Here in the Page household, we speak a dialect of the American English language called Michigan-ese, with a little bit of Chicagoan thrown in for spice.
No one here has ever lived any further south than Cincinnati—a city which still falls very much on the Yankee side of the Mason Dixon line.
We now live in Central Indiana, of course. A place which, while it has a bit of Southern flavor, is solidly in the Midwest.
Yet, somehow, my daughter seems to be picking up what seems to be a southern accent.
And not just a little twang. Not an accent defined by a few y’alls. Nope. She’s got a full on drawl.
The word pants becomes “Pa-yants” in her mouth.
Daddy becomes “Da-yady.”
Fun becomes “Fu-yun.”
You get the picture.
It’s a little bit funny. Sort of cute. And just plain weird.
Although we live in a small town, we aren’t surrounded by country bumpkins. None of the kids she spends her days with speak that way. Neither do her teachers.
So I don’t know where she’s getting it from.
Perhaps some Southern-fried ghosts are whispering in her ear while she sleeps?
Or a radio station from the deep South is transmitting in her skull?
Or maybe it’s just a hint from the universe that we should pull up stakes and move where snow is the stuff of Christmas dreams?
Hmmmmmm. That’s worth thinking about.