I have been told that I have a slight (?) Norwegian accent. My first job in Canada was in sales, the sales manager’s name was Hugh. I have a very hard time pronouncing that name correctly. It comes out of my mouth as “You,” unless I take a deep breath and say the name while I expel the air from of my lungs.
My problem in pronouncing that name has created quite a few humorous situations. The following is part of a conversation that I had with a co-worker.
Me: “Hi Bob.”
Bob: “Hey man. How’s it going?”
Me: “Great, I just want to have a chat with Hugh (You).”
Bob looking at me very strangely, saying: “Hey man, you are chatting with me.”
Me: No Bob, I don’t want to chat with you, I want to have a chat with Hugh (You)!”
Bob: “Huh?”
Me: “Ya, Hugh (You) mentioned something about a sales quota.”
Bob: “Oh! You mean Hugh.”
Me: “Ya, not you! Did you talk to Hugh (You)?”
Bob: “Yes I talked to him.”
Me: “Did Hugh (You) say anything to you about the sales quota?”
Then Bob couldn’t help himself, he had to imitate my accent, and in a sing song voice he said: “Ya Yumpin Yimminy, Hugh (You) said that the quota is effective Yanuary first.”
Then I moved from the west coast, and about 30 odd years went by before I met another Hugh. He also became my boss. Marion and I had sold our business in Edmonton, and Hugh was transferred from Calgary to our office as a branch. I thought that my accent had just about disappeared, but I would be proven wrong. One morning I was in a rush, and ran into another co-worker, and while I was passing him I said: “Good morning Tom, excuse me but I need to speak to Hugh (You).”
Tom looked at me and said: “OK, What’s on your mind?”
Me: “Sorry, I can’t tell you, it’s kinda personal and I need to speak with Hugh (You), not you.”
Tom smiled and said: “Oh! You mean Hugh.”
Me: “Of course I mean Hugh (You), did you think I meant you?”
After that little exchange, next time I talked to Tom and the new boss’ name was brought up by me, Tom would ask me if I meant the boss or him. That’s when I decided to change and use the boss’ Dutch last name, which I had no problem pronouncing correctly.
When our English teacher back in Norway was emphasising the correct pronunciation, he would refer to what he called the BBC English. My use of this BBC pronunciation with my Norwegian accent, has caused both confusion and laughter. I recall a time, before my farmer days, when one of my lower legs was sore, and as Marion and I were walking along, I tried to say to her that I had a sore calf. What Marion heard was that I had a sore cough.
“What? You get a sore cough from walking?” she inquired.
“Yes!” I said. “So maybe we should turn around and go home.”
“Are you getting a cold?” she asked.
“No, I said. “I just have a sore calf (cough). I should maybe put some ice on it.”
Marion stopped and looked at me, and then she started to laugh, and said, “it just dawned on me, you are talking about your calf (cælf).”
“Of course,” I said smiling. “What did you think?”
A few Norse English stories:
My friend Lars was in bad shape. He was always out of breath and his eyes bulged out. He went to a quack doctor who told him that he didn’t have long to live. Lars decided to enjoy the time he had left, and splurged on a fashionable new suit, shirt and tie. The clerk suggested a size 16 collar, but Lars shook his head and said: “I alvays vear a size 14, and dats vat I vant.”
“Well,” said the clerk, “I’ll get you a size 14, but I must warn you, with a collar that small, it makes you short of breath and your eyes bulge out.”
During the Rio de Janeiro summer Olympics, a young athlete in a warm-up suit was sitting alone on a bench in the infield. One of the officials walked up to him and asked, “are you a pole vaulter?” The athlete looked at the official and said, “No, I’m Norvegian, but hov did you knov dat my name is Valter?”
“One ysed ta get different treatment from da dokter in da old days,” complained Kari.
“Ya sure ya betcha!” said Ingrid. “Ven I vas jung, da dokter alvays toll me to take all my clodes off. Dese days I’d feel lukky if da dokter even ask me to stikk ut my tunge.”
Ole the wimp got a very tiny cut on his finger and ran to the emergency. The nurse took some time, but finally located the tiny cut. She put a Band-aid on the finger and said to Ole: “Good thing you got here as quick as you could.”
“Oh? Vy is dat?” asked Ole. “If you would have waited until tomorrow, the cut would have healed.”
In Edmonton, a little girl asked her Norwegian grandfather why he has three pair of glasses.
“Vel,” said grandpa. “I yse vun pair to reed a bukk, and anodder pair ven I need to see tings far avay.”
“What about the third pair?” asked the little girl. “I yse da turd pair ven I haff ta search for da odder two.”
