His Name Was Arthur

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.

“Uh.. What?”

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!”

My face, in a nutshell.

My face, in a nutshell.

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.