What do “blue million,” “a mess,” and “forty’leven” have in common?  They are all expressions of quantity, which, if not Southern in origin, certainly have gained at least something of a foothold here.

     Your compiler’s up-country South Carolina-bred wife, one of the kindest and gentlest people on earth, was recently rather irritated with someone who seemed unable to do anything but come up with excuses.  She remarked to your compiler that the individual in question “has a blue million reasons why it can’t be done and won’t listen to any arguments for why it can be and should be.”  

     In thirty-six years of marriage, he has heard her use the phrase “blue million” regularly if not often, and recently began to wonder where the phrase came from.  A brief internet search led to less-than-elucidating results, so all your compiler can really say is that it sounds to him like an idiomatic expression a Southerner would have come up with.  Any reader with differing information, please comment.

      A “mess” is a quantity one picks in the garden and brings in the house to can, or else gives to a friend or family member.  Nothing is better than a mess of peas, or squash, or okra, and as far as your compiler knows, the term can be used for all vegetables.  Your compiler has never heard of a mess of apples, pears, peaches, blackberries, or blueberries, all of which grow in his area, so he supposes the term’s usage is limited to the veggie kingdom.

     How much is a mess?  Roughly a sack full.  If you are talking about a mess of turnip, mustard, or collard greens, a standard brown paper grocery sack full is about the right quantity.   For a mess of squash, cucumbers, or tomatoes, probably one of today’s ubiquitous smaller plastic grocery sacks is about right.  So obviously, a mess is not any set poundage or volume.  It simply denotes a good, family-sized portion.     So on this 29^th day of May, 2025, your compiler will close by noting that the pollen count is down from the blue million level of a month and a half ago, and by stating that he would dearly love a mess of fresh garden tomatoes about now – peeled, thinly sliced, salted, and peppered, of course.  But it is liable to be forty’leven more days  before he need even think about getting a halfway decent Celebrity, Rutgers, or Better Boy.