his ashes sprinkled on this loch back tha in Scotland. So his day did come.”
She walks her guest towards the mantelpiece where an urn stands. Pauses, then gives a conspiratorial wink and says, “Thaas the bastard—I’ve got him now.”
It is no wonder we are the way we are. By the standards of the land my family’s stories are nothing exceptional, not by a long shot. But my personal mythology includes mine cave-ins, race riots, the carnage of Vimy Ridge and strike breakers riding down innocent people in thestreets. It includes murderers and heroes, wondrous athletes and monumental drunks, geniuses and idiots, the pious and the profane.
Then there are the words. They matter, for they are the way we deliver the myths and stories of our world into day-to-day life. Language marks Nova Scotia, a modern-day Tower of Babel where a traveller will hear Gaelic, French, English and German within a couple of hours. When all those dissonant sounds mix together the result can be truly startling—weird words that carry a world of meaning in the slightest inflection and volumes of social history in a single phrase.
Lewis Poteet, an English professor from Montreal who summered on the South Shore, was so fascinated with the jumble of words and phrases there that he began to collect and study them. Eventually he published a South Shore phrase book, which makes a great read. If, for instance, you drive around Mahone Bay you may hear someone called a
semiquibber
(idiot) or
flutterbug
(easily excitable). You may hear someone refer to
gurry
(waste from cleaning fish) or a
lambkiller
(a severe, sudden March storm). You may hear somebody talk about
moger
(wretched),
forelaying
(expecting), being
swonked
(exhausted) or
iglish
(grouchy). When people from the
real
South Shore get wound up they might blurt
holy snappin’ assholes, gookemole, holy old twist, kroppy doppy, hold your pickle
or
by the rattly-eyed Jesus
. An older man might call a younger one
old son
and a young, green hired hand might be called
nubbins
. If they think a fuss is being made over something unimportant they might call it
a fart in a windstorm
. If they doubtwhat you are saying their response might be
I’ll tow that one alongside for a bit before I bring it aboard
. An unattractive person might be called
homely as a stump fence
, a drunk is all
snapped up
, someone with a big butt is
three axehandles across the ass
. And the warning
Don’t stick out your bruddle at me, you’ll be mootsen someplace else
means you’re in deep shit.
Words still matter around here. This is a society where the keepers of the stories—the tribal elders—are still revered. One morning, I made an appointment to see Joe Casey, the MLA from Digby, a prosperous fishing village in the Bay of Fundy, who seems happy to talk to a visitor even if he has no idea what I wanted. His office is in a hideous little strip mall on the way into town. Casey, who is seventy-seven, turns out to be a jolly, gentlemanly Bay of Fundy Mark Twain. He wears a navy blazer and one of those Zorba the Greek fishing captain’s hats and sits at a desk amidst the memorabilia from his varied career, the stories rolling off his lips like pearls. Quite a résumé: six times elected to the Nova Scotia legislature, World War Two naval officer, fisherman, fishplant operator, steamship pilot, raconteur. No great statesman, as a politician his contribution could be best summed up by a bill he tabled:
MISTER JOSEPH CASEY: Mr. Speaker, I hereby give notice that on a future day I shall move the adoption of the following resolution:
Whereas Frankland Theriault of Weymouth has been ordered by the Egg Marketing Board to keep no more than 499 hens; andWhereas the stores in Digby area have been threatened with prosecution if they continue to sell his product; and
Whereas Mr. Theriault is semi-retired due to a heart condition; and
Whereas he is asking only that he be allowed to continue for two years in the business, to allow him
She walks her guest towards the mantelpiece where an urn stands. Pauses, then gives a conspiratorial wink and says, “Thaas the bastard—I’ve got him now.”
It is no wonder we are the way we are. By the standards of the land my family’s stories are nothing exceptional, not by a long shot. But my personal mythology includes mine cave-ins, race riots, the carnage of Vimy Ridge and strike breakers riding down innocent people in thestreets. It includes murderers and heroes, wondrous athletes and monumental drunks, geniuses and idiots, the pious and the profane.
Then there are the words. They matter, for they are the way we deliver the myths and stories of our world into day-to-day life. Language marks Nova Scotia, a modern-day Tower of Babel where a traveller will hear Gaelic, French, English and German within a couple of hours. When all those dissonant sounds mix together the result can be truly startling—weird words that carry a world of meaning in the slightest inflection and volumes of social history in a single phrase.
Lewis Poteet, an English professor from Montreal who summered on the South Shore, was so fascinated with the jumble of words and phrases there that he began to collect and study them. Eventually he published a South Shore phrase book, which makes a great read. If, for instance, you drive around Mahone Bay you may hear someone called a
semiquibber
(idiot) or
flutterbug
(easily excitable). You may hear someone refer to
gurry
(waste from cleaning fish) or a
lambkiller
(a severe, sudden March storm). You may hear somebody talk about
moger
(wretched),
forelaying
(expecting), being
swonked
(exhausted) or
iglish
(grouchy). When people from the
real
South Shore get wound up they might blurt
holy snappin’ assholes, gookemole, holy old twist, kroppy doppy, hold your pickle
or
by the rattly-eyed Jesus
. An older man might call a younger one
old son
and a young, green hired hand might be called
nubbins
. If they think a fuss is being made over something unimportant they might call it
a fart in a windstorm
. If they doubtwhat you are saying their response might be
I’ll tow that one alongside for a bit before I bring it aboard
. An unattractive person might be called
homely as a stump fence
, a drunk is all
snapped up
, someone with a big butt is
three axehandles across the ass
. And the warning
Don’t stick out your bruddle at me, you’ll be mootsen someplace else
means you’re in deep shit.
Words still matter around here. This is a society where the keepers of the stories—the tribal elders—are still revered. One morning, I made an appointment to see Joe Casey, the MLA from Digby, a prosperous fishing village in the Bay of Fundy, who seems happy to talk to a visitor even if he has no idea what I wanted. His office is in a hideous little strip mall on the way into town. Casey, who is seventy-seven, turns out to be a jolly, gentlemanly Bay of Fundy Mark Twain. He wears a navy blazer and one of those Zorba the Greek fishing captain’s hats and sits at a desk amidst the memorabilia from his varied career, the stories rolling off his lips like pearls. Quite a résumé: six times elected to the Nova Scotia legislature, World War Two naval officer, fisherman, fishplant operator, steamship pilot, raconteur. No great statesman, as a politician his contribution could be best summed up by a bill he tabled:
MISTER JOSEPH CASEY: Mr. Speaker, I hereby give notice that on a future day I shall move the adoption of the following resolution:
Whereas Frankland Theriault of Weymouth has been ordered by the Egg Marketing Board to keep no more than 499 hens; andWhereas the stores in Digby area have been threatened with prosecution if they continue to sell his product; and
Whereas Mr. Theriault is semi-retired due to a heart condition; and
Whereas he is asking only that he be allowed to continue for two years in the business, to allow him
Similar Books
