fried chicken and a not-so-lazy e

Appalachian folk. We’re all about long vowels, pass the chicken and praise the Lord. Until we move to the city. Then it’s a little more staccato, foie gras and well I use to be a Baptist.

Vowels were never a friend to me in the slow lazy way they are to some people. My primary school speech therapist, an Episcopalian from Connecticut, pulled my ear and called me a hillbilly if I drew them out too much.

I stopped eating fried chicken when I moved to England because the Pakistani Proprietors of the ‘Kansas Fried Chicken’ takeaway on the corner couldn’t work the same soul food magic Ma did.

I still send up Hallelujahs, but they’re sometimes in Latin. (I really don’t think God speaks American.)

Moving to another country changed me in more ways than one. No doubt about it. But I think life itself did the real trick. No matter where you hang your hat….people change.

Take Earl. I hear she’s getting married. Earls don’t get married. They drink and party until the early hours and then go home to a pet rottweiler.

Flynn’s not her old self either. Rock. Retro. Raging Feminist.

Jo has a job. Who’d have thought.

And Chris. Chris use to wear baseball caps and sweatpants. Pajama’s and bad breath to class. Now she wears diamond studs and a watch worth more than a midsized sedan.

Me, I still like pearls and expensive shoes but I wouldn’t eat the family cow if you paid me.

Yes. Sometimes people change. Even in the mountains.