Some time ago, I got to thinking about the way I talked when I was a kid, and that led me to thinking about how other people talked. Then I got interested in looking into the formation of language and adding to the traditional American vocabulary.
That line of thinking of started when I remembered my childhood buddy, Steve. Years ago when I was a little kid, we lived in a village in one of the northernmost counties of the Ozarks. That was where my mother had grown up, and when my dad got out of the Air Force, he and Mama and me took up residence with Grandpa and Grandma while Daddy worked, went to trade school and eventually moved us into our own place down in Greene County in southwest Missouri.
Well, in my memories of Steve, or Stevie, as I called him when I was a little kid, I also thought about his Aunt Maude. Well, actually she was his great-aunt. She was quite old when Stevie and I became playmates. He was a year older than I, but we played together frequently. He lived up the gravel road that ran off the state highway, up to the top of a slope, where it split with one length turning left to rejoin the highway and another length continuing straight and down the hill and on toward the various farms in that county
The villagers' houses were on the gravel road on the L-shape of the road from the highway back onto highway.
Now at the top of the hill where the road split, there was a little country store operated by Aunt Maude, or as Stevie pronounced it Aint Maude. Every now and again when I had a dime, I’d go to the store with Stevie after we played awhile, and I would pick out what we two hillbilly boys called a sody. I’d give a dime for my sody, usually a root beer, or an orange, and Stevie would get his Coke for free from Aint Maude, who adored him. Sometimes I’d get a Coke, too, and Stevie would get some peanuts, which he shared with me for my Coke.
On the front porch of the little store was a big wooden box that Steve and his folks and his Aunt Maude called a bread box. Apparently in the old days when Maude’s husband was alive and the store really thrived because transportation in the nearest town, 6 miles away, was not convenient, that box was used by the traveling bread truck to drop off bread if the store was closed, and then they’d settle up later.
Well, Maude was forever hollering at us to “get off that bread box” or “close that bread box.” She was always pretty cranky toward me and Stevie when I showed up. I don’t think she ever griped at him when I wasn’t there, though.
One day, Stevie and I decided to get into the box. I think Stevie actually decided, for I was an obedient little scaredy cat. And Maude scared me.
But I said, “OK,” when he said, “Let’s get in the bread box.” It was empty. It wasn’t used at all for anything, but it was apparently precious to Aunt Maude. We were little fellers–I think I was in first grade and Stevie was in second–so there was plenty of room for us to fit into it. We climbed in and let the top shut down on us. It was darker than I’d ever experienced.
“Let’s get out of here,” one of us said, probably me, always the scaredy cat. And we pushed against the top to lift it. It would not lift. It was as if a lock were on it. What had happened was that we – well, actually, Stevie said it was I – had failed to hold the hasp against the bottom of the lid.
So when we shut the top, the hasp fell over the little loop for a lock. Even though there was no lock, we couldn’t get out. That dadgum hasp held on despite the banging around we gave the lid.
Then one of us, likely Stevie for he was far more of a thinker than I, had the idea of turning over and pushing against the lid with our backs.
We pressed hard against it, and eventually the hasp broke off and the lid came up. We scrambled out.
Stevie picked up the broken hasp and took it into Aint Maude and told her what had happened.
Oh, my goodness, there was some yelling and screaming, and I ran through the store, out the door and down the hill to our house. I didn’t say anything about the adventure.
Soon the new phone rang; I think it was two longs and a short, but I’m not sure. (If you don’t know what means, I’ll have to explain it someday.) My Mama picked it up. “Hello. Yes. OK. I’ll take care of it.” She hung up and said, “What did you and Stevie do?” I had to tell her, but I blamed it all on Stevie.
“Well, shame on you,” she said. “Don’t do that again.” I didn’t get a whipping or anything. I reckon it was because Mama was no fan of Stevie’s Aunt Maude.
Now, I have gotten way off base from where I intended to go. This started out as a column about language.
For several months I’ve been thinking about how Maude would say to the customers when she gave them their change and receipt, “Thankee. Thankee muchly.”
Now, there is no “muchly” in the dictionary, at least not in my AP approved dictionary, or in my AP Stylebook.
But I like the word “muchly” a lot, or muchly. It seems workable in context. Plus, it reminds me of Stevie Kay and his Aint Maude. Both are long dead. Maude died of old age. Stevie died some years back, too, of health issues. He was born without a spleen. That didn’t keep him from serving in the Navy or living a full life. It just shortened that life.
So, in honor of Stevie and his Aunt Maude, I have started telling store checker-outers, food servers, bank tellers and anyone else, “Thankee. Thankee muchly.”
But I’m still here, slinging words, and I’m hoping that some of the language I heard in my childhood will become part of the American vernacular.
Feel free to help me do so. Start by adding “muchly” to your vocabulary.
For more information about words and language, go take a gander online at Unlocking the Power of American English Word Formation - USA Vocabulary https://usavocabulary.com/blog/2025/06/06/unlocking-the-power-of-american-english-word-formation/
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