“I like your big panties,” my sweet friend said. Everyone at the table stopped talking. The look on my face said, “Holy cow! Did I forget my britches?”  I stammered out the only reply I could muster. “I thought I had those covered up…” and of course I had to gesture the wide unfurling of a parachute sized pair of underwear.

“Your big PANIES” she clarified. “Did you grow them?”

“Ohhh…. my Pee ON eeze. Yes! They came from my backyard.”

Our British friend at the table spoke. “I think it’s pronounced Peon EEZE.” As he spoke the word flowed beautifully off his lips like honey. What is it about a British accent that immediately garners respect? Maybe that’s why all the movies about Bible stuff have Jesus speaking with a British accent.

I wonder if a portrayal of the Sermon on the Mount would sound as wise if it were written by a Southerner. The young man playing Jesus would speak while sitting on the back of a pickup truck. The hair and beard would be the same, but that accent would NOT work!

“I know it’s hard bein’ poor, bless your hearts. I have been there ‘n done nat. Ya’ll know I’z born in a barn? But doncha worry none. Your daddy in heavin is makin a real nice place for ye.

And a lot of ya’ll are hungry rite now, but someday you’ll be fullerna tick. Some of ya’ll are sheddin’ some tears up in here. But sumday ya’ll gonna be laughin yer heads off.”

The feeding of the five thousand would’ve seemed less of a miracle too. Southerners never forget to bring food, and that’s about the same number that attend homecoming.

Then if Jesus went with His disciples out on the lake, they would’ve been in a real nice bass boat. His question of “Did ye bring any bread?” would’ve been answered with, “Yep! We got biscuits and cornbread and hushpuppies. Take yer pick!”

After they fished all night and didn’t catch anything, Jesus might have advised, “Change up yer jig and throw over in ‘at buncha grass growin’ up air inna cove.”

Peter might’ve shouted, “Oooowee! Look et all ‘em bream, and catfish, and crappie! Man, at the bass! They’re all keepers! We are gonna have us a fish fry to NITE!”

We probably won’t see that version at the box office any time soon, praise God.

As I carried the big bouquet of peonies into the memorial service, I passed a young man who spoke his admiration as well. “Wow! What beautiful roses! Did you grow them yourself?”

I guess a peony by any other name still smells just as sweet.

Lynna Clark lives in Salisbury. Read more at LynnasWonderfulLife.wordpress.com