Our ways with words.

Creative language arts.

I was not an English major in college.  Rarely spoke in public.  Couldn’t spell.  Not good at diagramming sentences.  Didn’t know parts of speech.  Had a hard time understanding punctuations and where to place the Period.   Grammar was mutilated.  Took two remedial English classes and had to drop both or take an incomplete.

So, to say the least, English was a second language.  My mom and dad, the red dirt farmer and his wife, taught me more better Okie speak.  Speaking in short broken and incomplete sentences with lots of dot dot dots.  It worked okay until I finished sixth grade.  These days, I can get by with dictating into my iPhone and sending a cryptic text and blaming the corrupt verbiage on SIRI.  “Boy howdy! If that don’t beat all I ever saw,” my Okie dad would say.

Published by OkieMan

I come from a family who migrated from the parched red dirt Plaines of southern rural Oklahoma. Migrating to blue collar working class community of East Los Angeles. There is where I was born. I am Mr. Writermelon. I can only write what my grammar and spell checker allows. I am neither profound nor profane. Boy howdy! Send comment to: Mr.writermelon@gmail.com

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