“gossamer” – of medieval feasting, a humble saint and floating spider webs

The starting point for this adventure is Lois Lowry's children's novel by the same title. I found myself doubting my understanding of this word, gossamer. Filmy, transparent, yes . . . the phrase "gossamer wings" flitted through my brain. A friend of mine had applied the word to her recent dreams. Fortunately, I overcame laziness and rose from my comfortable, lap-blanketed reading spot to heft open my New Oxford American Dictionary. And here, Dear Reader, begins our first journey together. This definition with its concise etymological entry opened a door to an enticing, far-off world. I couldn’t resist stepping through. Would you like to come along?

Surprised to be standing at the edge of a rustic village, we feel our pockets for our beeping electronic gadgets, but they are gone. Instead, a chime of bells from the tallest tower proclaims the time. We see thousands of leaves in russets and golds, feel the warmth of the sun above them, and hear the sharp squawking and flapping of geese interplay with brusque, boisterous voices up ahead. A glinting movement catches our eye, and we spy strands of silk floating, revealing the gentle hand of the wind.

We have arrived in late autumn in medieval Britain, and as we enter the village, we hear joyful chatter about the turn in the weather: Use every minute to bring in the harvest, they say, before the second frost hits. Just look at those webs covering the bushes and grasses -- you can tell it’s almost St. Martin’s day. "This goose summer sure makes it easier to prepare for Martinmas," says one portly missus to her neighbor. "How are you going to cook your bird this year?" her companion asks. "With apples again, and onion," she replies.

And now you are turning to me for explanation, which I am bursting to share. For I myself searched for several answers to arrive here. First, though, isn’t it fascinating to be in a place and time where people mark life by the signs of nature and the nearest feast day? I imagine trading my literacy of the written word and my personal iCalendar for a literacy of the natural world, and a cultural adherence to the Church’s liturgical calendar. Mix in the anticipation of an annual roast bird, and we have the recipe for one deliciously complex word history.

St. Martin’s feast day is November 11, and that day, Martinmas (the mass of St. Martin), informally marked the end of the harvest and the beginning of winter. “St. Martin’s summer” is an old English expression for a period of calm, warm weather in early November after the first frost (as opposed to “St. Luke’s summer” which refers to the same type of weather, but in October near St. Luke’s feast day). The American term “Indian summer” has a similar meaning, without the harness to a particular month.

Now, St. Martin himself has an entertaining life story, for a fourth century cleric. A humble man, he refused to become bishop of Tours, and supposedly tried to hide so that his zealous supporters couldn’t crown him by force. Unfortunately for him, he concealed himself near some loudmouthed (or rather, loudbeaked) geese that promptly gave him away. Party for this reason, the goose became a symbol of St. Martin – the patron saint of geese and vintners, among other fortunate beings. And so, what better dish to serve on Martinmas, the main feast day before Advent, than a succulent roast goose (accompanied by wine, of course)!

Here is where the common people add their spice to the story. Looking forward to that main course, they dubbed a “St. Martin’s summer” the Middle English word gosesomer –“goose summer,” literally. (We have to remember, Dear Reader, that our new medieval friends probably don’t consume meat on a daily basis.) That warm snap in weather meant it was time to start fattening the bird.

But another element enters the scene, or rather dominates – the cobwebs of tiny spiders floating on the calm breeze. These were ubiquitous in early November in this region, and evidently more reliable than the fickle weather for indicating when to prepare the goose. How do we know? Because the people transferred the name gosesomer to these webs.

So now you nod at me with a knowing smile, and we turn to listen to the villagers verbally bestow the rich symbolism of weather, saints and feasts upon these filmy, silken strands. Our sojourn here complete, we turn back toward the present, meandering so we can witness the word’s gradual detachment from these symbols, tethers loosened by generations of speech and imagination. Then we watch as immigrants carry it to the New World, where only the symbolism of the webs themselves remains, and the linguistic transformation from “goose summer” to “goss-a-mer” is complete.

I am so glad that you joined me on my first adventure. I was tempted to wander off on some side trails, such as to the Basilica of St. Martin in Tours, France, where I once physically stood, and toward an understanding of the expression “my goose is cooked.” But for now, these paths lie untouched, hidden by the gossamer curtain that veils the unexpressed and unexplored.

Until next time, when we’ll clear more webs away –

Ety