My next book for Islandport Press is going to be about New Hampshire language, those special sayings we have, town and place names of interest, words we use but people in other parts of the country might not, and, of course our particular pronunciations. Truth is, we pronounce things differently in Berlin than we do in Barrington or Seabrook. That is, the accent varies by region even within the state. Seabrook has a language unto itself that dates back to Olde England.
The other day, a lady said she didn’t realize N.H. people had an accent. She’s lived here all her life and never had one. Course, Massachusetts, Maine, and Vermont people all talk funny. Then she told me her name: Normer (spelled Norma) Pilcha (spelled Pilcher).
Normer Pilcha, Tiner Turna, Aniter Baka – we don’t hear our own accents sometimes.
But I’ve been listening. To myself. To my family. To folks up at the Hannaford. I heard:
Enufa = as in “That’s enufa that behavior, young man. You switch Dad’s toothpaste with his Preparation H again and he’s gonna be some pissed.”
Some pissed = as in, not as pissed as the time you run the snowmobile into the four-wheeler, but slightly more pissed than when you drank the last of the Lactaid so he had nothing but orange juice to put on his corn flakes in the morning. It goes like this. Level 1 = pissed. Level 2 = some pissed. Level 3 = wicked pissed.
Got examples to add to the list? I’d love some. It’s hard to write a book one word at a time and I’ve only got until September.
FYI, my maiden name was Barker. I grew up introducing myself this way: “I’m Becky Bahka” then spelling it out, B-A-R-K-E-R.
One time in college I called Professor Yount and said I was Becky Bahka. He said: “Do I know you?” I said, “I’m in your creative writing class.” He said, “No you’re not.” I said, “I am.” He said, “There’s only seven people in that class. How do you spell your name? I said, “B-E-C-K-Y B-A-R-K-E-R.” He said, “Oh, Becky, what can I do for you?”
The picture of the pasty-faced guy smiling from the deck of the bungalow in St Martin struck a chord with me. With two feet of snow on the ground and Punxutawney Phil found frozen in his burrow, I yearn for the golden sun and balmy breezes of the Caribbean. Curses on the impotent dollar! Maybe next year.
Posted by: John Rule | February 25, 2009 at 08:12 PM