By Jim Hagarty
1989
So many questions from our early childhood education remain unanswered.
For example, what was Little Red Riding Hood’s real name? Obviously, Little Red was a nickname, so what was her actual first name? And her last two names? They don’t make any sense. Unless her mother was a Riding and her father was a Hood. But in that case, Riding-Hood would be hyphenated, wouldn’t it?
In the story, the little girl wasn’t riding anything on her way to her grandma’s house so Riding can’t refer to that. I suppose, her name might describe the little red hood she wore that would ride up on her neck.
But even if we knew all that, we still are waiting after all this time to find out the grandmother’s name. The author gives us not a clue. Neither is there any indication where on earth Ms. Hood and her granny and the big, bad wolf lived. Or what year the incident described in the story took place.
To a newspaper editor, these are all questions that should have been answered and while I found the Riding Hood fable entertaining when I was a child, I now realize what a bad piece of journalism it was.
The same shoddy writing accompanies other children’s literary figures including Little Boy Blue, Goldilocks and The Three Bears and Jack and The Beanstalk.
So when a four-year-old niece recently began singing Old MacDonald Had A Farm for me, I’d had enough. No more vague generalities about these popular characters would do. I wanted answers.
So, I started asking questions, like a journalist would. To my surprise, information I had never been able to come up with before, was readily available from my little relative.
“This Old MacDonald guy,” I said to Anne. “What’s his first name, anyway?”
She paused only briefly, before replying without further hesitation or even a trace of doubt.
“Fernisie.”
“Old McDonald’s first name is Fernisie?
“Yes,” she said.
“I see,” said I. “Is Fernisie married?”
“Yes,” said Anne.
“And what’s his wife’s name?” I pressed.
“Kenny,” she said, with as much assurance as if she was repeating her own name.
“I see,” I said. “Fernisie and Kenny MacDonald. I never knew their names.
“Tell me, how old is Fernisie?”
“Three.”
“And how old is Kenny?”
“Five.”
“No kidding? And where do they live?”
“In a school,” said Anne.
“But I thought you said old MacDonald had a farm?”
“He does, but he also has a school.”
“Uh huh. Well, how long has he owned this farm?”
“He bought it 50 years ago,” said Anne. Not a bad accomplishment for a three-year-old farmer and his five-year-old wife, I thought.
As Anne ran full speed from the living room to the den and back again, I could sense the interview was nearing an end. Like a radio station at night the reception was starting to fade in and out.
Still, I needed to know more.
“What colour hair does Fernisie MacDonald have?” I ventured.
“Yellow,” exclaimed Anne with a tone that betrayed a certain level of irritation at my persistent curiosity. I was able to find out that F. and K. MacDonald had a dog that said “moo, moo” a lot; in fact, it said it here, there and everywhere, but after that, the station faded out for good. Just when I was really getting somewhere.
Still, I have enough to start my story.
“A source close to Old MacDonald revealed today …”
