LOOKIT THEE AT ON ER

LOOK AT THEE AT ON ER

Out of the Mouth of Babes

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It didn’t take my mom too long to lose most of her British accent. She arrived here in the US with her family when she was just five years old. For most of the next four years, during her grammar school years, her peers were always asking her to say “something, anything” so they could listen to her speak.

At the time, still being so new to the American children, what was probably fascination to them, in my mom’s mind was ridicule. Why were they always making her speak? Why were they always shoving papers at her to read? Why couldn’t they just leave her alone?

Her mother, on the other hand, didn’t lose her accent for a few decades. While mom was our constant and our teacher, since my grandmother was at our apartment daily for her insulin injections, I began, without a deliberate thought, mimicking some of her words. Mom and Nanna thought it was cute. Little did they know it would prove, at times, to be very embarrassing for them.

For instance, many of our “foul” words here in America were not considered inappropriate in England and vice versa (Or at least that’s how it was back when my grandmother was young). It’s nothing to call a woman a cow here in the US but at that time, if you were heard calling a woman a cow in England, you’d get a stiff fine for foul language. Yet, you could call someone a basta** there and no one would think anything of it. Yet here, it was just plain wrong.

My grandmother had a problem learning our culture regarding verbiage.

One sunny afternoon, my mother took my brother and me to the park for a small picnic. Yes, it was small since crossing two busy streets was necessary to enter the park. I was long out of the carriage but since my mom felt it necessary to hold onto my brother and me, she wondered how she would carry our lunch.

AHA! She took the old carriage out of the cellar and put the lunch and me inside. This way, she could be sure my brother would also hold on. Good thinking, Mom!

As we were entering the park, a woman who knew my grandparents approached.

“Mary, I thought that was you! What a lovely day for a walk!”

I might add here that at the time, my grandfather owned a small grocery store and for that reason, knew so many people who lived in the neighborhood. While he knew so many people, my grandmother did not. She never had a reason to meet them. Through the years, every now and then, if my grandmother needed a few groceries, she would walk to the end of the street where the store was located and shop. My grandfather never bothered installing a phone in the store, so calling and asking him to bring home a few items was out of the question. (Hmph! I think that’s why he never had a phone in the store in the first place.)

As I was saying about the woman approaching us . . . My mother knew her slightly and wasn’t fond of her. Mrs. O’Malley was the kind of person who wanted to know everything about everyone and kept prying until she was satisfied. While she wasn’t happy with my mother’s mode of secrecy, it didn’t stop Mrs. M from trying.

She finally got within touching distance of the carriage where I sat holding onto our picnic lunch. She took one look at me and said, “My goodness! Aren’t you a little too big to be in a carriage?”

What I said made my mother want to crawl under the nearest rock in the park. In the somewhat mild British accent that I inherited from my grandmother, I said, “Twould be nice if you’d watch your manners, you old basset!” (I was not trying to call her a basset, but you get the idea. And she knew what I meant!)

Mrs. M stood much straighter, if that was at all possible, and gave a loud, “Hrumph!” Then said, “I’m sure your grandfather would love to know what you said.”

At this point, as Mrs. M stomped away, my mother began to laugh. “Oh Margaret, you’re not supposed to use language like that.”

“But Nanna does.”

“Hmm, I’ll have to have a talk with her when we get home.”

A few days later, it was a somewhat breezy Sunday morning, and my mother dressed my brother and me in our Sunday finest. Dad wore his suit but was adamant about wearing a tie. “Mary, it’s church! No one’s going to punish me for not wearing a tie!”

Mom relented, “Ok, Frank, no tie. Truthfully, you really don’t need it.” Dad smiled a huge smile of relief.

In those old days, people dressed up to attend religious services. It didn’t matter what religion you were. You put on your Sunday best! Women wore hats. The only women that ever wore veils were brides. Females wore hats! No ifs, ands, or buts.

We were sitting quietly and as usual, I was fidgeting, looking this way and that way, just looking at all the people walking to their chosen seats.

Naturally, something caught my eye and what I said next made my parents cringe.

In walked Mrs. M with the strangest hat my young eyes had ever seen. I tugged at the sleeve of my mother’s spring coat with one hand as I pointed with the finger of the other hand, and said in a voice a bit too loud, “Mom, lookit thee at on er!” (translation: Mom, look at the hat on her.)

You could hear the muffled chuckles in the crowd, but Mrs. M just lifted her chin higher, and strutted to the front of the church and found her seat.

Oh, and yes, I was scolded once the service was over. Not so much for what I said, but for saying it so loudly.

Yep, out of the mouth of babes!! I was definitely a child to be reckoned with.