OBTW/How we speak -- it's a matter of geography

When my daughter was perhaps 8 months old, a co-worker greeted me at the office one morning with this interesting question: "Is Sara making strange yet?"

As any of my friends can tell you, I'm seldom at a loss for words, but this was one of those rare occasions when I not only didn't know an appropriate answer, but also had no idea what I'd been asked. A quick mental review of Sara's manual skills turned up crawling, attempting to stand, rolling over, putting everything she picked up into her mouth, and none of those things seemed "strange" in any way. We were, in fact, very proud of our little darling, and thought her quite advanced for her age. The idea that she wasn't doing something she ought to, and worse yet, that I didn't even know what it was -- well, it was very distressing.

Trying not to look desperate, I posed a question carefully designed to reveal what "making strange" is, without revealing that I had no idea myself: "What?"

This early morning discussion took place in Dubuque, Iowa, a Mississippi river town with a predominantly German and Irish heritage. I was never able to find out very much about the origin of this odd phrase, but I strongly suspect it's a translation from another language, probably German. And, as is often the case with words or phrases that enter the language this way, once you know what it means, it makes a great deal of sense. "Making strange" refers to the behavior of infants, who, around their first birthday, suddenly look at everyone but their mothers as a stranger, and refuse to go to grandma or grandpa, or the baby-sitter, or anyone else, even those they willingly went to just the day before. It's a well-documented and completely harmless stage of child development.

Of course, you knew that, didn't you?

Oh, you did not.

In the 30 years since I first heard that phrase, I have asked a lot of people in a lot of places if they've ever heard that particular language construction and not one person has ever said yes. I've concluded that it's a phrase peculiar to Dubuque and a very small surrounding area. Just across the river and up Highway 151 about 10 miles, people in Platteville, Wis., had never heard it, either. I've been in every state but one, and several foreign countries, and every person I asked about it looked at me oddly and posed the same question I did: "What?"

You can stop laughing at those ignorant people in Dubuque now. Let's have a show of hands, please. How many of you, when discussing a trip to Slater, say, "I'm going down to Slater"? That's fine for you, of course, because you know where Slater is. Only the new kid in town, like me, would waste any time looking for Slater south of Marshall on a map.

One of the most wonderful things about traveling so much in my lifetime is the way in which it has expanded my vocabulary (for good or ill). For example, I know at least four ways to ask for a carbonated drink. In most places in the Midwest, it's "pop." In other places, including Milwaukee, ask for "soda." In Boston, if you order soda, you're likely to get tonic water, but if you order tonic, you'll get something like 7-Up instead.

Back in New Jersey, land of "The Sopranos," where I come from, you don't go to the beach. You do "down the Shore."

In New York City, if you want your coffee with milk and sugar, order "coffee regular."

South of the Mason-Dixon line, things get quite a bit more complicated. If you order tea, and what you want is hot tea in a cup, make sure you say so. If you don't, you'll get iced tea.

One of my late mother's dearest friends was Chastine Wallace, a lovely woman from Georgetown, Miss.. My sister and I and Chastine's daughter were on our way to a roller skating party one summer evening, and my Irish Catholic New Jersey-raised mother and Chastine were waving goodbye to us from the porch where they were having an after-dinner chat. My mother admonished us to "be good." I can still hear Chastine's slow southern drawl "... you girls be sweet now." To this day, I do not wonder why Southern women always seem to get their way.

In the small Louisiana town of Waterproof, I was discussing computer software training plans for the following day, when one of the trainees said, "Ah won't be heah in the mawnin' tomorra. Ah have to carry mah oncle up front." It was clear he would not be there the following morning, but that's all I was sure of. As it turns out, he was driving (carrying) his uncle to New Orleans ("up front" in Cajun country).

The English dramatist and essayist Ben Johnson once said, "Language most shows a man. Speak that I may see thee." Brilliant as he was, I doubt he foresaw how much the language he was familiar with in the early 18th century would evolve. English is a constantly-changing, infinitely flexible language that gathers in words from all over the world. You couldn't discuss Matthew Blunt without "governor," from the Latin word for "pilot. If it were not for the Frenchmen who explored the Missouri River, we wouldn't know what to call St. Louis. And you couldn't talk about Elvis without mentioning "guitar," a word that came into the English language from Arabic in the 14th century.

In the debate on whether immigrants should be required to learn the language, or whether English should be made the "official" language of the United States, one has to wonder -- whose version of English will it be?

Fairchild is the news clerk for The Marshall Democrat-News. OBTW appears every other Friday.