About a week after moving in to my house here in Louisiana, I was out in my yard taking out the dogs so they could do their business. It was around 100 degrees and since I had been living in Alaska for five years prior to this, I was basically glowing. Not glowing as in “oh, so pretty,” I mean I was glowing as in I looked radioactive because of how the sun was bouncing off my skin. Seriously, Alex had to look at me with sun glasses because I hurt his eyes.
It was ridiculous.
Anyway, when I was out, my neighbor, who scraps metal for a living, was in his yard with his friend doing his scrap metal thing. He came over to the fence, where I walked over and introduced myself.
“Hey there, I’m Leah. We just moved here from Alaska,” I tell him, and he smiled.
“Nice ta’ meetcha. I’m Ah-tha.”
This was my first interaction with a true southerner. His accent was so thick I was barely able to make out the “Nice ta’ meetcha.” I was seriously at a loss for words.
He clears his throat. “I’m Ah-tha. My name is Ah-tha.”
I could tell he was trying to clear his southern accent, but I seriously could not understand what he was saying. I felt like I was being really rude.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I ask him, trying to speak as clearly as I can.
He gives me a weird look, and repeats what he said. “I’m Ah-tha.”
After a few more times of me saying “I’m sorry, I can’t understand you,” his friend finally stands up, in a perfectly clear accent, and says this.
“HE SAID HIS NAME IS ARTHUR!”
Never, in a million years, would I have guessed that’s what he was saying.
And that was the last time I ever talked to my neighbor.