A Very Bad Linguistics Essay

April 28, 2015

Lake Murphysboro State Park, Illinois

No, I did not make a mistake yesterday when I posted my end point as being in Missouri. After going over the Cairo bridge I rode about 30 miles into Illinois before making an impromptu crossing of the Mississippi River. The Cape Girardeau bridge was nothing like the Cairo bridge. It had four wide lanes of traffic and big shoulders. Cape Girardeau itself continued to have outstanding bicycle infrastructure everywhere I went. I was pleasantly surprised. The city has a historic downtown but, unfortunately, all the activity is on the commercialized area out by Interstate 55. Yup, once again you can blame McDonalds, Kentucky Fried Chicken, Wal-Mart, Holiday Inn, etc. for that.

Don't worry Illinois fans, I rode back to your state this morning and I will be spending a lot more time here. Illinois has an incredibly long Mississippi River shoreline--something like 600 miles?--so it's almost impossible to avoid.

The Mississippi River from the Cape Girardeau bridge.

I stopped in at a place called "Frank's Real Live Bait Shop" before heading five miles off-route to tonight's camping destination. At the same time as I was entering the building Frank himself was coming outside.

"Ah just gotta check mah fishin' lahns," he explained.

I followed him to the pond next to his store where he had two fishing rods inserted into some ancient rigging devices. "It doesn't look like anything is tugging at the lines," I said.

"That don't mean nuthin," he retorted, "sometimes they'll just settle down where they're at."

"What kind of fish are in there?"

"Catfish. I'm tryin' to get 'em out. They ain't supposed ta be in there," he answered with increasing irritation.

"Hmmmm, that's strange," I commiserated.

"Yeah, somebody put catfish in there and it's messin' things up. There should only be shad in that pond. It's like mah minnow pond out back. Somebody put some greens in there a couple years back. Them greens ate all of mah minnows--and they were some good ones."

"Wow, that's messed up," I said, pretending that I knew what the hell a "green" was . . . or what the difference was between a good minnow and a bad one.

"Ah don't know if it was one of mah competitors or what," added Frank with an accusatory tone. He went on to tell me the various species of minnows he raises and repeated, in case I forgot, just how good they are.

Frank's place was pretty interesting in a way I can't quite explain.

All I really wanted was some water and a V-8, but I got a whole lot more. Mainly, I got an education on the hidden nuances of the fishing bait business--but also I got a nostalgic picture of the rural south from days gone by.

Yes, here in southern Illinois I've been hearing some of the strongest southern accents yet. If I hear it much more, I might develop one myself. Impossible? Consider this: Quite a number of years ago I remembered traveling with my wife to Dallas, TX to visit her sister. The sister had just moved to Dallas from Michigan a few months prior to that and, incredibly, she had already acquired an accent. At first I thought she was faking it. Certainly nobody's way of speaking could be influenced so quickly, I thought. Wrong! Her accent was consistent and real. So I'd just like to prepare my friends and family for the possibility that I MIGHT arrive back in Minnesota with a southern drawl.

Whahl rahdin' mah bahk taday, Ah thought about wraghtin' this up in southern-speak, but it's a lotta work trahin' to spell things the way they sound down here. Ah'd rather wraght in British-speak--mainly because I've always thought it was cool to use the word "bloody" as an adjective. For example, "New Orleans is a bloody fine city." "The bloody shoulders went from acceptable to miniscule to nothing within the last bloody mile." "My Swiss Army Knife is so bloody sharp that I cut open my bloody finger and my bloody blood is bleeding onto these bloody onions." "Bloody" can be used in much the same way as many Americans use the F-word, but it definitely seems more polite.

I am fully aware that Brits and southerners could just as easily lampoon the way I speak. I accept that. Let's move on.

I pedaled up and down some formidable hills to Lake Murphysboro State Park. Hills, big trees, and a pretty lake--what more can a cyclist ask for in a campsite? He can ask for privacy for one thing. I got that too. There is only one other camper and he is more than 200 yards away.

A pretty nice campsite on a pretty nice lake. I'm glad I saw this park on my map and took a chance on it.

As I've said, I am not an ornithologist. If I WAS an ornithologist I could tell you what kind of birds those white things are and I could probably explain away the idea that they are gathering for some kind of Hitchcock-ian assault.

As I've said, I am not a photographer. If I WAS a photographer I could probably explain why it took so damn long to figure out that the more I zoom in on something with my Blackberry, the more blurry it looks.

Today's ride: 47 miles (76 km)
Total: 828 miles (1,333 km)

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