Mother Goose Day

by Kerry Blair

I'd planned to continue this week's theme by blogging about the conference and the Whitney awards. In fact, I lay awake half the night thinking about what to write and how best to put it. But on my way to the computer this morning I flipped over the calendar page, stopped, and stared. Today is May 1! It's a red letter day; one of the best holidays of the whole year. Today is, boys and girls, children of all ages, Mother Goose Day!

I ask you, how in good conscience can I let such an auspicious occasion pass without comment? Now I'll answer that question myself: I simply can't.

Although the "holiday" itself isn't even a quarter-century old, and was originally tied to a marketing gimmick for a book, the date was based on folklore from the mid 17th century. (Meaning this quaint custom was in in vogue when the first Mother Goose rhymes began to circulate.) Many of my goose-owning, Goose-quoting ancestors must have believed that a wish made on a goose on May Day (May 1) would certainly come true.

Today is May Day, and who are we to argue with wisdom of the ages? If you have a wish that needs granting (don't we all?) the first thing you have to do is find a goose. (I have two, if that helps.) Then, while looking said fowl in the eye, call out loudly: Mother Goose, Mother Goose, go and set my good wish loose! If the goose runs away, your wish will come true.

Oh, wait! You'd better not try it with my geese. They were raised in our family room from the time they were a day old. (Yes, really. Doesn't everybody keep poultry in the house?) Subsequently, even though we relocated the goslings to the poultry barn about the time they reached my height, they've never met a person they don't love. It's much more likely that Simba and Nala (African geese, don't you know) will follow you home than it is they'll run away with your wishes. I suggest you try your luck with a park or lake goose instead.

But back to Mother Goose Day 2009. A little errata: There may or may not have been a "real" Mother Goose. There was a "Mother Goose" buried in London at the right time period, but there is also a Boston woman who claimed the honor. (That her son published books of Mother Goose rhymes makes that latter lady a little suspicious to me.) There is little argument that regardless of whence they originated, the stories and ditties passed through the ages were penned by many authors, some of them famous enough to surprise you. (Okay. Maybe not you, but me for sure.) The only thing that surprises me more is that after almost 500 years of sharing a charming cultural phenomena, these stories and rhymes are in danger of disappearing within a generation or two.

When I wrote "surprised" I meant "dismayed."

Case in point: a couple days ago at Cubs I watched a boy stick his thumb into a cup of dutch oven cobbler and then lick the gooey treat off his finger. Smiling, I said, "Little Jack Horner sat in a corner."

He said, "We're outside. And my name is Tyler."

I said, "Uh, huh. I was quoting a nursery rhyme."

He said, "What's a nursery rhyme?"

I said, "You know, Mother Goose."

Tyler clearly didn't know Mother Goose. (But ask him about Pokemon or Transformers and then try to shut him up.) This disturbing exchange led to an impromptu survey right on the spot. Of the dozen boys gathered around the dutch oven, only two could recite a rhyme associated with Mother Goose. Two more were familiar with Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein, but while it was admirable, I just couldn't count it. All the rest of those kids had presumably grown up (with "grown up" being a relative term for 8 to 10-year-olds) with wild things and hungry caterpillars, but no Mother Goose.

See why it's so important we latter-day parents, grandparents, and authors support this day for all we're worth?

The preface to The Only True Mother Goose Melodies (1843) is illustrated by a beak-nosed woman and two young children. It reads:

Hear What Ma'am Goose Says!

My dear little blossoms, there are now in this world, and always will be, a great many grannies besides myself, both in petticoats and pantaloons, some a deal younger to be sure; but all monstrous wise, and of my own family name. These old women, who never had a chick nor child of their own, but who always know how to bring up other people's children, will tell you with very long faces, that my enchanting, quieting, soothing volume, my all-sufficient anodyne for cross, peevish, won't-be-comforted little bairns, ought to be laid aside for more learned books, such as they could select and publish. Fudge! I tell you that all their banterings can't deface my beauties, nor their wise pratings equal my wiser prattlings; and all imitators of my refreshing songs might as well write a new Billy Shakespeare as another Mother Goose; we two great poets were born together, and we shall go out of the world together. No, no, my Melodies will never die, While nurses sing or babies cry.

They won't if I have anything to say about it. Quick! Tell me what you best remember about Mother Goose! (And drop by on Sunday -- our "off day" -- for my thoughts on the Whitneys!)