Home has a sound.
A sweet, syrupy twang that settles in my soul.
It oozes over my skin like butter on a hot biscuit.
Envelops me like kudzu on, well, southwest Virginia.
Home has a sound.
When we were at home last week, I couldn't get enough of listening to people talk. The waitress at Roma's, the clerk at Ingal's, the voice at the Sonic drive-in - oh my goodness, I could have listened to him repeat my order all dingdang day! Even my own mom has a down-home lilt in her voice.
This sound is so different from the clipped break-neck speech up here in Connecticut. It's soothing. Slow. A drawl that, honest to goodness, takes me back to Hee-Haw in the best possible way. (Did you know this? My dad's mom's name was Minnie. My dad's dad's middle name was Pearl. They wanted me to be named, um, Minnie Pearl!)
Home has a sound, indeed.
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