By Elaine Viets
We writers learn many specialized words. Words for our craft, including point of view, story arc, and pacing. Legal words such as subpoena, defendant, and waiver. We learn forensic words, sports language and many more.
But we all speak a private language, though we may not realize it. I’m talking about family words.
I first learned about family words from Paul Dickson, the author of “Family Words: A Dictionary of the Secret Language of Families.” If you can get your hands on this book, grab it.
Dickson describes family words this way: “Every family has them. The words that only you use, your own secret language. For instance, one family has coined the word ‘lurkin’ for any sock that has lost its mate because ‘you know the other one is ‘lurkin’ around somewhere.’”
My personal favorite from Dickson’s book is “Grabacabbage,” someone whose name you don’t know or can’t remember. As in, “I saw that Grabacabbage kid from Cedar Court skateboarding through traffic. He’s going to get hit.”
My family also had their own words. Many centered around food. Here are a few:
Mustgo. Leftovers. As in “must go today or you’ll eat it tomorrow.”
Bread sandwich. My grandfather’s scornful name for a sandwich with only a thin slice of meat. Grandpa liked to pile on his meat and cheese.
Sunday ham. When unexpected guests dropped in around dinner time on Sunday, Mom would serve up an informal spread of potato salad, chips and lunchmeat. The cold cuts were the everyday stuff packed in our lunchboxes: baloney, pickle loaf, salami and braunschweiger, Swiss and American cheese. One of us kids would be sent to the local convenience store for ten cents’ worth of ham – usually about three slices. The Sunday ham would be draped on top the platter. Only the guests could eat it. If they didn’t, Dad got the Sunday ham in his lunchbox. We kids weren’t allowed to touch it.
FHB. (Family Hold Back). Used when we had voracious visitors, and there was a sudden shortage of hamburgers, steaks, or pork chops. The meat was reserved for guests. Once they were served, we kids could eat. If there were two chops or burgers left, they went to the guests under FHB rules.
My family gatherings had their own special words.
Organ recital. When my great-aunts visited my grandmother, these formidable women would repair to the kitchen for coffee cake and what my grandfather called the organ recital. Grandpa would flee to the living room and watch the ball game.
The organ recital was for women only. Kids like me were banned, but I found a place where I could eavesdrop on the gruesome details.
My aunts were permanently upholstered in black and wore Enna Jettick shoes. During the organ recital, my aunts would discuss their aches, pain and operations in loving detail.
Better yet, they talk about other people’s operations. Especially the hopeless ones. Aunt Marie would say, “The surgeon opened Eddie up and found a tumor the size of a grapefruit. There was nothing they could do, so they sewed him back up and sent him home.” I don’t know why, but tumors were always the size of a grapefruit.
As the afternoon wore on and the coffee cake disappeared, the labor contest would commence, and the women would one-up one another with horror stories about how long they were in labor during childbirth.
Is it me or is it hot in here? A euphemism for hot flashes. No woman would ever admit she was in menopause, much less suffered hot flashes. Instead, she’d ask this question. The other ladies would declare the heat was getting to them too, and fan themselves dramatically with napkins and magazines. The hostess, who was usually the same age, understood what that question meant, and adjusted the room temperature to December in Iceland.
Mutton dressed as lamb. An age-shaming remark aimed at an older woman dressed like a young girl. Today, Kris Jenner, Charo and Madonna are often sniped at as mutton dressed as lamb. I doubt they care. They’re laughing all the way to the bank.
Short arms. My grandfather’s term for someone who avoided reaching for a check. As in, “I’m not going out with that short arms and get stuck with the dinner check again.”
Tuberoses. My grandmother’s nickname for any mournful chiming clock. Apparently, when she was younger, tuberoses were a popular funeral flower.
Pasture pool. A golf game.
What are your family words, TKZers? Do you use them in your writing?
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It’s here! A Scarlet Death, my new Angela Richman, Death Investigator mystery. Buy A Scarlet Death hardcovers and ebooks at:
Barnes & Noble: https://tinyurl.com/bde2c7ks
Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/yhtvzns7
Target has the hardcovers here: https://tinyurl.com/5xnrx5n4
I love this! I put that concept in my first novel without realizing it was a thing. I said “every family has a secret language” and some other words … I can’t remember the exact phrase. Hubby and I have a secret language and I had one growing up. My mom and dad were full of funny phrases only the family understood
Thanks for this nostalgic look back.
Glad you enjoyed this, Jane.
Thanks for these, Elaine. My cousin’s family used FHB; I learned it when she lived with us for a year.
My dad was a lover of words–and loved making them up, or modifying others. One that pops into my head now was “verkrenched” — when things were mixed up, messed up, not going well.
“Verkrenched” is a good one, Terry.
Fun post. Elaine. Loved it.
I saw just now that Paul Dickson’s book is available in paperback at Amazon. It might stimulate some new creations for characters and their vocabulary.
I’m having trouble thinking of any real Family Words. As a child I thought that I had invented a new word with “deluscious,” to describe my favorite cherry cream cheese dessert. I later found that others were already using the word.
My family would say “oops a daisy” when making a mistake. I was told by an employer that I used that word because my mom grew up with horses and buggies.
Congratulations on A Scarlet Death.
Paul’s book is a lot of fun, Steve, and guaranteed to start many conversations.
We used something close except we said “whoopsydaisy”
I know that one, BK.
Amazing how similar families are. Although in my MIL’s kosher home there was no Sunday ham. Growing up select things were only spoken about in Yiddish.
Before insurance had the final say, going to “the right doctor” was everything. The right doctor either belonged to the synagogue or had treated a family member. Regretfully “the right doctor” didn’t always translate to the best doctor. One such doctor should have retired a decade or so before he did. I would have had a few relatives for more years if they saw a younger, better doctor.
Sorry that the right doctor turned out to be the wrong one, Alan. My mom and grandma used to speak pig Latin when they wanted to say something in front of me. Never did get the hang of that.
I love this. I had a group of elderly great aunts who loved to talk about their ailments. As a young child, I remember hearing about one aunt’s sacroiliac which sounded very complicated and mysterious to me.
Best wishes on the release of A Scarlet Death.
I forgot about that one, Kay. I looked up sacroiliac.. Here’s what it is:
“The sacroiliac (SI) joint is located in the pelvis. It links the iliac bone (pelvis) to the sacrum (lowest part of the spine above the tailbone). This joint transfers weight and forces between your upper body and legs. It is an essential component for energy transfer between the legs and the torso.”
Anyway, it was very painful.
Fun!
Glad you stopped by, Mare.
“Blitix,” spelling guessed. It’s that part of the an adult’s body (kidneys?) small children and animals seem to alway hit when they are playing on you. It’s extremely painful. I was going to use it in a comment on a dog YouTube page a few weeks ago, tried to look up its spelling, and couldn’t find it. My sister and I decided that it was one of Dad’s made up words.
Love it!
When my adopted mother heard thunder, she’d always say, “That’s the devil beating his wife.”
It usually means that it’s raining even though the sun is shining. My brother once asked an international group what term they used for this situation, and the answers were widespread yet similar.
Interesting, Marilynn.
Whoa.
I’ve heard several of these. Pasture Pool is new. Gonna use that one.
My father in law called golf that. (He was no fan.)
Mom always used to say, “Well, that’s a sticky wicket.”
It was usually in response to a teenage girl problem that seemed, in the moment, like an approaching existential event. Used to make me mad because I thought she was downplaying my angst.
Now, of course, I realize those problems were just sticky wickets. 🤡
Very British, Deb.
Dad warned that the accordion would “bite you” if not careful of fingers, and its name became the bosh-you through the magic of kid speak.
Tangles in my hair were “gobbles” and Dad stomped the floor to get them, so laughter instead of tears at hairbrushing time.
Your dad sounds delightful, Mary.
Love this, Elaine! Sorry I’m late. My new eco-thriller released yesterday.
We use “alligator arms” for someone who doesn’t reach for the check. I use a lot of our family phrases, like “the juice isn’t worth the squeeze” for someone who isn’t playing with a full deck or unintelligent.
Congratulations, Sue, and much success on your eco thriller.