Do you really talk like that?

The backroads of Steuben County not far from Painted Post.

“You have a backwoods drawl.”

I was fourteen when Mrs. B, the matron of the family (of 9) on the farm where I worked that summer, told me that I spoke differently. She and her husband were originally from around Philadelphia and could readily hear our local accent.

While she was the first to mention my drawl, Mrs. B. certainly wasn’t the last.

Years later while serving in the military, in and out of uniform, for nearly 30 years, some folks who met me initially thought I was from Kentucky. Nearly all were shocked to learn that I called Upstate New York home.

I’m not alone.

While giving a presentation at a local historical society a few years back, I asked if those who’d traveled out of state had ever been mistaken for someone from Kentucky? Over half the folks in the room raised their hands.

More recently, I asked a military colleague from Kentucky (who, after a distinguished military career, returned to his home in Western Kentucky) if he’d noticed my accent? The answer was yes, and he also mentioned that Eastern Kentuckians have a somewhat different accent than Western Kentuckians. (Most maps I’ve seen depicting Appalachia split the state of Kentucky in two, with the eastern part falling into Appalachian territory.)

Interestingly, we don’t hear our accent. Suppose that’s natural. In my youth, I went with my family to the coondog field trials every weekend from March through October with several of the larger field trials held annually in Pennsylvania and Ohio. Thus, I was often with folks from the Midwest, and so I suspect my woodsy drawl might’ve been a tad thicker than some from Painted Post, but not by much.

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A creek in Painted Post. (I read that as "creak.")

Welcome to the Northern End of Appalachia

Many have heard of the Appalachian Trail that stretches from Maine at its northernmost to Georgia at its southern end. There’s a sort of bragging rights (and for my way of thinking, rightfully earned) for those who’ve hiked the entire length of this 2,000+ mile trail.

Years later, I began seeing maps on social media of what constituted Appalachia. Some of those maps further subdivided Appalachia into “cultural regions.” Most of these maps defining  Appalachia show a sizeable chunk of Upstate New York, covering the entire Southern Tier, with some maps stretching from Western New York all the way east to Albany. There’s even a town called Apalachin (pronounced “Apple Achin’”) ~60 miles due east of Painted Post. Curiously, I recall one map showing only New York’s  Steuben County (where Painted Post lies) within Appalachian territory.

Here’s a map of Appalachia from Wikipedia (“Appalachia” accessed Mar 15, 2026) that stretches from northern Mississippi through part of Upstate New York.

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A forest trail in Painted Post

So What Do We Sound Like?

There are some linguistic giveaways revealing you’re from this part of Upstate New York. Please understand that I’m not saying these examples are unique to our area when viewed singularly. But taken together, you can narrow down that someone hails from these parts.

For starters, we drop the ‘g’  in ‘ing’ often—e.g., huntin’ or goin’ or teachin’. But we’re not consistent. Sometimes we pronounce the full -ing sound for the very same word. (It’s often where the word falls in a sentence when we start dropping our g’s.) A couple of years ago, I gave a presentation for a copyediting class at a nearby college—Mansfield University in Pennsylvania—where I mentioned this colloquialism. Not surprisingly, one of the students was from Painted Post. Later that semester, she would tell the copyediting class professor, “Mr. Crance was right! We do drop our g’s!”

We’ll say the word ‘creek’ as both sounding like “creak” (like opening a rusty door) and “crick”  (like a pain in your neck). Often, even a named creek (in my mind, I just said the door-hinged version of creek) is said both ways. Case in point, I’ve heard a popular trout stream near Watkins Glen, New York—Catherine’s Creek—pronounced both ways.


We’ll say either “soda” or “pop.”  I have a fond, high school memory of the co-captain of the wrestling team going on a hilarious rant about how you can say ‘soda’ or ‘pop’ but never ‘soda pop.’

Other phrases/pronunciations you’re likely to hear in these parts:

“If’n” –meaning ‘if and when’ (something occurs)

“My” is often pronounced “ma.”

“Reckon” or ‘s’pose” for “suppose.”

In my books (although I’ll admit it might be more common to those who chase ringtails) “raccoon” (like the word ‘deer’) can mean one or more raccoon. Recently, I’ve heard a couple instances of ‘raccoons’ locally, which might reflect changin’ times.

When we say coyote—it’s pronounced “kai oat” –not ‘kai-yo-tee.’ My great Uncle Al, a farmer and incredible woodsman living in the small villa of Shinglehouse, Pennsylvania, consistently enunciated coyote as ‘cuy yoot.’  But he was the only person I ever heard say it that way.

Recently, my Spanish professor at Corning Community College reminded me of another phrase we use locally: “a couple three” which normally means 2-3 of something.

There are many other examples, but hope I’ve made the point.

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All Things Return

Recently, my co-author, Judith “Shanne” Bowie who’s from Louisiana, made a comment on the draft manuscript of A Place Called Painted Post about how some of the (human) characters were speaking: “Do you really talk like that?”

For a moment, Mrs. B’s observation from so long ago about my woodsy drawl rushed back.

Still looking at Shanne’s comment on my computer screen, I smiled and said, “Yes, ma’am. Reckon we do.”

A small swamp on the actual road that inspired the fictional Ryland Creek Road.