My neighbor stopped at my steps because I wanted to socialize with his dog. Audrey is a miniature dachshund and picky about the company she keeps. Should she deign to spend a moment with you, it would not insulate you from the possibility of an Audrey barkfest. I sat down on the step leading to my walkway, as Audrey is more comfortable when people don’t loom over her. I was wearing jeans that were ripped at the knee; Audrey sniffed at the skin showing through and Jeff and I got into a songfest. I sang, “O holey jeans,” and Jeff, one of the two people in Queen Audrey’s court, immediately added, “My shorts are showing through them.” We laughed about our instant collaboration on what Jeff called, “Yes, and.” When he walked away with the Queen, he added a line: “These are the jeans that I’ve had since my youth.” I chuckled about that and went inside to write it down.
On another day, my youngest grandchild was at my house when Jeff and Beth strolled by with Audrey. Myah asked of them (as she does of every dog-walker) “Can I pet your doggie?” Beth gave me the customary cautions regarding the Queen and brought Audrey to let Myah pet her. Audrey immediately broke into her foot-long hot dog barkage, and a frightened Myah flew crying into my arms. Later that evening, Beth brought Myah a stuffed toy dachshund as a palliative for the yappage that Audrey had delivered to her. On a later pass-by, I gave Jeff a card that Myah had made for Beth, thanking her for the stuffed dog, which she had named Audrey. When Jeff saw the inscription on the front of the envelope — “I love you Miss Beth!” — he said, “You’re gonna make her cry!”
I interrupted the Queen and her court on another stroll-by and told Jeff that I wasn’t going to continue to develop “Oh, Holey Jeans,” as I was leery of causing offense by rewriting the words to a spiritual. Beth and Jeff dropped some knowledge on me about the “Battle Hymn Of The Republic.” On a trip to Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia, they learned that the song had been composed by writer and poet Julia Ward Howe and was based on a soldiers’ marching song: “John Brown’s Body.” The tune was about a Civil War abolitionist, whose body “lies a-moldering in the grave,” while his “soul goes marching on.” The lyrics of Howe’s song were more spiritual than the soldiers’ camp song, though “Glory, Hallelujah” is featured in both. That information gave me some pause, and as the Queen continued along the street with her attendants marching behind her, I reconsidered the development of the song about “holey jeans.”
In a December 2018 column, I wrote “Oh, Holy Night,” a memory of the birth of my first daughter — whose conception was difficult — on December 22nd. I did not consider the religious nature of the title, though I am familiar with the song, having sung it often in churches and many nights on front lawns while out caroling. But before I was finished noodling on this column, I had occasion to pull on my holey jeans again; my left big toe got caught in the rip and enlarged it. I thought of Audrey’s follower, Jeff, and how he might have added to our “Holey Jeans” song collaboration. My thoughts were cruder than his might have been: “Oh, holey jeans, my toenail snagged a line here; my knobby knee can be sniffed by the Queen…”
I better stick to my day job.
cjon3acd@att.net