When I was stationed in Texas, Mississippi, Florida, and Missouri, I got to enjoy lots of different accents thanks to the Air Force. Not only did I hear the locals, many of the guys I was stationed with were from the South. During the mid 1960’s I was able to distinguish many accents and their origins. I could tell you what town a person came from in the South. Then things began to change. By the 1990’s it became almost impossible to determine where a person was from by listening to an accent. Some people have attributed this to television.

I am still good at detecting Spanish accents. I can tell what Spanish speaking country a person came from after a moment’s conversation. Even within Spanish speaking countries they have differences in accents.

My wife is from Peru, and her family is from Spain. When a Spanish speaking person asks her:
“Habla usted Espanol”? She will always reply, “No, yo hablo Castellano”! That is when I walk away! You see, the people of Peru and Columbia consider his/her language to be that of Spain.



>My father's brother was in the Air Force, his wife made him get out.
>He was the primary test pilot for Republic (in the F86 years), til his wife made him quit.
>So, they ended up on Bonham Texas (north of Dallas) and they bought a Western Auto store.
>They, and particularly their sons, thought it was hilarious when the farmers around town would walk in asking about 'tars'. You know, for their trucks.
>Once they figured that out, they started asking the farmers if they wanted 'ar' in them 'tars'. Is it any wonder the Western Auto went out of business?
>
>I pull that story out, not because I think you're making fun of the guy behind the counter as they were the farmers, but as another example of extreme accents.
>
>>One of my favorite language mishaps was after Hurricane Katrina, when a group of us went to Houston on a relief mission. We were evacuated ourselves from Houston due to Hurricane Rita (which was mostly a non event). In the middle of the night we stopped for the bathroom and more coffee at some 7-11 in rural Arkansas. I had too much coffee in me already and decided to compromise with Coke. It was my turn to drive and I needed all the caffeination I could get, coming on the heels of several days in which we weren't exactly getting a lot of sleep. I went over by the soda dispenser, completely standard, and didn't see the kind of logoed soda cups I was used to. Have I mentioned that I was only half coherent? The young guy at the counter, who, I don't want to seem unkind, seemed like exactly the kind of guy who would be working the night shift at a 9-11, said "The what ones." His Arkansas accent was so thick he made Bill Clinton sound like a Bostonian. "I'm looking for the Coke cups," I repeated. "The what ones," he repeated. What we had here was a failure to communicate. I finally figured out he was saying "The white ones, " white Styrofoam cups. And there they were.
>>
>>I seem to keep bringing up that week so maybe it has been one of the most memorable of my life.