Memories, Mondegreens, and Witnesses

I have left too many witnesses in my wake of ridiculous behavior that I will never live down. Most incidences do not involve alcohol or any other mind or conscience altering drug. Some do, however, involve alcohol or the aftermath of some of that wild elixir. 

My life is filled with memories and mondegreen’s, and the witnesses I have left behind.  A mondegreen is a misheard lyric or word. An example of that in my life is the AC/DC song Dirty Deeds. I am old enough to be a grandmother, I work with high school students, so I have indulged in a TikTok video or two where the person holds the sign up and say you will hear the word you read. Maybe that is a mondegreen as well. I really don’t know I haven’t done that much research on that phenomenon. And I am certain that I never will. I am too busy for those silly games. Before I forget, let’s talk about memories and mondegreens.

I am not yet a grandmother, but I am an aunt. One day late spring when my nephew, Dylan was visiting, we had the radio tuned to the Classic Rock Station. We were getting ready to play in the garden (dig and pull weeds). My version of play. I am pretty sure he felt differently about what constitutes play and fun. The song Dirty Deeds came on the radio, and I started singing along. Who wouldn’t? It’s a great song. Despite the fact that the lyrics are actually in the title, I sang along. “Dirty Jeans! Dirty Jeans! Dirty Jeans! Yeah! They’re Dungarees!”  He crinkled his nose at me as only an eleven-year-old could, shook his head and said, “what did you say? What are dungarees?” When I tried to explain, he rolled his eyes at me and made a tsking sound in my direction. He then schooled me for the rest of the day on the lyrics of not only that classic rock song, but oh, so many others. Here, all along, I thought I was the cool old lady to hang out with.  Yes, I left a witness and a mondegreen that I have not yet lived down. Any time we have more than three family members around or visiting, Dylan takes the time to solicit a laugh at his old aunt’s expense.

One other witness I left in my wake a long time ago was my college roommate, Carolyn. She has never let me live this one down. Once again, too many witnesses -This event happened in 1987. Yes, as I mentioned, I am old enough to be a grandmother! It was the day my other college roommate, Chrissy got married. It was the summer after we graduated from college. I vaguely remember they night Chrissy and her husband to be Micky met. I it happened to be my 20^th birthday and my senior year at Johnson State College. The reason I vaguely remember was because I had been drinking for free the entire night- the drinking age back then was still eighteen. We were at a bar in Stowe Vermont called The Rusty Nail. We often frequented the Nail because we had friends who tended bar, and it was an easy place to cause a little trouble, and drink for free- especially on a birthday.  I was so drunk that all I can really remember was sitting in the back seat all owl-eyed and trying to focus while Micky dove through driver’s side window of Chrissy’s car so she could take him home with us.  Lucky I was too drunk to hear how their relationship commenced in the room upstairs, but it did. They stayed in a that relationship, one that I believed to this day Chrissy intended it to be one of her many one-nightstands. This local boy whose family hailed originally from Quebec was a romantic through and through, and yes, nine months later they were getting married. She wasn’t pregnant. I think her mother would have committed murder if that were the case.

The day of the wedding, I may have been recovering from a hangover. I can’t say for sure; it was a long time ago. As we made our way through the reception line, it was the first of many. The years after college are fraught with weddings and babies. Micky’s dad was greeting the patrons of his son’s wedding. He was a sturdy man, thick with broad shoulders, a thick shock of gray and white hair that was parted on one side. Although he was dressed in a tuxedo, he still managed to carry a just out of bed look, disheveled and wrinkled, the tail of his shirt hung like a tongue from beneath his cummerbund.  His English was not that great, and my hearing wasn’t either, apparently. 

              As my other roommate Carolyn and I made it through the reception line congratulating the happy couple, their brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, and the whole entire family. Apparently, that’s what they do in Canada, everyone joins in to be congratulated. – Chrissy’s sister was the only one in her wedding party and Mickies other brother did the honors of best man on his side. We meandered down the line, making our congratulations, shaking hands with strangers and making up names for ourselves. Why not?

 “Such a lovely couple, what a beautiful ceremony, and Chrissy’s wedding gown! Beautiful”

Micky’s father reach out, grabbed me by the hand and pulled me close to him. He smelled like beer and cigarettes. I was pretty certain he has started the party before the ceremony even began.

              “Hello, Mr. Bourgeois, I’m Rachel Green from Johnson.”

              “Ah, you French?”

              “Um, no, I’m Irish.”

              “So, you aren’t French?”

              “No.” I shook my head, released his hand from my grip and walked away. I did not understand what my nationality has to do with anything.

              “God, you are such an idiot,” I hear Carolyn say from behind me.

              “What? Why? Why does it matter that I’m not French?”

              “Not French!” She cackled in my ear. “Not French! Stupid! He asked you if you were Friends! Meaning friends with the bride! I just I heard him turn to his wife and ask her, in French, ‘what the hell you were doing at his son’s wedding if you aren’t friends!’”. At that moment, I regretted the fact the Carolyn grew up on Derby Line in Northern Vermont and all of her relatives spoke French – so did she. I left too many witnesses in my wake.

              I did not try to go back and explain to Mr. Bourgeois, that I had misheard what he said, that I was indeed friends with the bride. I tried to avoid him; I was afraid to approach him. I could feel him glaring menacingly at me the entire reception. Evan when I started dancing to AC/DC and the state of my Dirty Jeans.