So
Grunt and Grumble is the language of rural life, the patois of builders and contractors, farmers and volunteer firefighters. It has the rhythms of a David Mamet play. Sentences go unfinished, assumptions are made, key words are savored, in a kind of incantation. Everyone understands everything everyone else is saying, or pretends to. Nothing is ever questioned or explained, unless somebody like me is there saying, “Huh?” and “What?” (Now that I’ve lived in the country awhile, I don’t interrupt anymore. I just nod and mumble the occasional, “Yup.”)
You have to stand a certain way when you Grunt and Grumble. It works best if your arms are folded. If you’re thin, like my friend and champion G&Ger Anthony, you fold your arms and lean back. Most Grunt and Grumblers lean forward and rest their folded arms on substantial bellies. Either way, you take a wide stance, your legs two or three feet apart. This way guys battered by hard physical labor can Grunt and Grumble for many minutes, while easing back pain and the pressure on sore feet. When possible, Grunt and Grumblers also lean on trucks or tractors, as whiffs of testosterone and diesel fuel mix in roughly equal proportions.
I used to complain about all this wasting of time, until Anthony explained that Grunt and Grumble is not mere bullshitting or goofing off. It’s essential to rural life: part news, part education, even part (shhh) support group. Friendships are formed, deals struck, information gleaned. Farmer A learns what Farmer C is paying for cows from Farmer B. Gossip is idle chatter. Grunting and Grumbling is business.
“So”. Así traduce Heaney el Hwat! primigenio de Beowulf. Llegado a las siete de la mañana a un Dunkin’ Donuts uno se encuentra precisamente a gigantescos curritos irlandeses hablando una versión urbana y hasta extraordinariamente locuaz de esto y siente una brecha inmensa.
