The Wonderful World of English

I've lived and worked in six wonderful countries so far - Australia, Ireland, Scotland, Ukraine, Germany and Canada.

One thing that really, really fascinates me is the way that people use English to communicate.  Whether they're native speakers talking to other native speakers, native speakers talking to non-native speakers, or non-native speakers talking to non-native speakers, time and time again I hear so many new ways of using and expressing something in English.

When I first moved to Ukraine, the employees in my company kept referring to setting up the 'beamer' for meetings.  'Is this some cheery person who organises meetings?' I wondered. Before long, I realised that a 'beamer' is just a 'projector'.  Well, it does literally beam an image onto a screen, so I could easily see how the word came about.  Until I moved to Germany, I thought it was just a Ukrainian English word.  Then before very long, I heard Germans referring to beamers when speaking in English, too.  It seems that the word 'beamer' has become an international English word - a word not necessarily used in this way by 'native' speakers, but used and easily understood by 'non-native' speakers.

Even as a native speaker, I've had plenty of interesting and funny moments trying to communicate with other native English speakers, whether it's because of language differences or even accents.  My most embarrassingly amusing memory is of the 2009 Canadian National Exhibition (CNE) in Toronto.  It was a busy day of walking round all the exhibits, watching Rob tackle the scary rides (no way will you catch me on rollercoasters!) and getting drenched on the relatively safe waterlog ride (see picture below).  After all this, I was desperate for a cup of tea and trotted over to the nearest stand to order some.

'May I have a cup of tea, please?' I asked the girl behind the counter, smiling politely.
'Sorry?' she replied.
'May I have a cup of tea, please?' I repeated, feeling in my pocket for some loose change.
'I'm sorry, what do you want?' she asked, with a slightly puzzled expression.
'Some tea.  I'd like a cup of tea.  Please.''

The girl looked at me for a few seconds and then turned to her colleague.
'I don't understand what she's saying.  Can you ask her?'

The colleague duly enquired as to what I wanted, and then quickly went to fetch my tea.

The problem - the at-the-time very embarrassing problem, was simply to do with accent.  The server spoke with a higher-pitched, more nasally accent, whereas mine tends to be more British in sound.  Clearly not having much experience with different accents, the poor girl was baffled when her ears tried to interpret the sounds I was making into an English she could understand.

Rob and I speak 'different' types of English, which even after a long time together, can still sometimes lead to confusing or funny moments.  I spent a lot of time in Ireland, so words such as 'press' (cupboard), 'eejit' (idiot), 'feck' (f*ck) and 'craick' (pron: 'crack' = gossip / news) are part of my daily vocabulary.  At first, Rob had to learn by questioning or by association what I meant, and now I'm often secretly pleased to hear him using these words, too (''Get out of the press, you fecking eejit!'' is something I once heard him bellowing at one of our cats!!)

Now that I'm living in Canada, a whole new English vocabulary is opening itself up to me.  Heading into winter, we had to order two cords of wood to keep the house warm during the colder months.  I hadn't a clue what a 'cord' of wood was, let alone two cords, until internet research revealed that 1 cord = 128 cubic feet, which is a pile of wood approximately 4 feet high x 4 feet wide x 8 feet long (see http://www.woodheat.org/firewood/cord.htm and http://www.ic.gc.ca/eic/site/mc-mc.nsf/eng/lm03963.html for a more professional explanation!)

Soon after I arrived here, someone mentioned to me that anyone not from Nova Scotia is referred to by the locals as a 'CFA' (which stands for 'Come From Away)!

Check back with me in a few months - I'm sure I'll have a few more words to add to the list!

by Christy

Poor Puddy and Nurse Christy

Our eldest cat Saturn is 14 years old.  Some might say that's old for a cat, but boy is this cat spry.  Especially when food is involved.

I've never met a cat with an appetite like Saturn's.  When I first came into Rob's life, she was a somewhat overindulged puddy with a porky belly to show for it.  Far from worrying about her waistline, as many a female reasonably would, Saturn gave the appearance of being rather proud of her figure and the constant flow of tidbits coming her way from the 'Alpha Cat' (as Rob likes to call himself).  Her smug attitude seemed to announce: 'Hey, I'm the woman in this man's life.  I ain't going anywhere, lady.  I've seen off women before you and I'll be here to wave off any woman after you.  Get used to it - and don't even THINK about trying to change him.  Or... you'll have me to deal with!'

Unfortunately for her, I'm not a woman who is overly-threatened by the machinations of would-be rivals.  Unfortunately for me, I did have to realise pretty quickly that if I wanted to maintain my top female position in Rob's life, I'd have to learn to quietly accommodate Saturn's dominance in the household and come up with a way to get her into shape without getting my eyes scratched out.

Cue regular meal times, higher quality cat food but smaller portions.  Luckily, the entrance of an additional cat in our household meant that treats had to be divided amongst three demanding felines.  Soon enough, Saturn's sleek round belly was reduced to more reasonable proportions.  And, as the chief cat feeder in our home, she too had to learn that if she wanted to be fed, she had better be nice to me.  An uneasy, workable rivalry was formed.

Her begging-for-food meow (it sounds like 'meh' and is the most pathetic, desperate sound you'll ever hear) drives me nuts.  As soon as someone even thinks about the kitchen, she'll dash between your legs and start begging for something to eat.  As far as I've witnessed, there's very little she won't beg for and hoover down her sleek little throat.  Asparagus and Hollandaise Sauce?  No problem.  Ice-cream?  Mmmm.  Creamed corn?  Bring it on!  Bloody fat pig. 

And, when she's not eating, she's sleeping - no doubt recovering her energy after so much guzzling.  Bloody fat lazy pig.

Not so long ago, I woke up early as per usual to our youngest cat pouncing on my head.  This is his way of waking me up so they can be fed and let outside.  I'm pretty sure Saturn taught him this trick, but the sly 'Chief Lady Cat' (as a German friend calls her) is usually well out of visual range when I'm spluttering over being awoken this way.

On this particular day, I stumbled downstairs and prepared the three bowls as per usual.  Only, no Saturn was to be seen.  Now, this was so unusual that I instantly knew something was wrong.  Heading back into the living room (and ignoring the outraged meows of Jack and Shika), I found Satty in her usual cat bed by the fire.  Unusually, she didn't react when I called out 'Breakfast!'.  After inspecting her for a few seconds, I gently picked her up.  She was completely listless and unresponsive.  Immediately, I began to fear the worst. I was equally worried about Rob's reaction, as well as what was to be done.

We sat with her for a few minutes, with her head lolled weakly on my shoulder.  With tears in my eyes, I looked over at Rob and we urgently discussed what to do.  With Saturn in this state and with the nearest vet being a good 20-minute drive away, we were reluctant to put her through the car journey unless it was unavoidable.  We found that she would take a few licks of cream off my finger and so, braced by this positive sign, we decided to treat her ourselves, and to take her to the vet immediately if she didn't improve or took a turn for the worse.

Thus began my campaign to get her to eat.  The novelty of the reversal was not lost on either of us.  Every hour or two, I spoon-fed her cream, cat food and any other tidbit we could get her to eat.  She couldn't muster the energy to chew, so I invented delicious gravy mixes to conceal mashed food.  Sometimes she ate off my fingers, at other times she licked the spoon.

Despite her lack of real appetite, I kept on encouraging her to take little bits at a time (''Come on Satty.  Oh, I'll never get mad at you ever again for annoying me with your begging!  Never!'').  Rob raced out and bought the most expensive, vitamin-enriched senior food he could find. Anything we could do to get her to continue eating and drinking, we did it.

After 4 or 5 days of this, we began to notice that she was slowly getting better.  Slowly, slowly, we encouraged her to eat more and more.  And, on day 6, I was ecstatic to find her waiting in the kitchen, begging to be fed.

Over the course of her mystery illness, she lost a little more weight.  She also developed quite a liking for being spoon-fed, and I'm pretty sure she was none-too-pleased at no longer being spoiled with cream and expensive food.  However, she's back to guzzling her own food and any remnants of Jack and Shika's meals if I don't remember to put the bowls out of her ravenous reach.

Whenever I'm wildly irritated by her begging campaigns, and her nearly killing me as she gallops towards the kitchen, I take a deep breath and remember how I felt when she was ill.  Then I pat her fondly on the head and chase her out of the kitchen.

By Christy

A Rich Family Quilt of History

A fantastically fascinating thing about living where we live is the rich concentration of family history in the relatively small area which makes up our new community.

I say relatively small, because the local area encompasses Bridgewater to the LaHave Islands, a distance of approximately 30km from one to the other.

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Long before the Hahns came along, Oikles (don't you just love that name?!) and Zwickers and Zincks and Reinhardts and Richards and Oakleys and Corkums and Balkoms and Publicovers and Whynots and Himmelmans and Pentzes were setting up shop along the banks of the LaHave River and spreading their genealogical wings, giving their names to roads, beaches, townships, buildings and institutions (not to mention requiring very few varying headings in the phone directory!).  As their names reveal, a lot of the original immigrants came out from Germany, although a sizeable number hailed from Ireland and England, and other parts of mother Europe.

A stroll through the numerous local graveyards reveals a lot about their triumphs and struggles to establish themselves in a new land, far away from the nearest city (Halifax, which is now an hour's drive, would have taken considerably longer back in the day).  The rich multicultural mix of family names is fascinating and says a lot about the willingness of people to start afresh and create one single culture together in their new adopted land.

Naturally, being so near the Atlantic, many of them were either of farming or fishing bent.  Life could be and often was short, especially for the children.  Plenty of graves are dedicated to some very little ones - ivory, tender, sombre, time-caressed stones marking the bitter shortness of life's travail.

Nowadays, these same families dominate practically everything in the area.  They've intermarried and inter-intermarried so often over time that virtually everyone is related or connected somehow.  The same names pop up in Halifax, Mahone Bay and places around and in between, following the trail of family members who branched out and moved on over time.

Living amongst homes built by settlers and still inhabited by their descendants (whose names have sometimes changed as they intermarried) gives our area such a settled, time-proven feeling.  Although we're only a mere snippet of its story, it's comforting to think of  the bedrock of history behind us and to know that our home was loved by so many people, most of whom were in all likelihood linked somehow by history and blood.

By Christy

I've Got an Itchy Trigger Finger

A few of weeks ago I woke up to this: 

Needless to say, I was a little freaked out. 

My finger was completely immobile, locked in the above position. After a few hours it loosened up and I could use it without any impediment.

What could it be, I thought. Christy and I started searching the Internet and in her trusty 'The Nature Doctor' book by A. Vogel (The founder of Bioforce). At the time we didn't know what it was so we entered 'claw hand' into Google but that is a completely different ailment, and not one that I would want, even worse than this. 

So what had changed in the past weeks, well other than uprooting ourselves across the Atlantic? We thought about my diet. I am a big sugar eater (I love my coffee sweet) and in Germany Christy convinced me to eat only organic raw sugar as the white stuff isn't really all that good for you, and I'd been eating spoonfuls of white sugar since we arrived. Perhaps that was it and we promptly went to Bulk Barn, about the only place to find reasonably-priced organic sugar in town. We had also been doing a lot of yard work since we arrived, so perhaps it was just overwork; we were not too far off with that suspicion.

About a week later I decided it was time to go see a doctor. I'm not to keen on seeing doctors but when you gotta go, you gotta go. Unfortunately, in rural Canada there is a shortage of doctors and after visiting and calling a few doctors' offices in town looking for an appointment to no avail, we were directed to call the hospital, as they have a list of available doctors. The good news was, they did, in fact, have the name of a doctor who was accepting new patients; the bad news was, the doctor was in Hubbards, a little over 70km away. Annoyed and deterred, I decided to give my finger a little more time to possibly work itself out.

As the week progressed, my useless finger was taking longer and longer to unclench itself, so we headed off to the local emergency room, which was an interesting experience in itself. They have an unique system at the local hospital's emergency room. We walked in and went to reception and I expected them, as every other time I have ever been to an emergency room in my life, to take my information, but no. We were directed to the emergency room and had to take a number, not unlike going to a deli. So I took a number and knocked on the door as directed by the tattered laminated piece of paper stuck to the wall, and waited, and waited, and waited. 

A lady who had arrived just prior to us was also a little perplexed as to what should happen next, so I suggested knocking again. Nothing. Finally, after being there for about 40 minutes the door slid open and a nurse took the lady to get her info. Bloody hell, I thought to myself, what if I, or the lady, had something serious, would anyone have noticed? After another 20 minutes or so the door slid open again and my number was called, number 8 if I remember correctly, and my info was taken and I was returned to the waiting room, wrist band in tow.

After the hour's wait just to get registered, we had no illusions of seeing a doctor quickly. Luckily, there was a TV with a David Attenborough show on, so at least we'd be entertained while we waited. Thankfully, I only had to wait another 45 minutes before my name was called and I was ushered into an examination room. The doctor was nice enough, a young guy, well about my age anyway, but he had no clue what the problem might be and advised me to see my family doctor. I explained that I had just moved here and the only one I could see was in Hubbards. He kind of chuckled and said that his doctor was even farther away. He prescribed some anti-inflammatory / pain killers, told me to see 'my doctor', and sent me on my way, no wiser as to what my problem was.

The next day I woke up with my left hand also getting in on the action - or lack of - with both my index and middle fingers curled up, but thankfully not to the degree as my original problem finger.

I figured that now was the time and I made an appointment with the doctor. I can't remember his name, but that's not a problem as I don't intend to see him again after the less than stellar consultation I had with him. I got my appointment for only a few days later and was at least happy I didn't have to wait for weeks to go.

Since the doctor was close to Halifax, we booked a meeting with a company which was interested in forming a partnership with us, and planned out some trips to some antique shops as not to 'waste' the trip and gas that went along with it.

After filling out some forms we saw our new doctor; Christy figured she might as well get registered at the same time as me. He was nice enough, but not what I was looking for in a doctor, as you will soon read. Upon seeing my hand, he instantly diagnosed it as 'trigger finger' with no further investigation and only told me to 'do some exercises' and gave me the option, if I wanted, to have surgery if it doesn't improve. We got into a discussion about diet and he asked ChristyChristy was a unthinking consumer of bad food. 

Now, Christy is about the most health conscious person I've ever had the pleasure to meet. Everything we eat is fresh, all pre-packaged food ingredients are thoroughly checked and if we see anything that doesn't look good (i.e. MSG or other chemical goodness) we pass on it. She uses a minimum amount of oil when cooking and all our meals have at least two veg, which sometimes annoys me. He then asked what I had for dinner the night before. 'Chicken and veg', I replied. 'Why chicken?', he then said. 'Because I like it', was the only reply I could think of under his increasingly critical eye. 'Why do you cook?', was his next question. I was starting to think that he was a fruitarian (not that there's anything wrong with that) and pictured him collecting fallen apples off the ground.

We left his office feeling like we had just been in some sort of health inquisition and other than finally knowing what I had, I didn't know what to do about it other than 'exercise' it. So, as all modern people do, we looked to the Internet for guidance and found a physiotherapist on YouTube who demonstrated three simple and effective exercises I could do to treat my condition. He was using this cool, fancy physio glove that I may buy if I'm not better in another month or so. 

Although I was thrilled to find something I could do myself to treat my trigger finger, I was annoyed that my doctor had simply said 'Do some exercises', with no further instruction as to what exercises I should do. I began my new exercise regiment in earnest and after a few days my finger started to improve a little, but I was still waking up with my fingers clenched and useless for hours afterwards.

I got a call from my mother and the final piece of my recovery regiment fell into place. She suggested wearing gloves to bed to keep my fingers warm. I wasn't sure I could fall asleep wearing gloves, but tried it. The next day I woke up, and presto, my fingers weren't clenched. They hurt a little but I could use them. It's been three days since my mother gave me her sage advice, and three days with no useless fingers to greet me at the start of my day.

Thanks Mom!

Post by Rob

'Bigness' and 'Sweetness'

When I refer to 'bigness' (one of Rob's terms, picked up by my brain and now way over-used), I'm talking about the size of food products in this great and glorious continent.  It's not a criticism by any means, no sir-ee.  I'm really finding it all rather fascinating at the moment. Think Gulliver in Lilliput.

Walk into any supermarket and prepare to be overwhelmed, flabbergasted and amazed. Compared to what we were used to when we lived in Europe, everything comes in ginormous proportions over here. Take, for instance, some of our purchases last week.  Flour: 10kg  Peanut Butter: 2kg   Margarine: 1.81kg  Milk: 4 litres  Coffee: 925g   Dry Cat Food: A billion kilos. Don't even get me raving joyously about Bulk Barn, a place where you can buy almost any food product you like, in the exact quantities you like, without the unnecessary packaging.

It's totally astonishing and mind-boggling at first, to see such heftily-sized bulk bins and products lined up one after the other, on and on in a sea of tantalising come-hitherness (not to mention the number of bags and hands needed to lug them to the car). 

I think I'm going to love it.

Not because I have any ambitions to turn into a Very Large Personage anytime soon (more to love, more to divorce, according to my other half, jokingly). I love the economic - and hopefully more environmentally friendly - benefits of buying stuff in bulk.

Unlike in Europe, it takes the average non-city dweller more time to drive to the nearest town / city to shop than it does for the average European to drive through several towns and villages.  Rural Canada is such a big place - lots of highways, loads of trees, plenty of distance to motor along to reach the corner shop.

We haven't really been here long enough to settle into a routine yet, but when the novelty wears off, we'll probably head into town only once a week to pick up grocery supplies to last until the next trip.

Is that why many staple items are in such big quantities here?

And, is it just me, or does everything taste sweeter in Canada than in Europe?  I swear I can feel the sugar crunching between my teeth as I eat my breakfast toast.  Rob has something of a sweet tooth (well that's an understatement, if 3 tablespoons of sugar in his coffee is any rule to go by). I'm beginning to taste why...

Post by Christy



 

A Brook Runs Through It

When we found the house and learned that there was a small brook running through it, it seemed like a nice touch to put the place over the top. But the reality of living with natural flowing water on the property is something else entirely.

I've taken to taking my morning coffee for a stroll up its banks, while listening to its babble and watching the morning light sheen off its currents and falls. Yesterday, I sat on some boulders in the middle of the flow, close to the main falls at 'the wall', drank my coffee and just enjoyed my surroundings. I can't remember the last time I had felt so relaxed or at peace. Two of my cats, Shika and Jack, had followed me, and were joyfully playing among the rocks. After a lifetime of apartment captivity, they were getting comfortable with their new found freedom, not unlike myself.

Now that we've been here a few weeks, I'm getting used to the idea being out in the country, knowing that other than my unseen neighbors, there is not much chance of seeing anyone else, other than the two Jehovah's Witness who stopped by and offered to help us stack wood. I politely declined. No where else is this feeling of remoteness stronger than lost in the din of the brook. I can almost imagine farmer Hahn digging it out with his two oxen. It supposedly took him 32 years to do it. I'm sure that's 32 years on and off, when he had time.We've named it Oxen Brook it memory of those beasts.

Behind 'the wall' is what I think was a reservoir for said farmer Hahn to water his crops with, but I'm not sure. Now it's all quite marshy with a lot of fallen branches, leaves and silt, creating quite a bit of stagnant water. Come spring I'll clean it up as not to have mosquitoes and other stagnant water breeders.

Further back, the limit of my explorations thus far, the brook resumes its previous look, I stopped at the next falls as it was getting late. The only recent addition to the brook is a small wooden footbridge about half way between 'the wall'  and the house.

Scattered around the brook are 3 foundations to buildings whose original purpose is lost to time. I know one of them was a barn but the other two remain a mystery. One is on a rise, covered in growth, overlooking 'the wall', the other hidden by trees which are older than me.

The people who lived here before us unfortunately neglected the brook and the land around it. They just stayed on their manicured lawn, kept safe by their white picket fence. There is enough dead wood littering the floor of the woods to keep us in kindling throughout the winter and the poor brook was running badly; It almost seemed as if it was ill. When I look at it now, after the work I have done, it seems healthier, faster, and with a more pleasing babble than when I arrived.

Christy and I are looking forward to the spring when we can begin to shape the property into something beautiful and special, and the brook is the centerpiece of all of that.

Post by Rob

Let the Adventure Begin!

Dear Reader,

I don't know who you are, but I figure that as you're looking at this blog, you might want to know a bit more about me before reading further.

I can tell you right away that two of us will be writing this in future - me (Christy) and Rob (my partner).

We've decided to take it in turns writing entries, not just from a sense of shared creativity and division of labour, but also from an even stronger competitive streak that runs through (and sometimes over) our relationship. Rob's already talking of running a popularity poll at some point in the near future to determine who is the more favoured co-writer on this blog!

The inspiration for this blog is our recent uproot from Germany to Canada. We spent two years in Germany teaching English before deciding to toss corporate life in and start up our own English language vacation / consulting company in Nova Scotia.

Bravo, you might say. So did we. But, it seems that we're the first people to actually do this sort of thing out here. We've chosen a lovely 4-bedroom house on the LaHave River, minutes from the Atlantic Ocean. Locations like this would cost well over a million in some parts of Canada, without a doubt. We're a little off the highway here and it's definitely on the quiet side. Sad to admit, we now get really excited when cars drive by ('Hey, was that the garbage truck?', 'I think that was a car going past!' and that sort of thing).

We left Germany 3 weeks and 1 day ago, with four suitcases and our three cats. Relocating two people, four suitcases and three cats is surprisingly easy, except for the fact that we somehow lost our camera on the way, with all its last-minute nights out and memories.

The house is around 216 years old. It was built by a German immigrant family by the name of Hahn, who very soon turned the property's three acres into a farm. Farmer Hahn was also something of a project-enthusiastic, and allegedly spent 34 years (and probably quite a bit of cash) getting a pair of oxen to carve out a brook through the property. God knows what poor Mrs Hahn - not to mention the oxen - thought of all this.

So, back to our hopes for the future. We're busily getting both the vacation and the consulting wings of our business up and running, which means lots of running round meeting key business community players, purchasing hideously expensive office equipment (the fact that Canadians add sales tax onto the price at the till, rather than give you one price tag, will probably have the power to generate mini heart attacks in me for years to come).

Our company is called Story & Birch (www.storyandbirch.com). When the consulting side is set up, we'll use consulting.storyandbirch.com for this arm of the company. As per usual, our competitive streak got the better of us. Yep, Story & Birch is an anagram for Christy and Rob - no arguments can be had by one of claiming that the other's name is more prominent!



Now that we're here, I feel incredibly hopeful for the future. It's a great feeling to be your own boss and to grab a vision by the tail and try to make it work. First things first though. We've a bit of work to do to get the house and gardens ready for vacation guests. Kindling collecting, ordering firewood, looking for furniture, marketing, advertising, business meetings, polishing, driving into town, food shopping, raking leaves and getting to grips with the soapstone wood-burning stove fill our days at the moment. And hey, living right by the river, we even get our own private beach to walk on!

So, that's it from me for the moment. Besides, Rob's doing his best to sneak a peek at what I'm doing ('I'm not looking!').

I've no idea what the future holds - but right now it's pretty damn cool!

Until next time,
Christy