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<\/a>With communities so tied to the sea, it is not surprising that ice in all its variations is given precise, descriptive names. Slob ice, for instance, is a mass of ice or snow in seawater. Photo by Robert Postma\/First Light\/Corbis<\/p><\/div>\n
Language bloomed in this isolation, inspired by the wild and unfamiliar environment and influenced by Old World cultures. Words arrived from everywhere. Spanish fishermen brought bacalao, their name for cod. Dwy, to describe a short, sudden storm was imported from West Country English. A local trickster was called a sleveen, adopted from Irish. The newcomers picked up on terms already tied to place, like tabanask, an anglicized Innu language term for toboggan and the Mi\u2019kmaq word, babbish, referring to the stretched animal hide used in the crisscrossed base of snowshoes, as well as sina, the word the Inuit use to describe the edge of a floating ice field.<\/p>\n
But sina wasn\u2019t enough\u2014there were so many types of ice and snow in the coastal waters where the early fishermen hauled in their catch. Naming these unfamiliar formations\u2014the soft ice close to shore (lolly), or a mass of ice and snow in seawater (slob)\u2014was paramount to survival.<\/p>\n
Because of this, language was often occupational and rooted in the culture of the fishery. Hence the plethora of terms used to describe every stage of seal development, from white-coat (baby) to ragged-jacket (immature) and bedlam (middle-aged) to dotard (old).<\/p>\n
For a weather forecaster like Snoddon, language is similarly important and tied to vocation. Along with Sheila\u2019s Brush, he regularly peppers his weather reports with local terms. Overcast, damp, and foggy days are mauzy, and he constantly calls for RDF (the regional acronym used for rain, drizzle, and fog). So far he hasn\u2019t managed to use glitter\u2014the term for freezing rain that accretes as ice on branches and wires\u2014or fairy squall, a sudden gust of wind that seems to come from nowhere, as if conjured by supernatural forces. As a transplant from Ontario, Snoddon is careful to learn the words first so he can integrate them in a way that seems natural.<\/p>\n
<\/a>It\u2019s a \u201cmauzy day\u201d at Newfoundland\u2019s Mistaken Point Ecological Reserve. Photo by Cameron Davidson\/Corbis<\/p><\/div>\n
\u201cYou kind of want to almost get your street cred before you try and use those kinds of words,\u201d says Snoddon. \u201cYou don\u2019t want to make it just seem that you\u2019re saying them for the sake of saying them.\u201d<\/p>\n
Why Newfoundland and Labrador has its own lexicon, and why so many of the province\u2019s words relate to the coastal environment is both obvious and complex says folklorist Philip Hiscock of Memorial University.<\/p>\n
The farther people were from the authoritative culture of St. John\u2019s, the province\u2019s capital, but also of Britain and Canada, the less it mattered, so there is a grammar of place at play in the regional dialect. \u201cThe words that are important to you are the ones that reflect right here and now,\u201d says Hiscock. \u201cSo they\u2019re going to vary, they\u2019re going to change, and they\u2019re going to be imbued with a sense of locality.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hiscock says that Newfoundlanders and Labradorians have a love of language, in particular local language, and this has contributed to what he calls the \u201caesthetic\u201d or \u201cpoetic value\u201d of their vocabulary. He cites the word silver thaw, which, like glitter, is used to describe the ice that forms on trees when rain falls near the freezing mark.<\/p>\n
Another factor in the development of their distinct dialect is Newfoundland and Labrador\u2019s strong oral tradition. These stories were often born of hardship, adversity, and perseverance in the face of poverty with plot points that reflected a lingering feudal system that saw rural fishing families beholden to the capricious elements and merchants in larger centers. These narratives were inspired by a world that was both harsh and beautiful, good and bad\u2014the dichotomy at the heart of all great tales. Stories, like songs, are told with cadence and tone, timing, and, most importantly, attention to language. Perhaps there simply weren\u2019t enough words to describe the erratic weather and rock-lashed land, the complex history of the people who settled there, and the boundless sea that surrounded them. Maybe the regional lexicon was not simply the result of limitation\u2014the isolation of the outports\u2014but a response to the limitlessness of the natural and social landscape.<\/p>\n
The vocabulary is fluid. It\u2019s an ongoing dialogue, and it\u2019s as captivating and elusive as the Newfoundland fairies. Preservation efforts are constantly underway, from the b\u2019ys (read: dudes) on George Street outdoing one another with local slang to the academics who collect and study this kind of talk like specimens in a jar. But it\u2019s the artists who\u2019ve cornered the market on heritage language in the province.<\/p>\n