Talking Southern – The Insect World

 Outside on your complier’s farm in Brooks one night a bit more than two decades ago, his thirteen-year-old son saw tiny yellow lights flashing intermittently around the pasture and exclaimed, “Look, Dad!  Fireflies!”   Your compiler was so ashamed of himself he wanted to dress in sack cloth and sit in a heap of ashes.  What kind of job had he done as a proud Southern father, if his own son knew no better than to call those flitting, flickering beacons of the night sky “fireflies?”   

       He knows not what kind of term “fireflies” is, and cares not, for where he comes from, it is as alien as Sanskrit.  “Lightning bugs” is what the fascinating creatures are.  Your complier’s young son had no doubt heard the correct term – he grew up in the countryside of Brooks, lightning bugs are a staple of the warm night skies there, and he had never heard either of his Southern-born parents call them anything else.  He had seen lightning bugs together with his parent numerous times, and not once had he heard either of them resort to the unimaginative term ‘fireflies.”  Why, then, did he default to the generic when he could have used the magical and lyrical term “lightning bugs?”   Your compiler does not know the answer, but he thought it was a shame all those years ago and still does.

     This matter so upset your compiler all those years ago that he worked hard to make sure it never happened again.  His two sons, now both in their thirties, routinely refer to these beacons of the night sky as “lightning bugs,” and the one with sons of his own is teaching them the same terminology.  In fact, your compiler was both pleased and gratified in early April of this year to hear his wife, older son, and five-year-old grandson all talking about having seen lightning bugs outside that particular evening, with the two adults remarking on how early they were.

     Switching momentarily to less praiseworthy insects, your compiler recently witnessed his younger brother (and next-door-neighbor on the farm) start jumping and waving his arms wildly. “IT’S A WAWST!” he bellowed.  Your compiler feels compelled to put his finger in the margin momentarily and explain something.

    Both he and his brother understand fully that flying stingers that are not bees, hornets, dirt-daubers, or yellow jackets are likely wasps.  Furthermore, they both know that “wasp” is pronounced precisely as it looks.  But readers may recall a precept introduced in an earlier Talking Southern column: the truth that one in possession of impeccable grammar, usage, and pronunciation is at blissful liberty to ignore them when he or she so chooses, for emphasis.

    This is what your complier’s brother was doing with his exclamation.  They had learned from their father years and years before that lots of folks around Brooks during his childhood had referred to the stinging beasts as “wawsts,” but while their father knew better, he thought the old pronunciation was so funny he often used it instead of the proper one.   So did (and do) his boys, who are now sixty-two and fifty-five, respectively, so really not boys any longer. 

    If there is a moral to this story, it is this:  when outside this spring and summer, see how many lightning bugs you can count, but look out for wawsts!  Those suckers will get you!