More TALES FROM THE PAST. Wilbur Dean

       Alex and Clara Dean Eli and Hazel Ivany

       Dedicated to my parents and parents-in-law

      True Newfoundland English

      It seems that Newfoundlanders have a language all their own. Or should I say that each area of “The Rock” has its own language. There are as many dialects in Newfoundland as there used to be stages on the shoreline. All blended together they make for interesting conversations.

       “Wad-e-at?”

       “Nuttin’.”

       “Got yer praddies sot yet?”

       “Naw. Too much o’ dat friggin’ canka in da groun’, b’y.”

       “Yes b’y. Dat’s fer shoa. Some wedda we’s ‘avin’, ay b’y.”

       “Yes b’y. Yeah. But damarra might be a bit betta. Lard Jeez, b’y. Some starm down dere een da States w’at?”

       “Don’t be talkin’. I spose we’s got a lot ta be t’ankful fer, ey. I’d radda be ‘ere wid no boots ta wea den be down dere gettin’ flooded out like dat all da time.”

      That was a typical Hickman’s Harbour chat. And that conversation was one of the easier ones to eavesdrop on if you were a ‘come from away’ tourist visiting our Fair Isle. Wait ‘til you go to Bunyan’s Cove, Southport, or Ochre Pit Cove!

      So, just for you readers who haven’t mastered our tongue, I’ll try to explain a bit about the linguistics you will encounter while reading my gibberish.

      Now you should understand that some people on ‘The Rock’ have been educated in Proper English, having attended Memorial University of Newfoundland, College of the North Atlantic, Acadia University in Nova Scotia, and the like. It’s among the fishers, loggers, and island dwellers that you might get confused. In my writings I try to emulate the way people speak in a conversation, so some ‘chats’ may need a bit of clarification. Just remember that a school teacher talks much different than the students, especially in old Newfoundland. Same goes for a minister and the members of the congregation: One, a learned scholar; the other, not so much.

      So here are a few guidelines to keep in mind as you read true Newfoundland prose, especially as it pertains to stories from yesteryear.

      In some areas, like down in Bonavista North, people talk rather fast, and it seems that the words run together, like this: “E’sagoin’ out tadaFunk’s.” Translation: He’s going out to the Funk Islands. Or “Waddyaat,” translates to “What are you doing?”

      In most cases th becomes d or dd. At the end of a word er becomes a. So there becomes dere. Father is fadda. Weather becomes wedda. Over there is ova dere.

      In some instances the a is omitted. Again is agin.

      Ing becomes in. Thus going is goin’.

      H is often left out - like in ‘Ickman’s ‘Arbour - or sometimes added - like in Harnold’s Cove.

      You also have to be on the lookout for strange ways of saying things. Like for instance, ‘What are you doing?’ becomes ‘Wad-e-at?’ in one cove, and just across the bay it could be ‘W’atsya doin’?’ or ‘Wassup?’

      There are many other oddities in old Newfoundlande English, Newfoundlanders being a mixed breed of Irish, Scottish, Welsh and English. So throw in a few Portuguese, Norwegians, Frenchmen, and the like and you get a conglomerated figure of speech that is sometimes difficult for the masses to decipher. And it changes from one outport to the next, depending on the ingredients, like making a twenty-one layer cake: if you leave out one layer the texture and taste changes. Now how many different combinations can be made by omitting one, two, or three layers and rearranging them? That is how I would describe Newfoundland dialects.

      Some scholars have tried to make sense of it all, even to the point of writing several books on the subject, but I don’t think they have it down pat yet. Neither do I. But as you read you will figure it out, I am sure. However, if you get too confused, I may be able to help you out. Just message me on my Facebook page, “TALES FROM THE PAST and other drivel”. Or you can e-mail me at [email protected] Enjoy!

      Reversal of Fortune

      There was a time when, if the cupboard was empty, people always had something to fall back on to quell the hunger pangs. Take the last few pennies from the emergency fund and buy a chunk of baloney. We became so accustomed to this meal of offal that eventually it became a staple of the Newfoundland diet. ‘Newfie steak’ graced many a table for breakfast, dinner, or supper. Very cheap, and with a side dish of eggs gathered earlier in the morning, and a few preddies from the cellar, we escaped the fate of ‘Old Mother Hubbard’.

      Sometimes there weren’t any pennies left in the jar, so father had to resort to other means to see that we received the nourishment that our bodies needed. So he boarded the old punt and sculled out along shore to firk out a few lobsters. At that time in our history, lobsters were referred to as ‘the poor man’s meal’. A scavenger that was consumed only in desperate times. A beaver, muskrat, or young seagull also makes for a fine dining experience after the stomach has been growling for an extended period of time.

      Everyone had a few sheep and hens, so mutton and chicken were almost always available as a source of protein., but it had to be spared along. The hungry month of March could be torturous if you squandered your food supply too early in the winter. Then you’d have to go on the dole, a situation that most proud fathers abhorred . My father filled the money pouch by working with the A.N.D. Company in the ‘lumberwoods’ during the winter months, and when spring thaw put a halt to that he often odjobbed at Rube’s or Willie George’s or Newfoundland Hardwoods. Sometimes he was lucky enough to get a couple of weeks working on the local road improvement projects. Anything to get a stamp in the book to qualify for UI benefits. $29 every two weeks. All this in spite of the fact that he was born with a heart defect that eventually led to his death at the ripe old age of fifty-nine.

      Most families had a quintel or two of cod and turbot salted away, a few skivers of capelin and a good many bottles of cold packed rabbit and turres, along with home preserves of bakeapples, blueberries, rhubarb and partridgeberries to spread on a slice of bread, be it toasted or not. That, along with a cellar full of vegetables, a barrel of salt beef and fatback, a bag of beans, a keg of lassey, and several sacks of Robin Hood flour would get us through until spring.

      Then ‘twas frenzy time again, preparing for the next long, hard winter. All summer long our bodies were nourished with fresh fish and meat as we set the gardens and filled the hay loft. Shear the sheep, fill the woodhouse, harvest kelp and capelin fer the gardens: trench the preddies, jig a few squid, set the trawl, fill the cellar; father had little time fer rest and relaxation. Except on Sunday. The sabbath was always a time to replenish the body and soul, and to Praise God From Whom All Blessings Flow. Sunday afternoon would find him lying on the daybed, totally engrossed in a Zane Grey western novel. Monday morning comes way too soon.

      So there you have it. The conditions were sometimes harsh, but the rewards were great. Bologna, lobster, leg of lamb, breast of chicken, organic vegetables and condiments, hormone free meats and fish, and fresh homemade bread to boot. The one thing that we missed out on was the crab. The lowly crab, a scourge for gill netters, beaten to a pulp to get ‘em detangled from the nets. A caviar moment passed those fishermen by, that’s fer sure.

      Mother had her trials and tribulations as well. She worked her fingers to the bone to keep her family safe and secure. She made the bread, set the table, washed the dishes, scrubbed the laundry and the canvas, carded the wool, knit the guernseys, and tended the stable, made the beds