It's a bublah, ya chowdahed !
About a year ago I walked into the Dunkin' Donuts in Jaffrey and habitually ordered a large coffee. By habitually, I mean I was barely awake and when asked how I would like my beverage prepared I said, “Double. Double.”
The person serving me gave me a deadpan stare and blinked a few times like a Looney Tunes cartoon character before I realized I wasn’t in a Tim Horton’s coffee shop in Thunder Bay, Ontario.
I rarely make that mistake now, and I smile for a reason that is no longer secret, when I say, “Two cream. Two sugah.”
Settling down in any region, one is subject to slowly adapting naturally to local speech patterns. Apparently, I’m no exception to the influence of geographical linguistics.
Three years ago I was in Keene and referred to my PT Cruiser as “my Kah.”. It was an out of body experience. I recall looking upward quizzically as if asking myself, “Did I really just say that?”
Since moving to New Hampshire the missus has noticed that I’ve dropped the typical Anglophone Quebecker nasal inflections of dees, dat, dair, dem, doz, and the famous central Ontarian eh. They seem to have been eliminated and replaced subconsciously for the occasional use of shooah, supah, awnt , chowdah, lawga, rawtha, retahded and huh. She has also noticed that the maple leafed idiosyncrasies return to my speech patterns for a few days after I’ve visited with friends and family from nord of the bord. I actually chuckle when I hear myself saying, “You know what I mean dair, eh?”
I admit that there were a few charming colloquialisms that twisted my head to a slight angle like a confused puppy when I first settled in New Hampshire. I quickly adjusted to prevalent expressions such as all set, wicked smaht and wicked pissah.
I also get a kick out of the regional consonant cluster simplification involved with pronouncing the names of certain towns, particularly in Massachusetts. Think about it.“Woostah” is not remotely close phonetically to Worcester.
I’ve actually had someone put their hand on my shoulder and sternly tell me that if I was going to live in N’Hampshah it would be best if I did not say Lebanon when talking about Lebanon. “It’s Lebanun,” they said. An apologetic guilt filled my reply when I said, “Point taken.” The individual nodded affirmatively and as he walked away I filed the lesson into the Rolodex of my mind along with Aubehn, Buhlin Conkud, Canwhey, and Nashuar.
It seems that every day I have a sociolinquistic clash with a young fellow from Maine. An example of this daily exchange would be:
Canadian: Hey Andy! Where are you keeping the new solid surface blades?
Yankee: Huh?
Canadian: Eh?
Yankee: Huh?
Canadian: Eh!
Yankee: (rude commonly used foul expression)
Canadian: Take off, eh! Ya knob!
One day I may attempt to clarify the history and cultural significance of the stereotypical association of the term “Eh” with Canada. Trust me, explaining all of the subtle nuances involving its usage would be comparable to a doctorate dissertation that would make Noam Chomsky’s etymological “Tower of Babel”an easy read.
In case you are wondering I have never been heard to say, “Aboot.”
Now that I live in New Hampshire I eat chili dogs, not michigans, grindahs, not subs, and gyros not yeerohs. I put jimmies on my ice cream, not sprinkles. I’ve traded poutine for cheese fries, and goolash for chop suey. I drink a sodah instead of a soft drink. I go to Mickey-Dees not MacDohs. I cut the grass instead of mowing the lawn. I put the trash out instead of throwing out my garbage. I use a bathroom instead of the washroom. I deal with roundabouts instead of traffic circles. I no longer take a left. I bang a left. I don’t floor it. I book it. My turning lights are blinkkahs. My balcony is a veranda. My chesterfield has turned into a couch. And my touque has become a woolen hat.
Who would have thought that a canuck like myself, who grew up eating backbacon, would have to move to the United States to eat Canadian bacon?
I just thank gawd that we chose Peterborough instead of Bahstan. Who wants to put up with all of the ghakhablahkhas?
Yahuh!
thanks for the chuckle
I'm originally from New York, Westchester County, but was transplanted here more than 30 years ago (has it really been that long already!). I still say dawg and warsh that never fail to make my children laugh, but have otherwise adopted much of the Yankee speech.
I remember when I was living at home with my parents how easily my mother fell back into the New York speech pattern after she'd been talking with her sister who still lived there. It always reminded me of where we came from and the differences in communication between two places that really aren't all that far apart.
For the longest time my mom made fun of the word Woostah as well. She was immediately corrected the first time she tried to say it the way a New Yorker would say it, Warrchester. We love our r's and w's in New York.
I have to laugh...
To see there's a "Chowdaheadz.com" advertisement at the bottom of the blogs page. How ironic.
Well Friends, it will be an interesting next couple years in "Waarshington!" LOL!
Thanks for the fun blog, Brian.
Brian,
Thanks for the laughs, that was great! I was born and raised in Northern New Jersey, so I have an accent that is very distinct and well a bit, umm, loud. My accent always catches the attention of the New England natives. They either find it annoying (in a whinning Brooklyn/Jewish lady kinda' way) or cute (in a "I am talking to a real live Jersey Girl kinda' way)
In Jersey we eat hot dawgs (not chili dogs but rather, how dawgs 'all the way') and we drink cawfee. It's a sub not a grinder or hero. No evening out at the bar is complete without a trip to the 24-hour diner for fries with cheese an' gravy. Breakfast on the run is always a hard roll with butta or Taylor Ham, egg and cheese on a hard roll. We have bagels, the real ones! When we hang outside, we sit on a stoop (not a step or a porch). We watch footbawl and basebawl. More importantly we don't understand....we capiche!
We do tend to curse a bit, can handle a roundabout with only one hand on the wheel, we know what a jug handle is on the highway, and the state bird is the middle finger, no doubtaboudit! But us Jersey folk aren't as rude and crude as people claim. We are actually just 'too funny'!
You capiche?
~Tracy M