Speak to me

As Canadians, we never think about our accents, in fact, us Prairie folk don't believe we have one. I have gone on my hazy way for years enjoying Scottish, Irish and British accents when I heard one, always trying to imitate them, quite unsuccessfully. We all love to speak to people from Eastern Canada and delight in their Maritime brogue but as Flatlanders we think our accents are as plain as the plaines from which we hail.

My oblivious attitude has been shattered since moving from country to country. In Asia, I was regularly asked where I was from, however, I put that down to Asian curiosity about expats and me towering above them. You would think in America, I could fool them into thinking I belong; not the case.

If I had a Loonie for every time I am asked, "Hon, where are y'all from?" I would have enough to buy a grande, toffee nut, caramel, white mocha frappucchino, double blended with no whip, and extra chocolate drizzle from that ubiquitous coffee shop on every corner, a couple times a week.

"I am from down the road, I live in North Dallas," is usually my dry answer because I don't want to get into the discussion for the 4,000th time in any given week. "Nope, I am sure I detect an unusual accent," they insist on pursuing this line of questioning.  "Imma gunna say you are from that land down under, ya know, in Australia."

She is not from OZ, but we are.

It isn't as though I walk around throwing shrimp on the barbie and saying, "G'day mate," with a bad Crocodile Dundee cadence. I have no idea why they assume I speak with an Aussie accent but Canada is always the last place they guess; in reality, they never guess Canada because I tire long before the answer has a chance to arrive. It is as if the people in the South have not heard of The Great White North.

It never occurred to me that we say things differently being the only give away. There are several words that always have a response of, "Oh, Canadian, eh?" We say "pop" and they ask you if you want a supersized, four gallon soda with your breakfast. Canadians say PRO-ject and PRO-gress; Americans insist on PRAW-gress and PRAW-ject along with their CRAW-dads and mudbugs, instead of shrimps and lobsters.

Once they figure out my nationality, the jokes surrounding "oot and aboot," start to fly. I am pretty sure, I have never said, "I am just oot and aboot so I'll be dere da rackley," with my apologies to Newfoundland. I now make it my mission to exaggerate saying these words because it seems to delight the Y'Alls. When I take in my first Texas Rangers ball game, I am going to sing, "Take me OOT to the ballgame," as boisterously as possible.

How can you not love NOLA?

I had the great fortune to take a quick trip to New Orleans, recently. It was one of the most interesting places I have been, but even more so, were the people. I was completely charmed by their Yat, Southern and Cajun drawls all rolled into one. They seem to take even more pleasure in how I spoke. We could have stood there all day telling the other how delightful we sounded to the other.

"I love the way you speak."

"No, I love the way you speak." It was a love-in.

.

I have been instructed by Daughter #1 when I return to Canada, I had better not pick up south-of-the-border speak. I have to admit I have said, "Y'all" a few times, and I know I say it in my head even more. I am picking up the local colloquialisms, also known as Souther'isms such as, "Grinning like a possum eating a sweet potato," and my all time favorite, "I am busier than a moth in a mitten."

Where do you come from?

When Son #1 visited, I sent him on a mission in a large department store. "Lookie, go find some men's gitch, gotch, gonch, gitchies, gotchies or gonchies for me to buy you." If you aren't from the Prairies, you may not know these slangs commonly known as boxers but they are near and dear to our hearts. I have no clue what Luc really asked for when he hit the men's department because I was too busy hauling my girl's parcels to worry about his shopping excursion.

Luc returned empty handed and when questioned, he told me the sales associate said, "Well bless your heart Sugar, but what I think you are looking for is in the men's under essential area. I took that to mean a polite southern way to say, "tightie whities," or "undies."

You would think with us all speaking English, it would be simple to understand one another, but I find myself saying, "Excuse me, pardon me, sorry," more often lately. I guess that is a sign of old age, but until I pick up on the lingo, I will continue to baffle them when I say "zee," as "zed."

No excuse me, I have a Zed Zed Top concert to take in.