The Architecture of the Arkansas Ozarks - Donald Harington [104]
The condition, whatever it was, had affected the girls too by this time; although they weren’t yawning, tears were trickling slowly down their cheeks. “I’ve got the wearies,” remarked Perlina, and Drussie, some time later, put in, “It’s jist so teejus,” but neither of these words would quite do. After further reflection, Denton observed of his condition, “I aint interested in a damn thing. It’s sorter like after I had the frakes.” Monroe, who had also had the frakes, said, “Yeah, that’s sorter it,” and John, veteran of the frakes too, added, “I reckon.” The girls, who like all females had not had the frakes, did not quite understand. Isaac, their father, did not know what his children were talking about, because he wasn’t bored and never would be. A man who can stay awake all night long without ever going to sleep for the rest of his life is the least likely person to get bored. Willis, who had also had the frakes, remarked, “Naw, when a feller’s a-gittin over the frakes, he jist don’t give a damn about nothin, but this here that we’uns have caught, it’s somethin else. I feel like I’d like to give a damn about somethin, but there jist aint nothin around right at the moment to latch onto.” “Yeah,” his sisters chimed in. “That’s more like it.” Some time later, Denton observed, “But we still aint got a word fer it.” As the hours drifted by, one or the other of them would make a suggestion. Again Perlina offered “wearies.” They debated it, concluding it wasn’t quite right. “Teejusments,” suggested Drussie. “Mopes,” offered Willis. “Ho-hums,” suggested John. Monroe came up with “timesick.” They liked that one, but thought it was kind of highfallutin.
Finally Denton snapped his fingers and said, “sour hours.” The way he pronounced it was almost identical to the way they pronounce “sorrows,” which means not grief but regrets, and the resemblance, with the suggestion that sour hours produce sorrows, won the votes of his brothers and sisters. They were so excited over finding a word for their condition that their condition no longer obtained, and they couldn’t wait to spread the word through the village, which they promptly did, finding dozens of people sitting beside their fireplaces afflicted with the sourhours. As soon as they were told this new word for their condition, they rapidly grew interested in it, and before long nobody had the sourhours anymore, at least not for another hour or two. Pronunciation of the noun, sourhour, and of the passive verb, sourhoured, if vociferous enough, also resembles the barking of a certain breed of dog, and for the next hour or two everybody in Stay More went around barking at one another, and their dogs tilted their heads to one side and gave their masters puzzled looks. But after an hour or two, the people grew sourhoured of barking at one another, and gave it up, and resumed passing the sour hours by the fire, day after day, shivering with cold, yawning, rubbing their arms, thinking no thoughts, none at all.
They were discovered there thus, late in the winter, by the first preacher to come to Stay More since the winter began. Most preachers seemed to have such a fondness for hellfire that cold weather was abominable to them, and not one had been seen since summer, until this one came. This one was a big man, almost as tall as Isaac Ingledew, and he was dressed up in furs, bearskins and coonskins and beaver skins, which made him look even bigger, positively mammoth, and the horse he was riding on was the biggest horse anyone had ever seen, big enough to support not only the mammoth preacher but also the girl, or young woman, riding behind him, also dressed all over in animal skins. The very sight of this couple and their horse