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The Citizen, 2007-09-13, Page 5THE CITIZEN, THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 2007. PAGE 5. Bonnie Gropp TThhee sshhoorrtt ooff iitt Another place and time Every Saturday morning, I ease out of bed at five a.m., gently close the bedroom door and tiptoe down to the kitchen to hunch over the countertop radio. With my eyes on the kitchen clock and the volume turned down to a whisper, I listen to the last of the CBC newscast. The announcer signs off. There’s a little sting of music and then…the words I’ve been waiting to hear. “G’dye. Moi nyme iz Mick O’Regan and thiz…iz The Sboats Vectuh.” It’s a program about sporting news from Down Under. In English it would be called The Sports Factor, but it’s coming from the Australian Broadcasting Corporation and Mick is an Aussie jock, so it comes out ‘Sboats Vectuh’. The English language has undergone some merry and marvelous mutations as it percolated across the planet over the past few centuries. It’s put forth blooms as various as Louisiana lilt and Highland burr, Hindu singsong and Ottawa Valley twang – but there is no English variant quite so ear-clangingly ‘stroiking’ as the Australian dialect. Or ‘Orstrylian’ to pronounce it properly. Most people just call it ‘Strine’, and if you ever find yourself between two Ozlanders with a two-four of Fosters chatting in their mother tongue you may doubt that what you’re hearing has any connection to English whatsoever. Australians have been pummeling the Queen’s English ever since those first shiploads of deported British criminals got frog-marched ashore in Botany Bay back in the 1700s. There’s still a strong hint of Dickensian Cockney in the language that comes out of an Australian’s gob. As for when it became known as Strine, that’s tough to pin down, but it might have been one afternoon in a bookstore in Sydney back in 1964 when British author Monica Dickens (a great-granddaughter, coinciden- tally enough, of Charles Dickens) was signing copies of her latest book for her fans. A dour- looking lady approached Ms Dickens with a copy of the book in hand. “Would you like me to autograph that for you, Miss….?” inquired the author pleasantly. “Emma Chissett,” the fan replied. Odd name, thought Ms Dickens, but she took the book, opened it to the flyleaf and wrote “To Emma Chissett, with sincere best wishes”, then signed it with a flourish. She handed the book back to the woman. She wouldn’t take it. “Emma Chissett,” she said again. Which was when the ha’penny dropped for Monica Dickens. The woman wasn’t saying her name. She was asking “How much is it?” — in Strine. It can be very confusing. If somebody came up to you and announced: “Chair congeal et baked necks.” – you might be tempted to send for the white-coated gents carrying butterfly nets. Relax. It’s just a Striner telling you that “Jack and Jill ate bacon and eggs.” Once your ear becomes attuned you will certainly hear semantic constructions you’d never hear anywhere else. When searching for an expression of mild disbelief, a Canadian might say “Imagine that!” or “My goodness!” A Strine speaker will exclaim “Starve the lizards!” Or “Stone the crows!” A Striner would never be content with merely stating that something was in short supply. He would dub it “as rare as rocking horse poop.” Some Strine expressions make eminent, if colourful, sense. What’s Strine for throwing up? A technicolour yawn. How do you say someone is kind of…lame? “As useless as a chocolate teapot.” Then there are the expressions that only make sense if you were born in the land of kangaroos, koalas and duck-billed platypuses. Try to take advantage of an Australian and you’re liable to find yourself being lifted off the ground by a fist at your throat and a nasty voice growling “Don’t come the raw prawn with me, bucko!” Don’t come the raw prawn??? What the hell could that possibly mean? Beats me, but once he sets you back down you could lay a classic Aussie curse on him: “I hope your chooks turn into emus and kick your dunny down!” Don’t ask me what that means either. Ask Emma Chissett. Arthur Black Parties making big mistakes It was a great day to be in the country. A gentle breeze kept the bugs and humidity away. The sun intermittently poked its face from behind cottonball clouds to grace us with its blazing smile. Waiting outside the circle of conversation, I unconsciously stroked the head of the family pet, who nuzzled affectionately against my leg. Lulled by the quiet and calm, the mind emptied and the soul revived. Moving my gaze across the open spaces I am enchanted by a scene and the sense of the surreal is complete. Recently relatives extended an invitation to my grandson and me to visit an Amish farm. Arriving in the afternoon of a perfect summer day, we met our hosts, and made our way to the barn. Once inside, the sounds, sights and smells of all things rural assailed the senses. The snuffling, snorts and squeals of the pigs, not to mention the unique fragrance that accompanies them, was culture shock for my little town boy. But, a typical kid, he soon settled in to the experience and a brief time later had discovered the wonders of the hay mow. Me? I just kicked back and enjoyed the show. The middle generation had made an appearance. The young father and mother, who were in their mid- to late 20s, had five children, up to the age of 10. Gulp! Yet, their smiles were constant and easy. I was struck, and in no small way impressed, by how content they seemed. There was such an unhurried, relaxed approach in their attitude, I just couldn’t help feeling a little envious. While the urban kids re-discovered their imaginations and the wonders that exist beyond Game Boys and cable TV, across the road a group of Amish children were engaged in an exciting game of baseball. Our young hosts dashed barefoot across the gravel lane, aped a monkey in their agile climb to the mow and smiled in pleasant bemusement at their experimenting visitors. It was surprisingly idyllic, and got me thinking about other places and other times, when I was a young girl playing with the same abandon as this group. My cousin and I jumped from the mow, we saddled up the stalls and ‘rode’ our horses through imagined fields of clover. We followed the ditch looking for tadpoles. We tasted foods fresh from the earth and off the tree. Fun was outdoors, not in front of a computer or television. The slam of the screen door heralded our separation from the grownup world each day. No one asked our plans or checked on where we’d be. Play wasn’t interrupted by phone calls; meals and washroom breaks took only as long as necessary. Even chores we were given to do were fun. And baths and bedtime never came before sunset. All of these memories came flooding back to me under the skies of that recent beautiful day. Then from the corner of my eye, that scene I mentioned earlier. A young girl, tight braids hanging down her back, neat in her well- pressed dress and pinafore was running through the field, nothing but space and nature around her. The image didn’t just exude light- heartedness, it seemed to halt the modern world and everything in it. For a few minutes it was easy to imagine a door to the past had opened and invited us inside. And I was amazed to discover there was a part of me wishing I could go for awhile. Other Views So, do you speak strine? Ontario’s Oct. 10 election is being shaped by two huge mistakes made by the parties who are the main contenders for government. The first was Progressive Conservative leader John Tory’s promise to fund faith-based private schools, which has provoked a crusade against further dividing children and will cost his party many votes. The second is Liberal Premier Dalton McGuinty’s plan to designate a day in February as a statutory holiday with pay. This is such a frivolous gimmick many will feel insulted he feels their votes can be bought so cheaply, and find it difficult to believe the Liberals are seriously concerned about real issues. As a result they will lose a lot of respect. McGuinty said the holiday, called Family Day, would come at time of year when winters are getting onerous and hard-working Ontarians need a break. Finance Minister Greg Sorbara added that governments have talked about designating an extra winter holiday for years and this was the time to act. Neither had any figures on the cost, but there is no free lunch. A day off with pay is something employers, who mostly are in the private sector, will have to pay for and many in an expected economic slowdown will find this hard to do. The province will pay public servants to be off, although around the legislature complex it looks like some do not do enough work in a day for them to be missed anyway. The bureaucrats already get an extra paid day off compared to most workers in the private sector, Remembrance Day, supposedly to honour those who gave their lives in wars. This is an admirable aim, but it is doubtful one in 10 attends any services. Most spend the day raking the garden or watching TV. Sorbara is exaggerating claiming governments have pondered designating another day off for years. Individual backbenchers have suggested it at times, but not with the backing of their parties, and McGuinty has never said a word on it. It also is not something the public has begged for. A strong minority, as shown by recent by-elections, would be more interested in an increase in the $8-an-hour minimum wage, which would be more justified because it is barely adequate to survive on, but which the Liberals say business cannot afford. The Liberal strategists clearly felt offering a day off for all would be more novel and upbeat, and attract more attention and appeal to more voters. But there also is a danger in it for the Liberals. They have regained the lead in polls close to the level they need to retain their majority, because of fears about Tory’s support for faith- based schools and a succession of low-profile promises they have made costing a total $26 billion. The Liberals’ promises have included more funds for schools and hospitals, hiring more police, planting trees as part of their green program and preserving historic buildings. The Liberals filled a lot of holes and climbed in the polls without unveiling any single, dramatic program that attracted a lot of attention. Parties normally steer clear of pulling dramatic new policies out of the hat late in campaigns and this one has been running since the spring to avoid giving the impression they are becoming desperate and will do anything to win. The best example of what happened when a premier offered a dramatic new policy late in a campaign was when David Peterson, the last Liberal premier, trying to hold on, promised to lower the provincial sales tax from 8 to 7 per cent only two weeks from the end of the 1990 campaign. Voters felt it was a last-ditch attempt to buy their support and Peterson could not even win his own seat. McGuinty by offering voters a day off if they vote for him has started to look as if he will do anything to win. People may wonder what he will offer them next. Perhaps a free night playing the province’s slot machines? 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