The Minnesota Farm Woman

My husband is a southern gentleman through and through. His parents raised him well.  When we got married he moved his young Yankee bride (that’s me) to central Kentucky. Everyone was friendly and kind, I think. I only understood about half of what they said. They only understood about half of what I said. During many conversations, folks would look at me a little strangely and say “Y’all not from around here, are ya?” It was a different world. A bottle of pop was a “soda”.  “He’s fixin’ to go to the store” did not mean anything was broken. Southern cooking was wonderful. I loved grits from the first bite and the chicken and dumplings  would melt in your mouth. I never did try the lamb fries (don’t ask!), though.  The people were warm and friendly and welcomed me with open arms. Still, I was homesick. I missed my family and the friends I grew up with.  My husband joined a softball league. I liked softball, and I knew there would be other young wives there to meet and chat with. Kentucky evenings are warm and humid with no mosquitoes to contend with.  That was a big plus for a Minnesota girl who was used to slapping herself silly and smelling like bug spray on summer evenings. I bought a bottle of soda and cheered for his team. I especially remember Barney, who owned the local drug store and had a nice wife who came to every game.  He was a good hitter, and his team would cheer “Go Barn!” as he rounded the bases toward home plate. I would cheer, too:  “Go Barney! Go Barney!”  Sometimes his wife looked at me a little strangely, but I pretended not to notice.  Besides, I was used to that by now. One evening, my husband and I were making plans for the softball picnic. “What about Barney and his wife?” I asked. “Are they coming?” He looked puzzled. “Barney? There’s nobody named Barney on my team.” “Oh, you teaser,” I laughed. “You know, the guy who hit the home run last night.” Now HE was looking at me strangely. “Do you mean Barn?” Well, now, I had just assumed that “Barn” was short for “Barney”. Add a deep southern drawl. “Barn” wasn’t short for anything. “Barn” was “Byron”.  Byron.   Oh.  I was fixin’ to dig a hole and crawl right  in it.  I do have to give my husband credit, though. He didn’t laugh.  He got a twinkle in his eye, and maybe he had to turn away for a few minutes, but he didn’t laugh. Well, not much, anyway. He is a southern gentleman through and through.  His parents raised him well.

See y’all next week.