The science of poetry

When I lived in Auburn (during college), I lived in a complex that attracted some really colorful people.

There was the guy who got dropped off one night because he was too drunk to drive. He went into his apartment and came back out nekkid. He walked down the stairs then scaled the handrail to get back up. Did I mention he was nekkid? (Unfortunately, I missed the show because I was sleeping. It was Sunday night, y'all, and I was probably sleeping off the weekend.)

Then there was the creepy guy who lived across from me who dyed and styled his hair to keep up with Scott Peterson’s ever-changing-at-the-time hair and blasted “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails on repeat every afternoon for a week until the resident manager told him to turn it down because, well, there's only so much "Closer" a girl can take.

And let’s not forget the guy who called me while I was in the check out line at Wal-Mart and asked me where he could BORROW a PACK of CIGARETTES. Riiiight. He also asked if he could buy one of my Rolling Rock’s from me when I only had a six pack. Say it with me y’all: Riiiiight. Oh, my soul!

Then there was the guy who lived a few doors down from me and did crystal meth. You knew he was tweaking when he would knock on your door and ask if you saw anyone hanging out at his apartment the night before.

“No. I don’t remember seeing anyone.”

“Ah! It’s my friends from Greenville playing some practical joke on me. See, what they did was they went to the bait shop and got a bunch of crickets and put ‘em in a pillowcase, then they sealed the windows and around the door, only leaving a little crack, then they let the crickets out and the crickets got stuck in between my walls”

I didn’t have the heart to tell the guy that I didn’t believe him because, first, I didn’t hear the crickets, and, second, there was no such thing as between walls at those apartments, which is why I would have known if there were people outside his apartment in the night. Everyone knew when someone was visiting because it sounded like they were outside your apartment.

There were many other colorful characters, some that deserve their own entire blog, but I have to get to the point of this story.
We were a friendly group of people, especially the guy who did crystal meth and his friends from Greenville. If it was the weekend, his friends from Greenville would be at the complex. I enjoyed sitting outside my apartment, drinking beer, and watching the drunk girls stumble in their stilettos as they crossed the parking lot to go to the club, so I got to be rather friendly with the Greenville crew as they passed by me on their back and forth trips to their big ol’ trucks, where they kept their pony kegs stashed.

Y’all, let us pause and marvel at the invention of the pony keg. Because of the pony keg, we are able to be a travelling keg party. What if our room mate sucks and we want to party? It’s pony keg time, baby! Rock and roll!

One Saturday night, after an awesome football game, I was sitting outside with a friend of mine and the Greenville crew was overflowing my neighbor’s apartment. One of the guys got tired of walking to his truck every five minutes to get another beer, so he eventually just stopped at the mid-way point – my apartment – and started talking to me.

“Yeah. My deddy gave me my own cow and it’s so cool when I come home. She sees my truck coming down the drive and she knows it’s me and she starts running to greet me. I get out of the car and run to her and she just nuzzles her nose in my chest. I got to raise her, you know.”

“So, you live on a farm?” My friend asked.

“Yeah. It’ll be mine some day, if I graduate. My daddy says I have to have my degree before he’ll let me have the farm.”

“What do you major in to be a farmer?”

“Well, I’m majoring in poetry science.”

“What does that have to do with farming?”

“Well, see I don’t really want the whole farm. I really like the chickens.”

He and my friend kept talking and talking about cows and chickens and farming and “poetry” science, and finally he ran out of beer and left.

“I didn't know you could major in poetry," my friend started, "but I still don't understand what that has to do with raising chickens."

Brings new meaning to the term "chick lit", doesn't it, y'all?

(For those of y’all who haven’t figured it out yet, the guy from Greenville was majoring in poultry science.)

Funny you don't sound like it (a.k.a. I can write Southern better than I can speak it)

Y'all, something bad is happening to me: my Southern accent is fading.

What's next? I forget how to make cornbread? My pound cake doesn't rise? I lose my taste for grits? What's happening to me?

I remember talking to this guy on the phone and he teased me about how I drawled out my long "I" sounds. He said I shouldn't try to hide it or be embarassed about it because he thought it was cute.

In college, I remember sitting on the porch, joking around with my fellow Southerners about how you could tell if someone was Southern or not: get them to say, "Big, bright, white, light." If the person saying it was a true Southerner, they would say, "Big, braaaaht, whaaaaht, laaaaht."

Also in college, I struggled with pronouncing Spanish correctly because my Southern drawl would get tangled up in all the pronunciations.

But I never wished to lose my Southern accent. Not only did guys think it was hot, it is (was?) an inherent part of who I am as a Southerner.

How did this loss happen, you ask? I blame it on my Yankee friend from Ohio. We became best friends in the dorm and it just so happened his father had recently been transferred to Birmingham. He didn't have a car, so I would let him ride home with me from time to time. I moved back to Birmingham and he stayed in Auburn, but we kept up our friendship. When I moved back to Auburn and he moved back to Birmingham, we still stayed friends. And when I moved back to Birmingham and he stayed in Birmingham, it was he who helped get me through that which is The University of Alabama at Birmingham, otherwise known as UAB.

Y'all, those people at UAB act like a bunch of Yankees (except for the ones that are my friends), letting doors slam in your face and getting a kick out of saying, "Roll Tide!" to you when you wear an Auburn shirt, even though both of you are going to UAB. (Yes, I do not think there is much difference between Bammers and Yankees, except I'd rather marry a Yankee than a Bammer.)

So, as I was saying, my Yankee friend was the eye of the UAB storm for me. He would invite me to meet up with him for coffee before class by texting me, "Meet you at Foy?” Awww. (For you non-Auburn people out there, Foy was the beloved student union at Auburn University when I was a student there, and the HUC is the "Foy" of UAB. I know that "Foy" is not what all student unions are called, but in my world of commuting to UAB, along with all the people who work downtown, while hung-over from drinking at TC's until the wee hours, just so I could get a decent parking spot all while what I really wanted was "my" Auburn, the HUC would be called Foy.)

My Yankee friend and I shared a love for drinking beer (or wine from a box) until it was all gone and the convenience stores within a safe stumbling walking distance were closed, and coffee to nurse those hangovers, playing pool and darts, and clothes shopping. And Tom Petty. God forbid I forget good ol' Tom.

My Yankee friend and I have an early history of having these atrocious fights. We were young and moody and took our moodiness out on each other. We had our last fight in 2004, and within six months, we were friends again and we've been on good terms ever since. In fact, for about three years, we were practically inseparable. I used to have so much fun getting all gussied up to go to our favorite dive bar with him on Saturday nights. I even was invited to his family's Christmas, y'all. Pretty serious stuff for not being his girlfriend. Then, after I got back together with my first serious boyfriend, he started to drop off the face of the earth again. I haven't seen him much over the past couple of years, but hanging around him all that time prior had done its damage.

Y'all, one day while I was out and about, I was chit-chatting with someone and they asked me, "Where are you from?"

Not thinking anything of it, I said, "From here. Birmingham."

"No, I mean, where were you raised?"

"Here. Born and raised."

"What about your parents?"

"Same. Well, my father was from Walker County."

"You mean you've never lived anywhere else?"

"Well, I went to college in Auburn for a few years."

"It's funny you don't sound like you're from the South."

Y'all, that Yankee and his family neutralized my accent and I don't know if I can get it back!