by Marichka (Maria) Koropecky
Nasha Doroha (Our Road)
summer 2003, page 10
My father Yaro Koropecky died suddenly in March 2001 and of all the things I miss about him, I miss talking to him the most. He was a true linguaphile and it was entertaining to discuss words and their origins with him — particularly since between us we communicate in three languages: Ukrainian, English and French.
I clipped an article from the newspaper shortly before he died entitled "Slang pulls families together," written by David Howell. He says, "Every family has its own slang...We invent new words, modify existing words, or take ordinary words and give them new meanings that only insiders understand. These words and phrases help us celebrate our shared history, our special identity as a family."
On the one hand we had our share of family slang like "Ferry bubble" credited to my father and meaning the increased traffic which resulted on the highway after the ferry docked near Victoria. He called the deer that stroll through our property, "Bambies." He called the kitchen sink, my grandmother's "office." When I was younger he called me, "Pani Putz" or "Putska" which I guess derived from "Pistyocha" which means "Affectionate one."
On the other hand, we had more intellectual discussions around etymology like what do you call the tool that extinguishes candle flame in Ukrainian? To my father it was a "shvitchkohas," one of his favourite words. Or what is the equivalent word in English for "perezhivaty?" And why did we take the wrong word from the French when naming umbrellas? Ukrainians use "parasolia," which actually means "against the sun." Instead we should be calling them "parapluikas." Then again, my father called them "brallies."
The word with the most controversy in our family however, was Koropetchkiy (Koropecky) itself. When I was a child, I remember asking my father what Koropecky meant and he said, "Oh, it could be a little bird (like a quail) or the family might have been named after a little town, Koropetch, in Ukraine. But when my brother came home from a six-week trip to Ukraine about 10 years ago, during lunch he said the family told him our last name translates into "Cherry-picker-basket-maker." My father protested. I was thrilled.
Aside from our inside jokes and special vocabulary, my father taught me the importance of studying languages, their roots and patterns and styles, so we can communicate better with our neighbours. My father made a career out of using his communication skills and love of words on an international level. He negotiated treaties and found common ground between seemingly disparate groups of people. And his starting point was a little town in Ukraine.
