Since the beginning of our time together, Tink and I have discovered that we pronounce words differently.
Tink is a wordsmith. He pronounces words perfectly. He uses big, unusual words and knows the exact meaning to anything he says. I pronounce few things correctly. I make up words and the definitions that go with them. Most of the time, though, my made-up words (which I always insist are real words) are clever.
“That’s not a word,” he will say, laughing. “You kill me. You are so funny. But, actually, that should be a word because I know exactly what you mean.”
Usually, it’s two words blended together.
When I pronounce a word differently than he does, he’ll stop me in the middle of a sentence and say, “What did you say?”
Then, in a way that is delightful and not demeaning of me, he will say, “That’s not how you pronounce it.”
I stand my ground. If it is a word that I have grown up hearing said in a certain way, I will stand by it. Finally, Tink will whip out his phone and call the word up on audio. And, always, without fail, the audio version will give two different pronunciations. His and mine. He is often dismayed. I am always joyous.
Now, if you’re an English expert, you might can explain this (Tink never heard the phrase “might can” until he came South) but what I figure is that Tink’s people, who are descended from the aristocratic British, says things differently than my people, the earthy Scotch-Irish.
Ronda Rich, Columnist
For the rest of “Dixie Divas” subscribe today! Call us at: 739-2132 or set up your online account at www.claxtonenterprise.com