Drunker than Cooter Brown!

A few weeks ago, I wrote a story about the words and sayings I heard in our country store back in the day. As some like to call it, “Appalachian English.” I thought I had ‘em all, or at least, a right smart of ‘em. But some of you were “put out” with me, because I left out some of your favorites. So here’s a big thanky for helping me remember all the wonderful things “Mommer ‘n ‘em” used to say. I’ll try not to leave any out, nary a one.

I had forgotten that many of our customers didn’t come to the store to shop. Instead they “traded” with us. Although they were trading cash for groceries, that term dates back to the days when they would trade eggs, chickens or corn. In return, they might get some “surp” for their pancakes, or some “warshing” powder. (By the way, you do know the White House is in Warshington, right?)

Before my wife moved down south, her only exposure to our way of talking was Tony Joe White’s 1969 hit “Polk Salad Annie.”

She loved it, but she asked me a lot of questions. When Tony Joe sang, “She’d pick her a mess of polk salad (or poke sallet), and carry it home in a tow sack,” my wife was stumped. “What’s a mess?” That’s a lot, I would tell her. Unless, of course, you were referring to a person who was a cut-up. As in, “That boy’s a mess!”

“Okay,” she would reply. “Then what’s a tow sack?” I’d respond, “That’s a big ol’ burlap bag.” Of course, she would ask, “What’s burlap?” I’d say, “Those are the bags full of arsh (Irish) taters.” She would just stop and say, “I’ll never learn Southern.” 35 years later, she’s still trying.

To be fair, I didn’t understand half of what she said either. When our kids were wiggly, she would use the Pennsylvania term, “Stop rutching around!” And don’t even get me started on “dippy eggs.” They’re sunny side up, down here.

Speaking of food (which was often kept in the ice box), about twice a year, we would get our hands on some “cracklin bread,” sprinkled with pork. Another breakfast treat was a plate full of cat-head biscuits. I’ve always said that since South Pittsburg has done so well with the Cornbread Festival, some little town ought to host a Cat-Head Biscuit Bash.

Just don’t eat too many of them, or you could get a bad case of what my eighth grade science teacher called “Dia-rear.” That actually made sense to me at the time.

I also knew a no-count peckerwood who would just lay out when he took a notion. (Translation: he was a lazy guy who would stay home from work if he felt like it.) His wife would say, “Get up off your hind end!” (Pronounced, “hineend.”) He’d say, “I’m fixin’ to. But I’m just plum give out.” (Translation: he was tired.)

In my previous story, I mentioned Sam Hill and John Brown, as in “What in the Sam Hill?” and “Well, I’ll be John Brown!” But I forgot another famous name, surely the South’s biggest party boy. He had to be, because when you heard somebody was “drunker than Cooter Brown,” that meant they were on a serious binge.

The story goes that Cooter was a real person, who lived along the Mason-Dixon line during the Civil War. He had family on both sides, but figured if he stayed drunk, neither side would enlist him. It must have worked, and Cooter Brown became a drinking man’s legend.

When you were little, you would likely get a “bushel and a peck, and a hug around the neck” from your Momma. She’d finish it off by giving you some sugar. (Not real sugar, y’all, I mean a kiss). And if you were a little slow getting ready for school, your Daddy would shout, “Shake a leg, son!”

These days, many of us get our movies from Red Box or Netflix. Back then, we went to the drive-in picture show.

I’ll close with a re-enactment of a 1960s general store conversation, between a couple of good ol’ boys. It went something like this:

“Boy howdy, look what the cat dragged in! I ain’t seen you in a coon’s age! How ya doin?”

“Aw, fair to middlin. Some ol’ boy got sideways with me, but I beat the tar out of him. I think I whooped him, but he might’ve just been playin’ possum.”

“Well, lawsy mercy son, keep it ‘tween the ditches, a’ight?”

“Will do. Don’t take any wooden nickels.”

“See ya in the funny papers!”

David Carroll is from Chattanooga, Tenn. You may contact him at 900 Whitehall Road, Chattanooga, Tenn. 37405 or 3dc@epbfi.com.