Caroline Beauregard Shinkle

Last in Translation

by Caroline Beauregard Shinkle

“Paul told me there’s a big sign in front of it,” Daddy said as he inched the car down McArthur Boulevard.

“Daddy, we’ve driven up and down this street forever. Let’s ask someone,” I pleaded even though I knew it was no use. Daddy would rather run out of gas trying to find the place than give up and ask for directions.

“Paul says that Moss is the best hardware store between here and Hartford,” Daddy continued. “We’ve got to find Moss.”

We were spending time at our new beach house at Cape Cod and Paul was our next-door neighbor. He and Daddy loved trading war stories about their building projects. The only problem, Daddy would tell me, was that Paul’s thick East Coast accent was hard to decipher.

“There’s a store down there that looks like it sells hardware,” I said.

Daddy peered out the window. “Nope, the sign says Morris.”

It was a beautiful beach day and I was stuck in a car searching for a hardware store. “There’s an ice cream place. Let’s get cones. We’ve got to keep our energy level up on this expedition,” I begged.

We were huge ice cream fans and I knew Daddy wouldn’t pass up trying a new place. The line was long but it was worth the wait. We plopped on a bench to savor the creamy concoctions. “I’m getting some water,” I announced, making an excuse to ask for directions.

“Where’s Moss Hardware?” I inquired of a tall blonde guy who was scooping ice cream. As he looked at me, he snickered. Did I have an ice cream moustache? Were there bits of cone stuck in my teeth?

“Forget it,” I shrugged and turned away.

“Not making fun of you,” he winked. “Are you new to the area?”

All I’d wanted were directions. “Why do you ask?” I responded icily.

“I always get questions about Moss,” he added. “There’s no such place.”

I was stunned. How could Paul have sent Daddy and me to look for a store that didn’t exist?

“In these parts, we don’t pronounce the letter ‘r.’ Locals translate Morris into Moss,” he said, pointing over his shoulder. “To clear up the mystery, I’ll spell it for you. It’s ‘M-o-r-r-i-s.’ Look, it’s the lost store on the street.”

This was getting really confusing. “Lost? Do you mean the final store on the street? Not a missing store, right?” I wondered.

“Excellent! You’re starting to understand our accent. Hey, you didn’t tell me where you’re from?” he persisted.

“Ohio,” I responded.

“Here, we call it Iowa,” he laughed.