This was
written years ago to amuse someone who was too polite to admit she wasn’t much
amused. Now it is your turn to not be much amused
Heard in my head last night, as I
sometimes do, a rendition of “Go Tell Aunt Rhody”, sung by a voice that was 2/3
Paul Robeson and 1/3 Placido Domingo (The even tenor of my days used to be a
bass, but now uses a bucket to carry a tune). This morning on the train I found
myself (I was right next to a small Japanese woman, in the middle of the train
car) thinking of the lyrics with ludicrous attention.
Go tell Aunt Rhody
Go tell Aunt Rhody
Go tell Aunt Rhody
The old grey goose is dead.
A command given in a plaintive
tune. To whom? Probably a child; the giving of such an abrupt command to an
adult would be an insult in most circumstances. The name Aunt Rhody, and the fact
that we’re concerned with a goose, suggests rural surroundings. Rhody may be a
genuine aunt, or simply an older woman of the neighborhood. The tune, which has
no mockery in it, suggests that the goose’s demise must be taken with the
utmost seriousness. An old goose, perhaps more canny than most (grey being
Wisdom’s color, the color of Athena’s eyes). Death has come into the garden,,
and wisdom is no defense.
The one she’d been saving
The one she’d been saving
The one she’d been saving
To make a feather-bed.
It’s hard to believe that anyone could
plan to make a feather bed from a single goose, no matter how well-plucked.
Various possibilities suggest themselves. 1. Aunt Rhody is 5 or 6 inches tall
(perhaps a field-sprite of some kind?) 2. Aunt Rhody makes miniature furniture.
3. Aunt Rhody is insane. (Note that none of these hypothesi exclude either or
both of the other two. Aunt Rhody may be an insane miniature supernatural
creature who makes furnishings for doll houses). Or perhaps the intent is ironic
– the goose was Rhody’s last possession, and the meaning is that the last hope
of comfort is gone from her.
The goslings are weeping
The goslings are weeping
The goslings are weeping
Because their mammy’s dead.
Geese
are not outside the circle of life. Death makes us all equal in the grief of
those who love us.
The gander is mourning
The gander is mourning
The gander is mourning
Because his wife is dead.
Microcosms
repeat macrocosms. The goose had a husband, not a mere mate, and he mourns.
(How? Black wing-band? Bordered stationary?) Note that the truth of this
statement is bolstered; said three times, we know it to be true. (See The Hunting of the Snark)
Go tell Aunt Rhody
Go tell Aunt Rhody
Go tell Aunt Rhody
The old grey goose is dead.
We
return to our beginning. The old grey goose is dead. Aunt Rhody (whom, we now
realize, may be God, Who observes the sparrow when it falls, the grey goose
when it dies) survives.
Sounds like you've plotted a new John Steinbeck novel.
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