Phoebe Kate

My 91-year-old mother-in-law, who lives next door to us, speaks another language.  No, she’s not from a foreign country — she was born and raised in New York City by folks who’d been over here for generations.  However, as far as I can tell, she decided to check out of contemporary culture somewhere in the 1930s and took up permanent residence in the Good Old Days. 

Talk about a communications gap between generations – half the time, I have only the vaguest idea what she’s trying to tell me.  The woman’s a walking lexicon of archaic and oft-obscure colloquialisms. 

When asked how she’s feeling today, she’s likely to reply, “Oh, I’m rather peckish” or “A bit dauncy”  (I have no idea what that means because it’s not even in the dictionary) or “I’m all at sixes and sevens” or ”I’ve got a touch of the quinsey” (that’s a sore throat, I think) or “I have a coryza” (the common cold.) 

She’s ”on tenterhooks” about the economy because it will leave her without any “pin money.”  Any plan to introduce national health care will “die aborning.”  She’s convinced that 90% of what the politicians say is a bunch of “claptrap” and you can’t trust them because everything’s done “under the table” and they’re trying to “pull the wool over our eyes.”  

She ”has no truck” with telemarketers and survey takers and gives them “short shrift” when they call and interrupt her dinner.  About certain people, she says, ”Butter wouldn’t melt in their mouth” (I’m not sure if it’s a compliment or an insult).  Certain things are “a dog in the manger” (again, I’m unclear if that’s good or bad, but the mental image I get is the Bethlehem stable and Little Lord Jesus asleep in the hay with Lassie.)

She gives panhandlers on the street a “wide berth.”  The phone company is always trying to “nickel and dime” her.  When a problem arises, she shrugs and says, “Oh well, it all comes out in the wash.”  As winter approaches, she starts talking about getting things done ”before the snow flies” (despite the fact it snows in coastal NC about once a decade.)  And she thinks her doctor gives her “the bum’s rush” because he won’t listen to her talk for an hour about having quinsey and coryza and feeling dauncy and peckish.

It’s strange to think that one day, in the not-distant-enough future, our grandchildren and their contemporaries will wonder what we’re talking about.  They’ll ask us how things are going and we’ll reply, “Copacetic.”  And when they inquire about our plans, we’ll tell them how stoked we are because we’re putting on the bling and hanging with a homey who just hooked up with a MILF that’s got a tramp stamp, then we’re going to chillax at the crib with some peeps.  Righteous! 

–phoebe kate