No matter how long I live in Florida, I continue to feel like a Delawarean. Since I hate cold weather and cannot imagine moving back to Delaware, this remains a mystery to me. One of the first things I do every morning is click on the Rehoboth Beach Cam on my laptop to see what’s happening at my favorite childhood summer getaway. This week snow has covered the sandy beach and boardwalk, but I see sun-worshippers on blankets under colorful umbrellas. There are kids and dogs kicking up sand and transistor radios blasting out rock ‘n roll music. I can feel the incoming wave lifting me off my feet as I ride the surface and swallow a trickle of salt water. The sun is hot and the water is cool, and I pay rapt attention to the next wave coming in. The sunbathers are forgotten. It is just me and the ocean.
I was reminded of my roots last Saturday when I attended an unexpected memorial service for a friend. It was held in a beautiful chapel surrounded by tall trees, mostly naked in our Florida winter but still lovely. The pews were full and the service began with one of my favorite hymns, also a favorite of the honoree. Although most everyone was in somber colors, the atmosphere was soon lightened by happy and sometimes hilarious memories of the son, daughter, granddaughter, and wife. Ken would have been proud!
Afterward, we walked a ways to another building to share food and memories, and I ended up sitting at a table with another friend who was originally from the Carolinas. We got to talking about West Virginia, the birthplace of my husband, and then I thought of the last song I had heard my friend sing, my friend who had passed away, Take Me Home, Country Roads by John Denver. He accompanied himself beautifully on the ukulele, so talented in music, art and everything he put his hand to.
Of course, Art and I had to start singing (quietly) and after the words poured out, Art mentioned how he had noticed that one could tell where someone was from by the way they pronounced “mountain”. He said mountain people always spoke with a very soft ‘t” or no audible “t” at all. I had to say the word several times in my head and realized it sounded “normal” to me both ways. So, did I pick that up from JIm, my husband? I honestly don’t know. Mountain is a spoken word that I never thought peculiar to any particular place until now.
And that made me wonder if, unconsciously, I have become a Floridian. Has my Delaware accent disappeared? And what else has changed. One thing I know has not changed, I still hate okra and grits! But just maybe, I can now call myself a Floridian.
1 comment:
Connie, I, too, spent a few summer vacations at Rehobeth Beach. Growing up just outside DC (Arlington, VA), I was just a few hours away by car. A funny story: my uncle who also lived in Arlington discovered a campground near Rehobeth with modest cabin rentals, called Whitehouse Farms. He invited my college roommate and I to join him there for a week, and he drew us a map for getting there. It turns out the map was incorrect and we got totally lost, which made no sense—my uncle was quite smart, with a PhD in chemistry. When we finally made it there, we discovered that he didn’t know the roads because he flew there in his private plane. The camp had a small landing strip. My uncle hadn’t revealed to anyone that he was flying there because he didn’t want his mother, my grandmother, to know. At nearly 40, he was still his mother’s little boy and she would be worrying if she knew he was flying. My roommate and I agreed to keep his secret and we enjoyed a fun week of swimming, fishing, and oh yes, taking a few sightseeing flights over Rehobeth Beach.
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