Visits With Nan

So, it started with a conversation amongst the group of writers I regularly correspond with, and an email that was circulated containing a meme listing words that seemed to be rarely used these days.

The conversation was interesting, and of course someone made the statement that it would be an interesting challenge to see how many of these old words could be used in a story.

Then of course that got my brain ticking over, and before I knew it, I had a story forming.

Here is that list of words and the story that followed. Can you find them all? :)

* audacity * balderdash * baloney * bamboozled *

* bejeebers * berserk * bodacious * bogus *

* britches * brouhaha * camaraderie * caterwauling *

* cattywumpus * codger * concoction * confuzzled *

* coniption * decrepid * discombobulated * doohicky *

* egads * fiddle-dee-dee * fiddle-faddle * fiddlesticks *

* flabbergasted * flibberty-jibbit * flim-flam * flummoxed *

* fuddy-duddy * gallivant * gobsmacked * hoodwink *

* hullabaloo * humbug * jalopy * kerfuffle *

* kibosh * lambasting * lollygag * malarkey *

* nincompoop * nucklehead * numb-skull * periwinkle *

* persnickety * poppycock * pumpernickle * ragamuffin *

* rigmarole * shenanigans * skedaddle * skewwiff *

* skullduggery * thingamebob * thingamyjig * thunderation *

* tomfoolery * whatchamacallit * whatsit * whosemegadget *

* willy-nilly * wishywashy *

VISITS WITH NAN

My Nan is old school, but I guess she’s entitled to be, seeing as she really is old. Duh!

She's like, eighty-years-old or something, but she's still as bright as a button, doing stuff around the house and out in the garden and what-not. Since Pop died, she’s really thrown herself into doing stuff I never thought she would even know how to do. Hell, I've even seen her down on her hands and knees and trimming the edge of the garden path with a pair of fucking scissors! Can you believe that?

I’ve also seen her out in Pop’s garden-shed many a time doing stuff with his old power tools and what-not. I don’t think she has much idea about what everything is called, but she seems to know how to use most things. She would often say, ‘Pass me that thingamebob or thingamyjig or whosemegadget, won’t you dear,’ expecting me to know exactly what she was referring to, then chastise me for lollygagging or being discombobulated.

Which brings me to what sticks out the most about her: the way she talks. She's always using these weird words that I've hardly never heard of . . . but to be fair, she probably thinks exactly the same about me and my friends and all the fiddle-faddle that comes out of our mouths.

I’m thirteen years old and I think I have a good relationship with my Nan. Probably even better than the one I have with my parents, so I don’t really mind it when I get dumped there by my folks while they jet-off on some escape after giving us some poppycock or other about why they needed to get away and not take me. Nan would usually call them out over the sheer audacity of the baloney they were trying to spin, giving them a good old lambasting for their skullduggery and bogus excuses. They would look flummoxed and all confuzzled as to why she would react that way, then she would have a go at them about their willy-nilly response, before there would be a kerfuffle and they would finally zoom off in their old periwinkle coloured jalopy . . . of which they were so proud, but which I absolutely hated even being seen in.

'They can't hoodwink me, you mark my words, you young ragamuffin!' she would say, once they had skedaddled, no doubt feeling like a pair of nincompoops.

When I would stay with her one of the regular things we just had to do was go to church every Sunday. Afterwards, once we had finished listening to the old fuddy-duddy priest talking balderdash and trying to flim-flam his parishioners, I would pretty much be free to do as I liked.

‘Now before you go out gallivanting around, Peter, don’t be a knucklehead and make sure you change out of them good britches and into some jeans or something. Don’t want you to go out and get up to all them shenanigans and malarkey with your friends while wearing your Sunday best now, do we?’

‘Yes, Nan,’ I would reply.

‘Now before you go, fetch me the jar of humbugs from beside my lounge, would you dear,’ referring to her favourite black and white hard-rock candy.

The friends she was referring to were Tom and Jerry Hastings from next door. And yes, their numb-skull parents – according to my Nan – actually did call them that! They were twelve and fourteen years old, and with me being thirteen I fit neatly between them . . . and in more ways than one, I might add . . . but I tried to keep that part of our friendship a secret from Nan, lest she might be gobsmacked and start caterwauling, or worse, like put the kibosh on us spending time together.

We were quite close, me and them Hastings boys, and I spent a lot of time with them whenever I stayed with Nan. There was a great camaraderie between us, and we would sometimes camp out in the back yard of either their place or Nan’s and we would get up to all sorts of tomfoolery and whatsit . . . if you know what I mean?

I had to be careful though, because like I said, I didn’t want Nan to catch on to our bodacious plans for having fun.

One time though, I really thought I was a gonner! I came in one afternoon after a particularly fun day, just as Nan was taking her home-made pumpernickle out of the oven, when she took one look at me, causing me to freeze in my tracks.

‘What was all that hullabaloo and brouhaha that I heard outside? Sounded like that decrepid old codger next door, Mr Vickers, was going berserk, or having a right coniption fit,’ she said.

‘Yeah, we kicked the soccer ball over his fence, and he caught us going to get it back,’ I answered.

‘Ha! You kids never learn, do you?’ she replied, then, just when I thought I was going to get out of her kitchen with my hide still intact, she said, ‘Egads! What’s that whatchamacallit, that doohicky on your neck, boy?’ she demanded to know, while pointy her bony old finger at the offending mark. ‘And why are your clothes all skewwiff?’

She could be a bit persnickety about things sometimes, my Nan. And there was no use trying to bamboozle her with fancy replies, or worse, give her a wishywashy reply.

As we stood there staring each other down I suddenly noticed her stern expression soften and she slumped onto a nearby kitchen chair, before pointing to another one and saying, ‘Sit!’

‘Bejeebers! Why didn’t I see it earlier?’ she quietly said. ‘What didn’t I see things were all cattywumpus?’

I’ve never been much of a flibberty-jibbit, but suddenly, as words began to pile up in my head, I had a feeling all that was about to change.

‘She knew!’ I suddenly realised. She knew what we were getting up to!

‘Now don’t go giving me no rigmarole, Peter. I want you to tell me straight.’

‘Tell you what?’ I innocently asked, hoping against hope that I could avoid what I knew was coming.

‘Oh, fiddle-dee-dee and fiddlesticks,’ Nan said, sounding flabbergasted. ‘You’re a thirteen-year-old boy, so I know you’re having certain feelings. You’re of that age. Am I right?’

‘I . . . errr . . .’

‘It’s perfectly alright, Peter. I understand, so you can be honest with me. Are you and those Hastings boys fooling around? And there’s no need to worry . . . you’re not in trouble or anything. I just need to know that you are safe, and they aren’t forcing you to do anything you don’t want to do. I had a thirteen-year-old boy in this house once before, you might recall. That father of yours was always getting himself into trouble . . . and in more ways than one, let me tell you! Too bad he turned out the way he did though. I blame that flibberty-jibbit of a mother of yours for that!’

‘I . . . ummm . . .’

‘Yes, or no, Peter? Are you sexually active?’

For a few moments I just closed my eyes and took in some deep breaths. When I opened them again, Nan was still sitting there and smiling at me, her expression soft and caring.

‘I’m not the old fuddy-duddy everyone thinks I am,’ she said quietly. ‘That Tom Hastings is a cute boy, isn’t he?’

‘Y-y-yes,’ I quietly returned.

‘And do I have anything I need to worry about?’

‘N-no . . . we’re all good, I think . . .’

‘Well, that’s good then. Now, while I think up what concoction I’m going to whip up for tonight’s meal, why don’t you go and see them and invite them over for dinner tonight? I think it’s time I got to know them both a little better, don’t you?’

And now, as I make my way outside in something of a daze, I have come to a realisation. Oh, fiddlesticks and thunderation! Now she’s even got me talking that way!