Last week I posted a photo of a sign hanging on Main Street in Jonesborough. An arrow pointing up a little side street to the “Febuary B & B.” My caption read: “I love egregious typos.”
On Saturday I mentioned the sign to a gentleman who was familiar with the town and its citizens, and he told me that the family whose name has for generations been pronounced as it is spelled –”Feb-Yew-Airy” — has, for generations, had to defend their good name from frustrated copy editors, such as I, who are quick to pounce and poke fun.
I empathize with the Febuary descendants.
I’m the oldest “Megan” I know, and I do remember a childhood and adolescence of misspellings and mispronunciations. In college, when I got hired at Disneyland, the costume department didn’t have a “Megan” name tag, so they gave me one that said “Midge.” Five letters. Starts with M. Close enough.
And then, face down on the asphalt between the costume shop and the locker room, there lay an orphaned name tag. I picked it up and read, “Gordy.” For the nine months I worked in the Magic Kingdom, that was my name.
Nobody misspelled it. Nobody mispronounced it.