Musings on linguistic challenges, January mornings and urban wildlife
Ah, it was quite a sight this freezing morning.
I live in a neighborhood that's wonderfully rich with the sounds and smells of several cultures, most notably Vietnamese. My immediate neighbors are a woman about my age (American name is Sarah), her elderly parents and a fairly typical Vietnamese rotation of adult children and their spouses, in and out of the house from time to time. They're lovely people and I adore them. We try to scale the language barrier whenever we can, and I honestly consider them friends. In fairness, I don't speak Vietnamese, and, as has been said "their English are seldom." But we all try, and it's easy to feel the spirit behind the halting words and missed translations.
This morning at some unspeakable hour, Sarah called me. She was clearly upset, stammering out something about needing my help with "that animal." At first I thought maybe my dog had barked and disturbed them, but further half-sentences revealed that it was "that animal--look like cat look like rat."
Out I ran, all gorgeous with my bare face, dirty hair and oh-so-fuzzy grey robe with sheep all over it. The neighbors were similarly clad, Grandpa in his jammies and all the ladies in various stages of early-morning deshabille. As it turned out, an opossum appeared to be bleeding (severely) in their driveway and these poor folks were rattled and upset at the sight. (More optimistically, I'm hoping the poor little critter went dumpster diving and found somebody's discarded raspberry sauce, but I'm not getting close enough to figure it out.)
Sarah asked me to call Animal Control, which of course I was happy to do. Imagine my relief as the person on the phone reassured me that those fine, dedicated public servants would "send someone as soon as possible." When I relayed the news to Sarah and her family, all the poor thing could say was "I hope come soon." Me too, Sarah. Me too.
I live in a neighborhood that's wonderfully rich with the sounds and smells of several cultures, most notably Vietnamese. My immediate neighbors are a woman about my age (American name is Sarah), her elderly parents and a fairly typical Vietnamese rotation of adult children and their spouses, in and out of the house from time to time. They're lovely people and I adore them. We try to scale the language barrier whenever we can, and I honestly consider them friends. In fairness, I don't speak Vietnamese, and, as has been said "their English are seldom." But we all try, and it's easy to feel the spirit behind the halting words and missed translations.
This morning at some unspeakable hour, Sarah called me. She was clearly upset, stammering out something about needing my help with "that animal." At first I thought maybe my dog had barked and disturbed them, but further half-sentences revealed that it was "that animal--look like cat look like rat."
Out I ran, all gorgeous with my bare face, dirty hair and oh-so-fuzzy grey robe with sheep all over it. The neighbors were similarly clad, Grandpa in his jammies and all the ladies in various stages of early-morning deshabille. As it turned out, an opossum appeared to be bleeding (severely) in their driveway and these poor folks were rattled and upset at the sight. (More optimistically, I'm hoping the poor little critter went dumpster diving and found somebody's discarded raspberry sauce, but I'm not getting close enough to figure it out.)
Sarah asked me to call Animal Control, which of course I was happy to do. Imagine my relief as the person on the phone reassured me that those fine, dedicated public servants would "send someone as soon as possible." When I relayed the news to Sarah and her family, all the poor thing could say was "I hope come soon." Me too, Sarah. Me too.
posted by jillsifer | January 03, 2015
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