Despite how it's spelled

It’s a straight stretch, this part of the 401 highway, through farmers’ fields and industrial parks stretching out of towns the road was meant to bypass. The pavement is wet. The wipers clear the windshield impermanently, the sun peaking for only moments at a time. Jill has a map on her lap, folded to their current location. It shakes as she lifts it. Bill stares straight ahead. They’ve been driving in silence since they set out.

“Turn up here, the exit for Tweed,” Jill says.

“Right, yes. Will do,” Bill says. “But its not pronounced Tweeeed.”

“How’s it pronounced?”

“Twaed.”

“Twade.”

“Twaed.”

“Well, it’s spelled tweed,” Jill says, looking down at the map.

“It’s Twaed,” Bill says.

“Like the jacket. A tweed jacket, with patches on the elbow” she says, pointing at Tweed on the map and holding up an elbow.

“Yes, but it’s not pronounced that way,” Bill says as they pull off the 401 into Hastings County.

“Why not?”

“Look around. What do you see?”

“Barns. Broken down cars on lawns. That place has at least three washing machines on the front lawn.”

“Exactly. So, does this look like tweed jacket country. I mean, at all?”

“Well, no. But it is spelled tweed.”

“It’s Twaed.”

“Twade.”

“Twaed.”

“I don’t understand. Why is it spelled tweed if its not pronounced tweed?”

“Who knows those things.”

“Twade,” she tries again. Is it optimism or stubbornness that keeps pushing her on this, she wonders. Or something else.

“Twaed,” he answers.

“Twade,” she says.

“Twade,” he says. “Oh, man. Now you’ve got me doing it.”

“Ha. You’re losing your East Ontario accent. Too much time in the big city,” she chides, hoping to prod out a smile after this day.

That stung. A bit. But she had a point. He had to admit that much. He’d spent more time outside his hometown than he had growing up there. Mostly Toronto, but other cities too. Christ, was it really half his life? No, more. Jesus. He’d never done the math. Until now. Probably avoiding it.

Truth is he’d put actual effort into losing his accent, rounding off the corners, smoothing out the mumbles. Trying to fit in as a professional of sorts. Never really achieving it. His Mum teased her father-in-law about practicing his accent in the mirror at night. The only way he’d still sound so Scottish after 40 years in Canada, she’d say. Bill definitely didn’t do that. Did the opposite, in fact. His grandfather, at least, had a sense of who he was – and the accent to prove it.

“It’s Twaed,” he blurts out, grabbing a tentative glance at Jill. She looked at him with big eyes.

“Um. Try putting a little twang into it,” he offers more gently.

“Toowade,” she says.

“Twaed.”

“Traed.”

“Closer, closer. Maybe try saying it faster,” Bill suggests. “Twaed.”

“Towade.”

“Twaed.”

“It sounds like your displeased with the place, the way you say it,” Jill says.

“Dis-pleased?” he laughs. “That’s a heck of a word. And it’s not me. Really. It’s just how it’s pronounced,” he says. “Around here, any way.”

“Well, it sounds displeased,” she says, displeasure creeping into her own voice.

“I’ve never actually even been there,” he confesses, glancing around for anything familiar.

“What? And you’re telling me how to pronounce it?” She smiles, despite herself.

“It’s just how we say it in this part of the country,” he says. “Said it.”

“Towade.”

“Twaed. Add some nasal, just a touch.”

“Trowade.”

“Ok, bad advice. You’re now getting further away from it,” he says. “Twaed.”

“I don’t get it. I still say it sounds displeased.”

“Well, I guess we did pass through the place once, on the way up to Rick’s trailer and the lake. Must have been back in high school. We kind of lost track of Jessy after that. Anyway, we had to pick up Jess in Odessa - Odassa if you’re saying it right – to go to the trailer.”

“I barely knew Jessy,” Jill says.

“Ya. You’d have liked him. Once he grew on you,” Bill says, the memory forcing out a small grin.

“I’m sure,” she says, matching his smile, and glad to see it.

“Ok. I’m not giving up on this. I’m just saying this is how it’s pronounced in eastern Ontario. Like how Rick made fun of the way we all said young lad.”

“Young lad?”

“As in. ‘Me and the YOUNG led are goon out on ar snow masheensh.’”

The car swerves a bit as Bill lets out a lurching chuckle, Rick’s voice fresh in his mind.

“Ha, right. I always thought he was making that up,” Jill says.

“He wasn’t, but Rick did love to say YOUNG led.”

“Yong lid,” she attempts.

“YOUNG led.”

“Young lid.”

“YOUNG led. The Young is high, loud and fast. The Lad is low and slow,” Bill says, glancing Jill’s way to help her get it.

He hadn’t put this much thought into how he used to say things for quite some time. It hadn’t been that important. Until today.

“Young led,” Jill says.

“Close. Emphasize the middle of young.”

"Its a one syllable word.”

“Just try it,” he says, a chuckle forcing its way into his voice. “I know, it makes no sense.”

“YOUNG led.”

“Yessss!” Bill says, his smile reaching his eyes. Jill smiles, too.

They both look out the front window in victory, watching the road as the rain lets up and wipers make one last swipe, then settle into place. Smiles fade and the charged silence makes a slow return. More barns and more cars on lawns pass by the side windows.

“I’m gonna miss Rick,” Jill says at last.

“Me, too,” Bill says, staring straight ahead, afraid to meet Jill’s eyes, knowing what they contain.

“Nice service today though. Good turnout. He deserved that,” Jill says, nodding. “And I liked what you said,” she ventures, a little unsure. “I’m proud of you. I know that couldn’t have been easy.”

“Thanks,” he says, turning to Jill and offering a small smile. “Yes. Yes. A hard day. But good, really, in the end. Reassuring,” he says, nodding his head, pursing his lips.

They are silent again for a moment.

“Twaed,” Jill shouts.

“That’s it! You got it.”