Family Sayings

Our family finds comfort in familiar sayings, and perhaps we have more of these than most families. Alayna suggested that I write them down and provide the origins if I can.

Grandparents are a rich source of material. In response to some unexpected news, Joseph Phillip Palmisano would often exclaim “I be go to hell!” For anything particularly exasperating, he’d say loudly “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph” as if soliciting the Son of God alone was insufficient. We may never discover the origin of either of these utterances, but we often find occasions to use them ourselves!

Joseph Palmisano was particularly impatient with Masses that ran overtime. He was a huge fan of short concise homilies. He’d avoid long Masses by rousing us all for the 7 am Mass at St. Patrick’s in Fayetteville where the time to breakfast would be only minimally delayed by music during that early-morning Mass (which we referred to as “Midnight Mass.” We remember the timid lady cantor, who in a breathless, almost inaudible voice, sang “Taste and See, Taste and See.” For Grandpa, that was a verbal reminder of the breakfast that awaited us at K&W Cafeteria, whereupon seeing a certain chef preparing eggs to order, he’d complain loudly “Oh no, we got the slow one again!” We were all embarrassed by his booming voice as we waited in the buffet line.

One time after Mass in Saint Patrick’s, Grandpa was slowly lowering his hefty cumbersome body into the front passenger seat of his bulbous Chevy Caprice. In an act of gentlemanly kindness, young Phillip assisted by closing the car door, unaware that Grandpa’s weight was at that very moment suspended by his right hand which was gripping the car’s roof. The view from outside the car was of Grandpa’s fingers, thick as sausages, squeezed between the door frame and the roof. Through the window we could see Grandpa’s face in agony. He was yelling words that were entirely inappropriate for a church parking lot, but which came so naturally to him. Thanks be to God we managed to open the door rather quickly.

During an especially long Easter Mass at St Paul’s in Spartanburg, GR had sufficient time to compose theses word to the tune of “Oh God Our Help in Ages Past” which he imagined would have been Grandpa’s sentiment during Mass:

Let’s get the hell on out of here.
I’ve had enough of this.
It’s been an hour and that’s too long.
Besides, I’ve got to piss.

Of course, when I sang it to Tia on the way to the van within earshot of the kids, she was appropriately publicly appalled and yet secretly amused!

Grandpa’s version of Roman Catholicism prompted me to compose another little ditty:

You can do anything you want if
You get it cleared with the Pontif.
You can do anything you wish if
You get it cleared with the Bishop.

I know that “wish if” and “Bishop” don’t really rhyme, but they’re close enough for me.

Grandpa would frequently convolute several sayings into one, such as “Does the Pope shit in the woods?” Presumably this is a commingling of “Does a bear shit in the woods?” and “Is the Pope Catholic?” This vivid imagery is much more entertaining than a simple “yes.” Grandpa’s version probably means “no.”

A phrase we use in chaotic situations is, “The potatoes are creamy. John Wayne was tall.” This comes from a cacophonous family dinner scene from the movie starring Sandra Bullock entitled “While You Were Sleeping.” Everyone is simultaneously contributing to a disjointed conversation, with some of the threads being about the vertical stature of various movie stars and the characteristics of the food on cluttered table. This comes

We tend to say, “Hakuna Matata” in situations that try our patience. It comes from the 1994 Disney movie The Lion King and is Swahili for “no worries.”

“Planes, Trains, and Automobiles” starring Steve Martin and John Candy is one of our favorite family movies. At one point on an uncomfortable bus ride, Steve Martin’s character tries to calm the ruffled passengers by asking them to join a singalong. He sings, “Three coins in a fountain…” but is met with silence and baffled looks by his fellow passengers who are unfamiliar with that tune. John Candy’s character saves the day by leading them is a rowdy chorus, “We’re the Flintstones. We’ll have a yabba dabba do time, we’ll have a gay old time…” which everyone immediately recognizes and joins in. Our family says “Three coins in a fountain” when someone has a good idea or wants to do something, but nobody else agrees. Alternatively, we say it when folks don’t understand a message we’re trying to convey.

In that same movie, John Candy and Steve Martin find it necessary to share a cozy motel room that has but one bed. Settled in under the covers, one asked, “Where is your hand?” The other replied, “Between two pillows.” “Those aren’t pillows!” If you don’t know what happened after that, you should watch the movie which has one of the sweetest endings ever.

In “On Golden Pond” when Katherine Hepburn as Ethel Thayer knocks on the cabin door, her grumpy old husband Norman played by an elderly Henry Fonda calls out, “Someone’s at the door,” expecting his wife to answer it. Instead, Ethel replies in her warbly voice, “It’s me, you old poop!” In our family, when we come to the door, we sometimes announce our presence by saying, “It’s me, you old poop!”

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Phillip has been the source of several family sayings. One of the earliest happened when as a tiny boy he appeared sobbing pitifully, whining, “There’s a wrinkle in my sock.” We apply that saying to denote a minor annoyance that is blown far out of proportion. For example, suppose your drink is slightly out of reach and you must lean to get it. You might accompany this act by saying, “There’s a wrinkle in my sock.”

Once, during the annual Davis family Christmas gathering in the Fellowship Hall of Sherwood Presbyterian Church where Nanny and Granddaddy were members, something happened (no one remembers what it was) that prompted young cousin Bryce to tell cousin Phillip “You’re a loooozer.” Of course, Phillip is not a loser, which is why he finds this accusation so annoying, and which is why we say it so often!

At The Citadel, leadership is one of the traits cadets are expected to develop. Phillip became obsessed with leadership. During those Citadel years, most conversations with Phillip included mentions of leadership. Also, during those years, one would place a hand to the forehead with the index finger extended upward and the thumb to the side, indicating the letter “L.” This commonly used hand signal meant “loser.” We often displayed this hand signal when Phillip mentioned Leadership.

While Phillip was in Ranger School, we learned one of the Ranger mottos: “Rangers lead the way!” However, Phillip struggled sometimes with land navigation skills, so we modified the motto to “Rangers lose their way!” Poor Phillip. Ranger School was hard enough in itself. It would have been nice to have a more understanding, supportive family.

George Rufus Davis, your other grandfather of Scotch Irish descent used less colorful language than Joe Palmisano of Sicilian lineage. Ever the peacemaker, Granddaddy would proffer “You might be right,” rather than engage in an argument.

Returning from a trip to the barber, he’d say “I got a haircut with a hole in it,” referencing his balding noggin.

Rain would always provoke him to proclaim sarcastically, “Gooood motorcycle weather!”

When things weren’t turning out well for someone, Granddaddy would chime, “Suffer, you buzzard.” Over the decades, I morphed that saying into, “Remember the motto: Suffer!” Despite my repeated attempts to promote it by reciting it to my classes and colleagues, this never became the official motto of Wofford’s Biology Department where I labored for 29 years.

Justifying his occasional rapid acceleration from a stoplight, Daddy would explain, “I need to blow the carbon out of it.” When he felt someone was driving too slowly, he’d urge them to, “Let it eat!”

He’d wiggle his hips and waggle a finger in the air as he danced his way to his bedroom closet followed closely by eager grandchildren. There he kept stashes of candy. All the while, he sang, “We’re gonna have a parteeee!”

As a young man, George had an uncle name Duncan. Uncle Dunc extracted a promise from his nephew to take care of Estelle his wife (nicknamed Toog) and her mentally impaired sister Edna who lived with them. Uncle Dunc may have died before I was born; I have no memory of him. But Daddy remembered his promise and saw to it that those two women who grew old and frail had a safe place to live for the rest of their very long lives. He’d stop by their house several times a week on his way home to check on them, to fix a leak, secure a loose toilet, change a light bulb, or do whatever needed to be done. Edna aways roamed about, a lower lip full of snuff, flyswatter raised in a ready position. Edna would ask, “You gotta dog? What color is it?” Aunt Edna asked this on each of the hundreds of visits. She never waited for a response. She’d wander off, flyswatter cocked, seeking something to swat. It is appropriate to use her two questions to feign interest.

Speaking of dogs…. When you kids were quite young, I drove you around Lake Waccamaw in North Carolina, showing you some sites where I did research during my time as a biology major at Campbell University. We got out at a sunny boat launch to admire the scenery and let Ginger, our Toy Manchester Terrier, roam on the leash for a few minutes. From a small fishing boat just offshore, we heard a young boy say while pointing at Ginger, “Look, Daddy. There’s a black dog. Let’s kill it!” We didn’t wait long enough to hear his Dad’s response. Tia hustled us back into our vehicle and we promptly evacuated. Now, whenever I see a black dog, I think of that boy’s words. What situation had arisen in his life that would have caused him to want to kill any black dog?

Once on a sunny weekend afternoon, we roamed up to the Green River just across the border in North Carolina. The gravel road meandered alongside the river where kayakers and tubers enjoyed the mild rapids. As we were wading near some huge rocks at one of the take-out points, one of us spotted a snake swimming toward a boulder a few feet away. Somebody announced, “Snake in the water!” At this, a terrified Alayna darted back to the van, got inside, and locked the door! Because of her hyperresponsiveness, we taunted her in a sing-songy manner with, “Snake in the water, snake in the water!” To this day, we remind ourselves of our tendency to overreact to any situation by saying “Snake in the water! Snake in the water!”

Speaking of reacting…. When you kids attended Saint Paul the Apostle Catholic School where Tia was a math and religion teacher and assistant principal, she’d leave for work quite early. A little later, I’d rustle you into the old Ford Econoline van and we’d stop at the Thelossanos house in our Carrollwood neighborhood where we’d pick up a couple of kids who went to the same school. I believe it was Andre who sat by me I the front seat or just behind me in the captains’ chair. I entertained you and him by singing, “Oh, you never know when the claw is going to (….long pause of unpredictable length….) strike!” I’d vary my timing so that Andre couldn’t anticipate when I’d grab him in a pincher-hold just above his knee. At his age, he never tired of that routine. Every morning on the way to school, I’d remind him that he never knew when the claw was going to (long pause) strike! And strike it always would at some unexpected time, just like fortune and misfortune strike us in irregular patterns. Now in my late sixties, I still enjoy entertaining my grandson JJ with this nonsense. However, when I threaten Mary Helen with “Oh you never know when the claw is going to ……. strike,” she is not amused!

On those short drives to school, I’d make up stories about the Great Artic Snow Frog and the Long-eared Frog. Both were complete nonsense. Amphibians don’t inhabit icy regions, and frogs don’t have fleshy ears. Often, in chilly weather I’ll comment, “It’s cold as a frog!” What nonsense! Any good biologist would know that frogs are whatever their environmental temperature is, be it hot or cold.

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Tia was a math teacher at Monroe Middle School when I was a biology professor at Wingate College. One day, Tia had sent a disruptive boy out of her classroom and told him to wait in the hall. The assistant principal in charge of discipline happened to pass by. He asked why this boy was in the hall and not in the classroom. Tia described the misbehavior that got him in this location. Mr. Holman then inquired, “Am I going to have to fan that bean?” What a strange way to ask if the boy needed a spanking? Our family tends to use this question on occasions when disciplinary action may be called for.

Once at our home at 102 Carrollwood Lane, we were preparing for a big meal to be eaten outside. As usual, Tia had done all the food preparation and as usual, there was plenty of food. She expected us to help transport the dishes from the kitchen to the picnic tables but when she didn’t get all the assistance she needed, she proclaimed, “I’m not your burst of beaden!” Like her dad who fumbled phrases when he was exasperation, she had meant to say, “beast of burden.” Her convoluted version has been much more entertaining through the decades. We use it to convey how we feel when too much is expected of us or others aren’t helping as much as they should.

Tia had a teacher colleague at St. Paul’s who was excessively dramatic when describing her physical ailments. “I’m hemorrhaging” was the term she used when she called in one morning to say she would not be at school that day. Turns out, it was only a minor wound that a small bandage easily covered. Anytime I sustain the most minor cut, I channel that teacher and announce, “I’m hemorrhaging!” Alternatively, I’ll quote a line from the scene in “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” where an aggressive Knight refuses to admit defeat even after all his limbs have been lopped off by his adversary’s sword. “T’is only a flesh wound,” he taunted as blood spurted from hips and shoulders.

That teacher at St. Pauls might have been the source of one of our most commonly used exclamations. When someone is injured or sick, we break the tension by asking the person to say in excessively dramatic tones, “Oh, the pain.” For minor injuries, this serves as a simple reminder that things are often not as bad as they seem. On other occasions, we employ it when the pain is real and intense as a way to diffuse the situation. Mary Helen reminded me to say, “Oh, the pain” when I was in the Emergency Room during an episode of tachycardia, or daily as I recovered from prostate surgery, or even when I get a case of “the Man flu.” When I broke five ribs in Peru, I moaned, “Oh, the pain!” to reassure Phillip that even though that pain was very real and very intense, I still had a sense of humor.

When someone demonstrates that they can do a very simple task, it reminds us of the time when Tia was so embarrassed by Phillip’s misbehavior in Big Lots, that she scolded him by saying what witnesses to his immaturity must have thought: “Look, she taught him how to push a cart!” as if, given his mental limitations, that was indeed quite a feat!

On other occasions when Tia was flustered by children who were slow to obey her requests to get in a motor vehicle, she could be heard to say, “Get your ass in the van.”

Speaking of the van… about the time Phillip was born, we traded our 2-door VW Rabbit for a 1986 Ford Econoline Van. It had four captain’s chairs and a long bench seat in the distant back. This allowed three children to be seated separately, but even these distances were not sufficient to prevent skirmishes amongst them. It was necessary for Tia to have a surveillance mirror on her sun visor to monitor the hooligans in the rear, and, when necessary, she could pass from front to back to “Administer Justice” (quite often) or distribute refreshments (more often.)

“Do you need to go the van?” was the threat posed to a misbehaving child who might be restless during church or excessively rambunctious in a restaurant. Inside the (mostly) soundproof van, stern lectures on proper behavior could be delivered in semi-privacy. On one occasion when we lived in Columbia, Missouri, Phillip earned a trip to the van. I forget the reason, but I do recall him pleading as I hauled him down the long church aisle, “Please. I’ll be good. I don’t want to go to the van!” I wonder what my fellow parishioners imagined would happen in that van. They probably figured it out when we returned, Phillip with puffy cheeks and red eyes, sniffling and trying to regain some composure and breath control. Perhaps they approved when they recalled the commandment which demanded that children honor their fathers and mothers.

As a lifelong teacher and with many years in a Catholic school, Tia had parting advice every time the kids would leave her presence: “Make good choices!” Sometimes they did.

Decorating for Christmas under Tia’s supervision was a daunting task. Boxes and boxes of ornaments would be hauled down from the attic and opened. Our preference was that no two ornaments were the same. Year by year we accumulated ornaments for each of the kids, starting with their first tiny cloth slippers of infancy. Each kid had many ornaments of their own, with the year inscribed on each one. We parents had numerous ornaments, too. There seemed to be to be hundreds of unique bubble-wrapped ornaments to be hung on the tree. Decorating the Christmas Tree was an annual trip down memory lane, recalling the circumstances associated with each ornament. I’d extract an ornament from the box, hand it off to the appropriate kid, and they’d scamper over to the tree to hang it. However, they tended to cluster all the ornaments unevenly on the tree and weren’t careful to hang them in the best orientation for viewing enjoyment. This exasperated Tia tremendously. She’d remind them to spread them out. We had so many ornaments that the kids grew tired of this process long before the last ornaments were hung. And then there were the three nativity scenes that had to be assembled. Holiday table runners. The Advent Wreath and calendar. Christmas candles. On and on. Patience grew thin and eventually shattered when Tia, fed up with the loss of children’s interest proclaimed, “Merry Damn Christmas!” It is a phrase our family employs any time of year when we should be happy/satisfied/joyful but aren’t.

Lest you think Tia or Phillip or his grandfathers were the richest sources of family sayings, you must now be convinced otherwise. Hazel Ward Davis, who is lovingly known as Nannie, was the ripest!

“I’m full as a tick” was her expression of being sated after a meal. Imagine guests at a State Dinner indicating their satisfaction with this statement.

“This is good ice,” she’d exclaim when restaurants had small crunchy flakes filled with tiny air bubbles she liked.

“She’s as mad as a wet setting hen,” would be Nannie’s indication that someone was terribly upset.

“She doesn’t have sense to get out of the rain,” needs no further explanation.

“Gobby-tailed” was Nannie’s term for an overweight person.

“Drag-tail” means moving too slowly.

“You look like a woolly booger,” is what she told me when my hair or beard grew too long for her approval.

“George, you got the wrong wiener!” Gotta admit I don’t know the context of this one, but it has lots of interesting possibilities. We do know that for one of their anniversaries after 50 years or so, Daddy took Mamma to Weiner Works for a lavish(?) celebratory meal.

Long ago, Nannie’s daughter-in-law was proudly sporting some new very fashionable shoes. As Cathy pranced past Nannie who was seated in her recliner, Nannie remarked “Cathy, them are ugly shoes!” to which Cathy immediately replied, “Nannie, I don’t like your shoes either.”

Given her propensity to make such outlandish observations, we were concerned that Nannie might hurt some feelings of the guests who were expected at Tia’s Memorial Service. One such guest was Alayna’s friend who had begun a gender transition from female to male. Alayna explained to Nannie that Brianne was a girl who dressed like a boy. Alas, when introduced to this person, Nannie asked, “Is this the girl I’m not supposed to ask if she’s a boy?”

Nannie, upon encountering a terrible odor, would say, “Somebody has sh…!” Perhaps this phrase originated during her vast experience caring for kids in stinky diapers… her own children (3), her grandchildren (8), and her great grandchildren (6 at the time of her passing.) We say, “Somebody has sh..!” on any encounter with a bad odor, whether it caused by the recent expulsion of feces or not.

Nannie tended to verbalize some observations which may have been best left unstated. I once advised her, “Just because it’s true, you don’t have to say it!” She took that to heart, and on several occasions repeated it to me.

Until dementia removed some of her inhibitions, these later statements were the most unladylike utterances to come from Nannie. As her dementia progressed in her late 80’s, Nannie’s language became more “colorful” and sometimes shocking. Out of respect for her lifelong avoidance of foul language and to preserve her well-deserved reputation as a thoughtful, caring, loving person, I shall not record some of her most recent utterances here.

Instead, let’s conclude this Nannie section with another example of her warmth. Anytime a grandchild arrived, Nanne would insist, “Come here and gimme some sugar!” The child would then find itself enveloped in Nannie’s fleshy arms and bounteous bosoms while being nibbled on the neck from whence the sugar was extracted.

Some of our sayings came from Nannie’s side of the family. Her youngest sister (nicknamed Dick) was married to Broadus. Often Uncle Broadus would behave in ways that annoyed or baffled Aunt Dick, who would pronounce her disapproval by saying, “Garsh bum, Broadus.” To this day, if someone carelessly spills a glass of iced tea, or can’t keep up when we’re walking somewhere, I’m liable to say, “Garsh bum, Broadus.”

Instead of saying the familiar, “I’ll be doggone,” in circumstances that were surprising or amazing or puzzling, our Uncle Floyd would exclaim, “I’ll be dast.” Many times, I heard Uncle Floyd respond to a question with, “I’ll be dast if I know.” Who can be sure what dast means? If anyone ever responds to a question by saying, “I’ll be dast if I know,” I can be sure that I’m related to them somehow through my Uncle Floyd.

While the extended family vigiled in the cafeteria at Duke University Hospital during one of Uncle Wilton’s heart operations there, his wife Ellsworth disapproved of the clothing and hairstyles of a group of young urbanites seated at a nearby table. Quietly, in her self-righteous tone, she said as she nodded toward that group, “Now I want you to look at that.” This she uttered as long strands of lettuce from her salad fluttered from her mouth. Our family says “Now, I want you to look at that” in situations where other people might refer to a pot calling the kettle black.

Once when dear family relatives were ending a visit with Mamma and Daddy who were seated on the porch, Mary was rambling on about something or other. Waiting for Mary to finish up her closing remarks, Bobby was absentmindedly nudging some decorative rocks in a planter near the porch with his booted foot. Noticing Bobbie’s restless activity, Mary chided him in her whining drawl, “Bobby, don’t mess up them rocks.” “Mary,” he replied, “How do you mess up a rock?”

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Way back in the 1990s, I taught a photography course at Wofford where students learned how to process their own film and print their own black and white photos. I found a teaching video where the narrator led us through all the steps of making a print. Several time he instructed viewers to “thoroughly warsh” the developing print. For the last 30 years, we say “thoroughly warsh” when dishwashing, hair washing, car washing, doing laundry, window cleaning, pot scrubbing, etc.

Another family saying originated from Harvey Lee Brown, one of the original installers at Acme Fence Company in the 1970s. Harvey Lee would often say “Ohm gah ma kimme!” It must have meant something akin to “Goodness gracious” or “my goodness” or “Whaaaat?” or “Oh no!” Suppose you discover you have a flat tire. “Ohm gah ma kimme” would be appropriate. Suppose something falls off a shelf, or a stuffed trash bag ruptures, spilling goo and coffee grounds on a freshly mopped floor. Address the situation as Harvey Le would. You’ll feel better, but you still have work to do.

Long before I understood the meaning of pretentious or ostentatious, I coined the term “debursionnairre” to indicate haughty or fancy or aloof or high-falutin’. For example, homes secured behind curvaceous monogrammed wrought iron gates accessible only by key codes are debursionnairre. People who attend debutante balls are debursionairre. Very expensive handbags are debursionnaire. I’m sure you can name some things you consider debursionairre.

I think that most people who pay exorbitant prices for coffee or beverages concocted from coffee are debursionairre. As a self-proclaimed and proud tightwad, I rarely order from Starbucks but on rare occasions I succumb to peer pressure. That’s when I go full-on debursionairre and order “a half-caraf of double-decaf half-caf cappuccino expresso mocha latte da.” Very debursionnairre!

have personally created a rather extensive vocabulary of terms. Knabbenheads, drimbledorfs, and nibbitanneurs are all synonymous with goofballs, dorks, and dummies. I used the term knabbenhead so often as a college biology professor that my colleagues adopted the term to refer to students and others who didn’t meet our expectations. For example, if a class of students performed poorly on a test, they were all knabbenheads. If someone missed an appointment, he was a knabbenhead. If someone was disorganized, she was a knabbenhead. I’m sure you know dozens of situational knabbenheads.

In my world, a grouchy person is called a grumblehog. Someone who is complaining is grumblehogging. As teenagers, my kids seemed to grumblehog incessantly. Now as adults, their grumblehogging is greatly diminished and typically justifiable.

I took French in high school and college. Therefore, a car or SUV is a voiture. Milk is juice de moo. Juice d’orange is orange juice. Oaticus mealicusp is oatmeal with a Latin flare. In a nod to East Asian languages, a full diaper is a “sack-o-hocki.” Eggs are sometimes called henfruit. Laurendry is laundry. A percival sledge is a lady’s purse or handbag. Inside that percival sledge, you might find some shrubs (cash.) Buntals are gluteus maximi. Buntals belong inside graws (undergarments.) Toe cleavage is revealed by shoes that cover the toes but expose the space between them as they merge with the rest of the foot.

If you eat so much you start to sweat, you have postprandial thermogenesis. Getting sleepy after a meal is called postprandial somnolesence. I tell people I have to sleep with my glasses on so my dreams will be in focus.

Any sort of physical discomfort can be attributed to having “a fart lodged in there sideways.” This condition might evoke a statement of “Oh, the pain!”

A person who is choking needs the Heiniken maneuver, not to be confused with the Heimlich maneuver.

For a lifetime, I’ve enjoyed playing with words, but one family saying originated from me that I wasn’t aware of until a few months ago when my adult children (all now in their 30s) informed me. According to my kids, in thousands of instances over the years, I’ve offered advice with the preface, “What you could do…..” followed by one or two or five suggestions. These days, my kids often begin a suggestion directed at me with, “What you could do…..” This is said in a mocking tone, infused with affection!

They also recently recounted to me a story that I do not recollect. “Dad”, they said, “do you remember when we were little and you were taking us somewhere in the car. Somebody said, ‘What smells like bubble gum?” They claimed that I confessed, “I farted.” OK, let’s ponder this a little more deeply. First, wouldn’t it be nice if all farts smelled like bubble gum? Second, that may have been the only toot with the smell of Juicy Fruit. And third, the kids tell me their code language since then for detecting a fart is, “I smell bubblegum.” How sweet of them!

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Now that Mary Helen has been part of our family for eight years, we can include some sayings from her. She says, “Jeminy Crickets” whenever I do something that displeases her. I get that one quite often. When the disapproval reaches a certain threshold, the statement becomes, “Jeminy F’ing Crickets!”

Henry, her Dad, often quipped in the face of adversity, “Into every life a little rain must fall.”

My favorite quote from the Richbourg lineage originated on the honeymoon of Mary Helen’s parents. Henry whisked them off to the mountains of North Carolina where he grew anxious about the weather forecast which called for snow. Fearful of being snowed in, he abruptly changed the itinerary and drove east to the Carolina coast. This unexpected diversion had a great impact on their limited financial resources. Next morning when Queen Ann said she was hungry, Henry announced sternly, “You can have breakfast or you can have lunch, but you can’t have both!” Mary Helen has heard this saying many times over the years when her Dad was unable or more commonly unwilling to fork over more money for whatever.

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I hope these recollections evoke fond memories. Perhaps other family sayings come to mind that are not recorded here. That’s OK. As my memory begins to fail, my reporting is less reliable. Like my Daddy, I’m more likely to “get the wrong wiener.” Alas, as the coaches say, “It is what it is,” which is convincing evidence that coaches are the most observant people on the planet. “Yeah, right!”

To bring this essay to an end, let’s consider the 1970’s sitcom “The Jeffersons” which is the source of another of our well-worn family sayings. Every time we depart from each other, we say in a raucous high-pitched voice: “Let us hear from you!”

Onward,

GR Davis Jr
23 December 2024