This is Little Burnt Bay Day, on which I honor my Newfoundland heritage (being careful to stress the last syllable, as in “Isn’t it GRAND? NewfoundLAND!”).

That heritage is a bit tenuous, without genetic roots, but it’s still important to me. Jen Walters Hamilton, a former exchange student, introduced me years ago to her remarkable homeland—in fact it’s because of her that I know about Little Burnt Bay, which is on the north shore of Newfoundland, near Lewisporte. Jen, a summer reporter at the time for the  Lewisporte newspaper, had been assigned to cover the village festival. She wrote such a glowing account that ever since I’ve observed August 15 with the zeal of a medieval Christian celebrating the feast day of a saint.

This year I googled Little Burnt Bay to see what was going on among the village’s 312 inhabitants. Alas, there was no festival web site, although residents had posted photos, including one of a harbor full of drifting ice. There was a Little Burnt Bay community blog, but I would have had to register, and felt shy about doing this. How could I explain my interest without sounding like an upstart cousin from the States, trying to crash a family reunion?

Also, my Canadian credentials might not have held up under scrutiny. I directed a college Canadian Studies program for a time, but this was more on the strength of promotional ability than because I knew anything about the blessed land just to the north of Minnesota.

Because of the job, though, Karen and I once found ourselves entertaining a civic delegation of half a dozen from Stephenville, on the other side of the island from Little Burnt Bay. I’ve forgotten the details, but it had something to do with selling an airline on Newfoundland and Indiana as reciprocal tourist destinations.

The Newfies were delightful visitors (the Stephenville mayor and its airport manager were among them, I recall). We took them to dinner at our favorite steakhouse, where quite a bit of beer flowed. The talk turned to moose and how to attract them, and before we quite knew what was happening one of the visitors had cupped his hand over his mouth and begun emitting one of the strangest sounds I’ve ever heard.

UhhhoooWAHunguhUGH!

It had a unique quality, filling the dining room with a low-pitched growl like something near the bottom of the sonic register. Something in pain. You felt it, but couldn’t quite tell where it was coming from.

UhhhoooahWAHungurrrrUGH!

At the tables near us (and some not so near) diners looked up from their steaks and glanced around the room. Bartenders stopped wiping glasses.

UhhhooooAWAHOOungarrroooUGHHH!!!

What might have happened had the caller persisted I don’t know. Maybe a moose would have come ambling through the front door. But the demonstration was over, diners returned to their meals, the wait staff woke from its trance.

The restaurant went out of business a couple of years later. I hope its decline didn’t begin with our visit.

Over the years, Jen Hamilton has done her best to educate me in matters Newfie. I can sing a verse or two of “I’se the Bye” (who catches the fish and brings ’em home to Liza). I own a book of Newfoundland poems. If someone says, “You can’t get no double-double when you’re turfed out on poagy,” I know it means you can’t afford double cream in your coffee when you’ve been retired on social assistance. I’ve also acquired a fair knowledge generally of Canadian history and geography, as well as a deep respect for those other Americans with whom the U.S. shares a continent.

So to Jen—and all other Canadian friends—have a happy Little Burnt Bay Day. For years I’ve kept a vial of Newfoundland Screech (a potent rum) in a cupboard, waiting for the right occasion. This may be the year. And after I’ve drunk it, I may walk out on the front porch and call a moose.