy, probably battling inner demons, who was taking advantage of his authority, knowing that the workers could do nothing about it. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t.

At one point, one of the young workers came over to the supply bench where I was standing, and I asked, “Is he always like this?” There could be no doubt what I meant.

“Oh, yeah. Every day.”

I left $20 in the tip box.