dialect

Last Saturday, I headed to the Farmer's Market in downtown Little Rock. There are a number of farmers who sell there whose roots are in southeast Asia. They're good farmers and their produce is first rate.

Until last Saturday, I had dealt with the children of my friend's farm. Raised in Arkansas, they sounded local. But school had started. The kids who weren't away at college were home doing schoolwork. So I dealt with the father. He spoke good English, but as he had learned it here, with a definite Arkansas accent. His lignuistic background came through never-the-less. Now, gentle readers, contemplate if you will, a rural southern accent with a Vietnamese accent superimposed. Awsome.

That incident reminded me of happy days in business. Our Japanese joint venture had an employee who visited regularly. K liked America and he liked Americans. But his special weakness was Mexican mariachi music. He had hundreds of disks at home, played them in the office and visited Mexican restaurants whenever he could.

One night, he and I were entertaining some customers ala 'Japan, Incorporated'. That is, we ate, drank and sang. For everyone but K, it was their first Mexican meal. Knowing that tastes differ, I asked the waitress (I'll get back to her) to bring each of us a Margarita, a tequila sunrise and a bottle of Dos Equis. While the Japanese are great drinkers, especially of beer, the sweet drinks were new and delightful. Soon they were trying to sing the lyrics of the recorded music. Of course, K succeeded belting out Spanish lyrics with a heavy Japanese accent. Several of the cooks left the kitchen to regard him with awe.

Now, as for that waitress; She was a truly beautiful woman, tall, long black hair and a fully developed bossom. She wore a colorful Mexican skirt and a low cut peasant blouse. There was sufficient tequila in the air that I don't remember if she wore anything under that blouse. But it didn't matter. This was thirty years ago. Our Japanese customers stared at her as she passed our table, serving to others. Their eyes followed every bounce or jiggle under that blouse. I can not recall ever seeing such yearning in so many eyes at the same time.

I speak some French and I am not immune to the superimposed accents. I learned my French in a small village in the Alcase Lorraigne area. The local accent is quite heavy. So now my French is laden with that local accent with American superimposed. The French give me looks that I have been unable to translate so far. Perhaps they are admiring, or just shocked to hear what I do l'Academie's language.

For me, however, the best place to go for accents is the British Isles. Most of you will know the broad ones, Scots, Irish, Cockney. But in the country, those accents can become impenetrable. I suspect that they are mixed with words that predate both the Norman and Saxon invasions. If you want to hear some of the above, rent "Cold Comfort Farm". It's a British comedy that was made in 1995 by BBC/Thames.

That's it for now. I'll have a book review for you later.