Category Archives: Rural Language

Falling in Love, Again

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Ready for preserves.

Venus is where she should be at 6 a.m., 15 degrees or so above the eastern horizon, shining bright and constant. The dawn is far enough away that the ridgeline is just visible against the hint of a rising light. Just over my shoulder, Mars keeps Diana company in watching as her charge wanes to three-quarters. So I sit, drinking my coffee in the early morning, with love, war, and the huntress — the only ones with the power to fight off the coming day, at least for another hour.

Making my way to my usual perch this fine Sunday morn, I passed through a fresh pile of dirt on the walkway behind the house, evidence that one of the dogs had yet again destroyed a thriving raised bed in search of prey or a cool sleeping spot. No bother: work awaits, of all sorts, for later. Predawn mornings spent in simple reflection, staring at the sky and the earth, are my time for renewal, with no agenda or notepad.

Crickets are fiddling in a last mad attempt to attract their one true love. A bullfrog in the stock pond near the massive white oak adds a bass note to the tune, while every few minutes the cock-of-the-walk in the chicken run voices his approval of the amorous. (The cockerels being fattened for slaughter in a smaller run hold their peace, for now.)

There are no cars this early in the day. Although a state highway, the road is but a winding two-lane, and anyway, it is a quarter-mile from the house, so the noise of any traffic is only a minor background hum even at high tide, as our numbers flood over the land in pursuit of work and play. No mowers, no chainsaws, no other of the usual indicators signal that any but the overhead guides and myself are awake.

I sit, churched alone. Until, inevitably, two of the dogs come around the corner, having been alerted through sixth sense to my silent presence. They accept the fact, without alarm, that I have somehow materialized and take up watch next to my chair. We sit and listen together. A few more minutes and the cat joins the reverie. The light has grown incrementally, and the mood starts to shift as the gods begin to weaken their hold on me, the land, and the sky.

I hear a persistent cricket in the nearby field, clinging to the endless search that brings us all into this world. Only after a few more moments of reflection do I come to understand that this cricket, alone, is the clicking of the electric fence, pulsing and popping in the wet grass.

Now my mind begins to think of the day ahead. Sensing the change, the dogs shift from my side and bolt in pursuit of a reluctant groundhog in the loaded muscadine vines. My list, which I haven’t been aware of until now, grows by another task. The time is here to harvest not only muscadines but also figs. Both are plump and ready for the plucking. I’ll also undertake making my annual whole-fig preserves. Then, on a cool night come fall, they will be served as an accompaniment to a dinner of gumbo made with one of the fattened cockerels that have now begun to crow in the new day’s light.

Draining my cup, I rise and give a nod to Venus. We will dally again, I tell her. Heading back into the house (for it is time to get on with the chores), I leave her to await the coming of her morning consort over the eastern horizon.

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Re-reading this weekend: Holy Smoke (G. C. Infante), the classic Marxist work on the joys of smoking cigars. And, here I speak of Groucho, not that other Marx fellow.

Nothing to Crow About: Speaking of Our Agrarian Roots

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My cousin was in negotiations recently with executives from a Northeastern city, and he stopped them cold when he reminded them, “We may have to lick the calf twice.” It took a bit of explaining to describe what he meant, which is, you may not succeed the first time, but try again. The businessmen took to the expression right away and started weaving it into their written communications with him.

Hearing that got me thinking about all the phrases and words we commonly use that reflect our culture’s deep agrarian roots. Most of us, even if we don’t know a round baler from a square baler, know that when we’re advised to “make hay while the sun shines,” we’re being told to take advantage of ideal conditions for as long as they last.

When our favorite team suffers a no-point game, it’s said to have scored a big fat “goose egg.” Likewise, when our “goose is cooked,” we won’t be of any use to anyone, because we’re in deep trouble. Anyone who has been around geese knows the origin of “you silly goose.” And how could we forget “ugly duckling,” “sitting duck,” “feather one’s nest,” and “lame duck”?

We use these terms so often that our language is enriched without our even knowing the words’ etymology. Yet, a moment’s reflection will make most obvious. There’s “let’s talk turkey” and stop speaking “gobbledygook.” (I’m only hoping this blog post doesn’t turn out to be a turkey.)

Sometimes, when we want to annoy someone, we simply “get their goat.” This is, of course, a favorite pastime of “old goats.” Just as often, we want to be easy on someone, so we treat them with “kid gloves” (a particularly soft leather from young goats).

Sheep have given us a vast language to describe everyday occurrences. Those scam calls in the evening? Get sucked into one and you’re likely to “have the wool pulled over your eyes,” maybe even “get fleeced.” As we move into the election year, we will all be attuned to the “bellwether” states (a reference to the lead wether — a castrated male sheep — which wears a bell that alerts the shepherd to location of the flock). Speaking of flocks, the pastor has one he tends to each Sunday.

If you have ever seen a territorial ram in action, then the term “battering ram” needs no explanation. When we’ve done something exceptionally foolish, well, we are feeling a might bit “sheepish.” And at a dinner party, when someone espouses some daft idea, we accuse them of “woolly thinking.”

Pigs, too, provide an arsenal of colorful expressions: We “pigged out,” you are so “pigheaded,” and “this room is a pigsty.” I “bought a pig in a poke,” but I’m “happy as a pig in clover.” “Sweating like a pig” (which doesn’t really make sense, since pigs don’t sweat), “squealing like a stuck pig,” and “bleeding like a stuck pig.” And, oh, yeah, “when pigs fly.”

So do cattle. “Bullshit,” “bullheaded,” “bull market,” “bull in a china shop.” “Take the bull by the horns,” and “crack the bullwhip.” “Don’t have a cow!” Let’s “beef you up,” maybe even turn you into a “beefcake.” Take care of your “cash cow” and “sacred cows.” Wait “till the cows come home.” He’s a “milksop.”

And horses. You may be “backing the wrong horse” or “betting on a dark horse,” unless, of course, you have the “inside track.” Waking up in the morning feeling “as hungry as a horse” is much better than being “off your feed.” “Stop that horseplay!” “Get off your high horse!” Ever feel like you’re “beating a dead horse”? “Putting the cart before the horse,” “riding for a fall” or “riding roughshod,” “putting them through their paces.” “Straight from the horse’s mouth,” a real “workhorse.” “Taking the bit between the teeth.”

I’m “mad as a wet hen.” I mean, we’ve got a “pecking order” here and I “rule the roost”! I’m “hardboiled” and must sometimes “scratch for a living,” but I’m “saving a nest egg.” On occasion, I’m “henpecked” and feel like I’m “walking on eggshells.” But I’ve learned to “never count my chickens before they are hatched.”

I’ll leave you to “brood over” that. Because if I go on much longer, none of us will exactly be “spring chickens.”

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Many of these words were conveniently listed for me in the thoroughly comprehensive work The Encyclopedia of Historic and Endangered Livestock and Poultry Breeds (Dohner).

Reading this weekend: Virgil’s The Georgics, a poem of the land. “All life’s best days speed earliest away to mortal rue; in slink diseases, bleak dotage and distress, and cruel death ravages unmerciful.” Yep, it is all that, plus guidance on raising cattle, planting vines, and caring for bees. Written just a short 2,000 years ago.