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Carden shares Herald readers' responses about 'cyarn'
 It has been more than a month since I received a copy of a column written by Richard Creed for a Winston-Salem newspaper concerning the origin and meaning of the word "cyarn."
Creed noted that the definition that I gave in my elderhostel classes was incorrect. He further noted that the word was Scottish, not Irish, in origin, that it was spelled with a "k‚" and that the meaning which I had given (a variation of the word "carrion") was also incorrect since the word actually denotes manure.
I am easily intimidated by scholars who profess a lengthy study of the debated subject, but in this instance, Creed touched a sensitive spot: my memory of my grandparents and their mountain dialect. Consequently, I published an article in this newspaper in which I asked if there were some mountain folks who knew the word and in what context had they heard it used. I am proud to report that Western North Carolina (and the adjoining area) is filled with folks who have strong ties to their heritage and vivid memories of the colorful language of their ancestors. The responses are still coming in.
Here is a sampling:
Clara Gysbers wrote from Seaford, Va., to say that she grew up in Dills Cove and has vivid memories of her grandmother sniffing the air and saying, "Smells like cyarn, Clara. Something is dead in the woods."
Tina and Jewel e-mailed me from Cades Cove to say that cyarn was a two-syllable word on their side of the hill and that it was always used in reference to something decomposing.
"It certainly wasn't a reference to manure‚ since that is a smell that is dear to a farm boy's heart."
Both Popcorn Sutton and Ernestine Upchurch over in Maggie Valley said with conviction that cyarn was "buzzard bait," a description that suggests that when you smelled it, you could probably look up and see the buzzards circling nearby.
A gentleman named Boyd Davis wrote to say that he heard the word frequently over in Kentucky and, as a child, he had associated it with the smell of "a dead skunk on the road."
I also checked "Smoky Mountain Voices: a Lexicon of Southern Appalachian Speech" (edited by Karl Nicholas and Harold Farwell, Jr.) and noted that "cyarn" is listed as a "variant of carrion." I have a half-dozen additional responses that are variations of the definitions that I have listed above.
In addition, some folks took the opportunity to discuss related topics that varied from a good receipe for stack cake to the use of "Loo!" as an explanation.
Well, the latter term did bring back memories. One of my grandmother's greatest pleasures was to host a visit from her two best friends Myrtle Plemmons and Tilda Moody. The three ladies would settle into three rocking chairs on the front porch. After ordering me to "go play," they would launch an epic gossip session filled with outrageous information about domestic conflicts, divorces and the unchristian behavior of their neighbors. I eve-dropped, of course, and remember these sessions were filled with explanations of wonder and shock.
"They! You don't mean it!" said Tilda.
"Shooo! Hush your mouth!" said Myrtle.
"I swan! Do you reckon it's so?" said my grandmother.
To anyone who grew up in this region in the early part of the 1900s, all of these explanations suggested disbelief or amazement. I think that "Shoo!" like "Loo!," denoted shock and caution, much like "Be careful! Someone might be listening." That meant someone like me, of course. I think all of them come from Irish dialect.
Another phrase that my grandmother used occasionally was "Yea, boyz!" It would be easy to assume that "Yea, boyz" is just a variation of "boys" but I don't think so. She always used it to denote satisfaction or pleasure. When a cool breeze blew across the porch in the summer, my grandfather would smile and say, "Agnes, do you feel that breeze?" "Yea, boyz," she would reply. I have always remembered the phrase because it is the last thing I heard I say. The day she died, my wife was standing by her bed with a damp washcloth. When she gently wiped my grandmother's face, she said, "Does that feel good, Granny?"
"Yea, boyz," my grandmother replied. "Yea, boyz,"
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