Beltane Waning Dyan Moon
Amtrak Cardinal north of Renessalear, Indiana 8 am
Kate and I woke up at 4:30 this morning, showered and finished packing. We headed around the corner to the train station. As we got there at 5:15 or so, the station master had just begun to announce boarding. We walked up the double staircase. The door to our car opened right at the top of the stairs. We went up three steps, went forward as the car attendant asked and sat down. Less than 10 minutes after leaving our hotel room, we were in our seats and ready togo. Try that at the airport.
We had a discussion of Hoosier phrases with Diane yesterday. When somebody chokes, we would say the food “went down the Sunday throat.” We also ate supper, not dinner. I referred to one of my aunts as being “a caution,” a phrase the others had not heard.
As the train now heads north, I find, as I always do, that I’m glad. The north refreshes me, invigorates. Mostly, it is home. Indiana is where I’m from and a place that holds the precious memories of childhood, but it is no longer home, except in the sense of that familiar place where I grew up.
We ate breakfast today with a former Marine corps A6 Intruder pilot and his wife, a librarian. He was not a person I would have chosen for conversation and that made this another wonderful moment. We found both him and his wife delightful company. He expressed a keen interest in the Kindle. They are on their way from Lynchburg, Virginia (they are Episcopalian) to California where his lt col son will hand over command to another officer.
The pace of the train, the sound of its whistle, plaintive and sometimes forlorn and the comfort of the seats combine with good company and friendy attendants to make the trip a joy.
Next stop, the Metropolitan Lounge in Union Station, Chicago.
Ok. I grew up in Southern Indiana, and live in NYC now. Not long ago, we were out at a restuarant, and one of our party choked on a bite. He was coughing, and I casually used the expression: “Oh, he’s fine, something just went down his Sunday throat!” The whole table just lost it, literally collapsing with laughter; no one had ever heard it before, and they were all like “WHAT? WHAT did you just say???” I was incredulous and swore that “down the Sunday throat” was a perfectly legitimate expression. Thanks for validating me with your blog entry! I’m going to be forwarding it to a few of my friends… Kate in NYC
We always say “it went down my Sunday throat” in my family and I got a strange expression from a co-worker when I said it at lunch today. Apparently, while the expression is known in my family (from central Missouri) it is less well-known in the great city of Kansas City.
I’m from Northern Minnesota, Norwegian immigrant father and South Dakota mom (also of Norwegian parents. We used the expression at home every time someone choked. Around my New Mexican friends it seems to be quite baffling. Seems to be a midwestern phrase of immigrant origins. My dad also called stew something like ‘slumgullion.’ I’m sure that’s not spelled right. Has anyone ever heard of it.