Found in Translation

Early summer 1970, we moved from Nashville to New Hampshire. Daddy was flying for American Airlines out of Boston, Mama was all set to teach high-school English, Monty would begin first grade at Rockwell Elementary, Bucky would be in fifth grade at Atkinson Academy, and I would be the new girl in the seventh-grade class at Timberlane Regional High School.

We had nearly three months to get somewhat acclimated. The neighbors on Hog Hill were lovely and inclusive. There were bunches of kids to match all of us in age. So by the time the school bus rolled around, I pretty much felt like a native.

I wore “dungarees.” The blueberry muffins at Jordan Marsh were “wicked good.” As were the steak “bombs” at Boulay’s. Ground beef was “hamburg.” American cheese was white, and hot-dog buns were shaved on each side. If you wanted a milkshake to go with any of the above, you ordered a “frappe,” which rhymes with, um, “frap.” Hee-yah, thay-uh, ay-uh. I was ready for them.

But were they ready for me?

In my very first Social Studies class, I answered Mr. Hubbell’s first question with a “yes, sir.” And boy-o-boy, was I in for it. Mr. Hubbell was NOT standing for my smart mouth. I would apologize RIGHT NOW. And…

…then later that same day, he would meet the new English teacher, Gee Gee Graham. Who just moved here with her family. From the South. Where children say stuff like “no thank you, ma’am, “pleased to meet you,” and of course, “yes, sir.”

I have always loved Mr. Hubbell for the impromptu lesson he prepared over that night. After a gallant apology for having misunderstood my respectful answer, he proceeded to teach the class about “spickets” and faucets, “pokes” or bags, “spiders” versus frying pans, “eyes” mean burners, and “y’all” are just you-guys. I never felt so welcomed in my life.

Bless his heart.