Ever notice when you read a book that you start talking like they do in the book? Or at least you want to, or your thoughts to yourself have their accent?
Like last night I asked Gary, "Wanna head on into town and get some o' that fruit pie for Fam'bly Home Evenin'?
And I can't wait to have the oppurtunity to say someone was "squatin' on their hams". All throughtout The Grapes of Wrath, people squat, and what are they squatin' on? Their hams. I love that. And the men were constantly squatting on their hams in the book.
Then there are the times they added a T where it doesn't belong- acrost (for across) (people STILL say acrost), oncect (once), chancet (chance).
Yet they also leave out letters in so many other words, ol' (old), an' (and), 'f (if), ever' (every) (which Gary likes to pronounce it that way, being silly), and jus' (just). Jus' to name a few.
They's jus' a addin' and a takin' away where's they wanna.
I could get use' to it.
I would like to share this paragraph from The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck. It's one of my very favorites from the book.
It's the decription of Ma-
Tom stood looking in. Ma was heavy, but not fat; thick with childbearing and work. She wore a loose Mother Hubbard of gray cloth in which there had one been colored flowers, but the color was washed out now, so that the small flowered pattern was only a little lighter gray than the background. The dress came down to her ankles, and her strong broad bare feet moved quickly and deftly over the floor. Her thin steel-gray hair was gathered in a sparse wispy knot at the back of her head. Strong, freckled arms were bare to the elbow, and her hands were chubby and delecate, like those of a plump little girl. She looked out into the sunshine. Her full face was not soft; it was controlled, kindly. Her hazel eyes seemed to have experienced all possible tragedy and to have mounted pain and suffering like steps into a high calm and a superhuman understanding. She seemed to know, to accept, to welcome her position, the citadel of the family, the strong place that could not be taken. And since old Tom and the children could not know hurt or fear unless she acknowledged hurt or fear, she had practiced denying them in herself. And since , when a joyful thing happened, they looked to see whether joy was in her, it was her habit to build up laughter out of inadequate materials. But better than joy was calm. Imperturbability could be depended upon. And from her great and humble position in the family she had taken dignity and a clean calm beauty. From her position as a healer, her hands had grown sure and cool and quiet; from her position as arbiter she had become as remote and faultless in judgement as a goddess. She seemed to know that if she swayed the family shook, and if she ever really deeply wavered or despaired the family would fall, the family will to function would be gone.
I have many thoughts on that one paragragh as a mother, but I am going to keep it short- I want to be Ma.
My Ma is pretty much that Ma, freckled arms and all.
I want to be Ma.
What she is (even though a character) is what all Ma's ought to be-
Tom stood looking in. Ma was heavy, but not fat; thick with childbearing and work. She wore a loose Mother Hubbard of gray cloth in which there had one been colored flowers, but the color was washed out now, so that the small flowered pattern was only a little lighter gray than the background. The dress came down to her ankles, and her strong broad bare feet moved quickly and deftly over the floor. Her thin steel-gray hair was gathered in a sparse wispy knot at the back of her head. Strong, freckled arms were bare to the elbow, and her hands were chubby and delecate, like those of a plump little girl. She looked out into the sunshine. Her full face was not soft; it was controlled, kindly. Her hazel eyes seemed to have experienced all possible tragedy and to have mounted pain and suffering like steps into a high calm and a superhuman understanding. She seemed to know, to accept, to welcome her position, the citadel of the family, the strong place that could not be taken. And since old Tom and the children could not know hurt or fear unless she acknowledged hurt or fear, she had practiced denying them in herself. And since , when a joyful thing happened, they looked to see whether joy was in her, it was her habit to build up laughter out of inadequate materials. But better than joy was calm. Imperturbability could be depended upon. And from her great and humble position in the family she had taken dignity and a clean calm beauty. From her position as a healer, her hands had grown sure and cool and quiet; from her position as arbiter she had become as remote and faultless in judgement as a goddess. She seemed to know that if she swayed the family shook, and if she ever really deeply wavered or despaired the family would fall, the family will to function would be gone.
I have many thoughts on that one paragragh as a mother, but I am going to keep it short- I want to be Ma.
My Ma is pretty much that Ma, freckled arms and all.
I want to be Ma.
What she is (even though a character) is what all Ma's ought to be-
The citadel of the fam'bly.
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