My grandma was from the South, and she had a way of adding an extra “R” to certain words: winder for window, piller for pillow, medercine for medicine. It’s a little quirk of some Southern dialects, especially among older generations.
Whenever I hear someone do this, I’m transported back to her house, where buttermilk flowed freely (and I nearly gagged over the smell), the scrumptious aroma of pot roast filled the air and her old grandfather clock chimed on the hour in the living room. It’s funny how a single syllable, mispronounced to most ears, can carry a whole person with it.
I intentionally say “medercine” from time to time. And when I do, I smile. It’s my small tribute to her – a way of keeping her memory alive, even years after she’s been gone.
My buddy Shawn had a quirk of his own. He pronounced the word field as “filled.” When we were together, field goals became “filled goals,” and feelings became “fillings.” It was a running joke between us, one of those simple, harmless things that glue a friendship together. Now that he’s gone, I still drop a “filling” into conversation every so often. It’s an invisible thread that keeps him close.
Over the years, I’ve had my share of mispronunciations too. For a long time, I pronounced diabetes as “diabetis.” Maybe one of my nieces or nephews will carry that one forward someday. And when they do, I hope they grin and think of old Uncle Lee and some of my own quirks.
Language has a way of holding more than just meaning. It holds memory. A word turned sideways or stretched a little out of shape can become a keepsake. We rarely recognize it at the time – it’s just a sound. But when it returns years later, it can stop you mid-sentence and remind you about what really lasts: not the correctness of the word, but the people tied to it.
