Plainspeak

My mom grew up plain. And not only in how she dressed. Her speech, she was taught, should be as unadorned as the hair tucked under her head covering and her ankle-length, solid-color dress. Her yes should mean yes and her no should mean no and God’s name should never be taken in vain. Not in Pennsylvania Dutch and not even in English.

She knew all this. And followed it mostly. But she had an ear for the dramatic. One day in town, she listened to a conversation between her papa and an Englischer. Over and over, the Englischer used a phrase with a ring to it, one she decided to use on the right occasion.

Just a few hours later during the dinner blessing of the food, her mind strayed back to the Englischer’s words. With the family all gathered, she decided, this was the time.

At the amen, she was ready.

“My gosh,” she said. “Lang mich die grumberi.” Pass the potatoes.

No one said a word of reprimand to her. Not then, not later. The looks on their faces said it all. And she never used those words again.

But when I was a kid living in Flint, Michigan, far from the plain people, she taught me about plain speech. A softened-up oath, she explained, is God becoming gosh and hell becoming heck and damnation becoming tarnation. You might not be coming right out and using God’s name in vain, but you’re getting mighty close.

So though most of our neighbors used these words, we didn’t say them at our house.

But I noticed something. My mom still found ways to add flavor to her speech.

“Mei zeit noch amal!” she might say at an unfortunate event. Here we go again.

Or when something unbelievable happened: Unvergleichlich! That crazy stuff!

For ninety-five years, my mom has lived simply, dressed simply, and spent simply. Her yes has meant yes and her no has meant no. But these plain ways haven’t kept the sparkle from her speech.