An Old-school Kind of Batsh*t

This month’s craft blog looks at one of my fave writers. Wilkie Collins wrote in the 19th century and knew how to make a story slap. In this post, we journey into his novel Armadale’s prologue, a 100-page twisting adventure with shipwrecks and murder that somehow…only SETS UP the rest of the book.

On Bumpkin Speak and Rainy Weather

When I first moved to Chicago I was still mostly a small-town bumpkin. (After 10 years, I can happily say that I'm now at least 40% less bumpkin.)

During one of my first weekends living in the city, my friends invited me to go to a bar downtown. I asked my roommate if she wanted to go.

"Oh, maybe,” she said. “Where is it?"

To which I responded: "Oh, it's in town."

She stared at me for ten seconds before bursting into maniacal laughter. "TOWN?!" she said.

"Yeah, like, downtown... We're...going to town."

It was then I realized that I have a very specific, bumpkin vernacular in certain instances. 

I grew up on a small farm about ten minutes from two villages that were each less than 2000 people. Oakford had a booming population of 250. Petersburg was our "city" with the 2K.

If we needed something major then we went to, you guessed it, TOWN. This meant driving about 30 minutes to Springfield where you had access to more than 1 grocery store and a Best Buy. And, of course, when it's 1991 and you're six years old, the absolute greatest store on the planet: Toys R Us.

It wasn't until that moment in my early 20s, though, that I realized that my specific vocabulary made me look like I rode a hog to Chicago to sell peaches at a farmer’s market.

I was honestly just glad I hadn't invited my roommate to go to the movies because, in my family, we refer to that as "going to the show."

Correct: As if Barnum & Bailey is in town.

I had never heard anyone else use this bumpkin phraseology until a few months ago when I was on a call with my manager. She just casually goes, "Yeah, the trick-or-treaters come out this way. There's not a lot of houses in town."

I interrupted her and had to say, "Thank you for saying 'town.'" 

We then got derailed talking about the weird words that you learn growing up in a small, rural community.

A part of this is how we talk about rain. There are four, very specific ways to describe this natural phenomenon in the Midwest.

Drizzling: Barely precipitation; intermittent drops

Sprinkling: Steadier droppage; no need for an umbrella

Raining: Steady precipitation; umbrella or raincoat needed

Pouring: Okay, now you may need to stay home

We bumpkins also react very differently to the rain. Like, if it's just raining, you still do stuff. You can grab an umbrella, jump in your car, and continue your life.

When I lived in St. Louis, any rain (drizzle, sprinkle, etc.) resulted in apocalyptic reactions from other drivers. One time I hard slammed on my brakes and thought I was coming upon an accident on the highway... Nope. It had... started drizzling. Not only were people driving 10 mph, but they also had their windshield wipers on turbo as if we were in the middle of a Biblical event.

I guess living in small towns and using odd phraseology makes us hardier. We can handle sprinkles and ride our hogs to see a show after the farmer’s market.

To be honest, my strange words are now a source of pride, a secret handshake I can exchange with others raised in weird places where all you can see is corn and there are more cows than people.

The city folk may disapprove, but we’ll see who they turn to the next time they have to drive in a drizzle.