Jake got up early, and since he was fixing to go over town, commenced to put on his Sunday go to meeting clothes. After a breakfast of sowbelly and cackleberries he looked out the window to see it was raining cats and dogs. His wife was going to the church house, so she too was dressed up. Jake thought she looked mighty highfalutin in that flowered waist he always admired, but her plain black skirt left something to be desired.
Jake’s Sundays were spent meeting the fellers for coffee at Rosie’s, to palaver over the latest doings in their neighborhood, but he prided himself on looking natty anyhow, unlike some of the good ol’ boys who showed up in the same overhalls they’d worn all week.
“Land O’Goshen,” Dolly exclaimed, as she joined him at the window. “I can’t walk to church in this, so I’m taking the Whoopie. I’d better shake a leg or I’ll be late.”
Jake knew better than to argue, and decided to be noble about it. She’d take on something fierce if he objected, and he’d seen Dolly pitch a hissy fit too many times to enjoy another one.
“Go on ahead, sweet pea,” he said. “I’ll fire up Fannie’s old jalopy.”
Their youngest daughter had taken up with a worthless galoot last month and left home in a huff after her folks refused to let her take the Tin Lizzie she’d learned to drive back in high school. Fannie was a looker, and smart, a real humdinger. She deserved better than a silver-tongued devil with no visible means of support. Dolly wanted Jake to go bring her home, but he said she needed to stew in her own juice for a while. The two couldn’t get very far very fast, with the only means of transportation being the wheel that Fannie rode before she learned to drive. Sure enough, Dolly heard by the grapevine, that they were riding the grub line between distant kin on both sides.
But this woolgathering wasn’t getting Jake to his friends so out the door he went, only to discover the jalopy had a flat and was out of gas. With Rosie’ coffeepot going dry, and the need to chew the fat increasing, Jake was getting out of sorts. His last option seemed to be shanks ponies. He went back inside, changed into his old overhalls, put on his galoshes, and said aloud, “It’s only ten blocks. If I go a kitin’ I can’t get too wet.”
So, how much of that little story did you understand? Depends on your age, and I just gave away mine. I grew up with this sort of vernacular but anyone under forty probably got lost in the first couple of paragraphs. As lost as I am when the conversation turns to micro-aggression, safe spaces, QAnon, memes, and wokeness. By the time I’ve deciphered the jargon the message is generally one I wish I hadn’t heard anyway. Makes me feel sorry for anyone who is trying to learn English as a second language.