One Christmas Tune, All That Trauma.
A Geezer’s Notebook, By Jim Foster
I believe last week I was discussing the Little Drummer Boy.
Today I was out for a walk and for no particular reason I was humming Christmas carols.
But as I strolled I realised I was now deep in the throes of that old favourite, ‘I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus’ surely one of the most tragic songs ever written about Christmas. Why? Because it highlights a problem that still exists today – although not in Orillia, thank God ― seasonal infidelity and marriage breakdown. The lyrics tear us apart.
But if we are ever going to learn about the emotional damage to young children caused by indiscriminate affairs, we have to delve into these troubled relationships.
I’m sure you remember little Jimmy Boyd, a young country singer from the backwaters of the Mississippi, he sang the song. Jimmy was just a teenager at the time, barely 14 years old when he came upon this disgusting example of Yuletide lust and depravity.
And, I’m sorry to tell you this but Jimmy was also one of the homeliest children ever to draw breath. In a caring society he would have been put down. By the time he reached puberty he looked like Howdy Doody without the strings and Buffalo Bob’s hand up his bum.
I suspect young Jimmy was the result of a drunken coupling of his old lady and the tooth-shy hillbilly kid from the movie, Deliverance. If you will remember, that little lad was also not what one would call a pretty child, nor was he particularly bright.
His sole accomplishment in life was to play the banjo and remember to pull his overalls down before relieving himself over a log.
You know the words of the song, I’m sure. Little Jimmy Boyd comes down stairs to have a pee…
I’m sorry, to have a peek. I have a small bladder problem and it occasionally spills over into my chain of thought – and my socks too come to think of it.
This poor little boy, who is still dealing with the fact that his mother, whom he adores, sleeps naked with his father, and once in a while his Uncle Clem, suddenly comes across her locked in an embrace with a complete stranger.
Not only does Jimmy have to face the fact that this dear sweet mother, who was so protective of his immortal soul that she made him wear oven mitts to bed, is carrying on with some old geezer in a red suit. No wonder the boy’s voice went up an octave and a half.
As if the old dolly sleeping around isn’t bad enough, she is now putting the make on another species. We know from the poem that Santa is a jolly old elf. If she wants to jump the bones of her next door neighbour, that’s one thing, but my God girl, keep it in the human race.
And what does she see in him anyway? He is not exactly Brad Pitt, as I’m sure you have noticed. He’s not even Nicholas Cage who has the saddest eyes in Hollywood. He always looks like someone shot his dog.
His cheeks are all rosy. His nose looks like a cherry and yours would too if you drank two quarts of cheap wine a day. His clothes are all covered in ashes and soot. My God, it would be like rolling a chimney sweep. And no doubt there is an aroma about old Nicholas of fresh evergreen with a hint of reindeer poop.
And to top it off the silly old fart is a pipe smoker. What was she thinking? Kissing the old goat would be like licking an ashtray. Plus he had been blowing second hand smoke on eight tiny reindeer and that is a crime especially now, during a pandemic.
Old Santa wasn’t what we would call physically fit either “with a little round belly that shook when he laughed like a bowl full of jelly”.
What if she hauled the old geezer down on the couch and he had a heart attack? Now wouldn’t that look nice on the 11 o’clock news with the police, the fire department and the ambulance all showing up with lights flashing and sirens howling. He won’t have medical insurance.
Who would insure him? He’s 400 years old still driving, a smoker and over-weight plus he’s running around on his wife and that’s just asking to get shot. Now Jimmy’s old man gets stuck with a hospital tab that would knock your socks off to pay the bill of a guy making moves on his wife while he was tucked in his bedroom fast asleep.
You guys out there better think about that. The next time you are asleep and you hear the bride get up in the middle of the night, you better stick your head out the window to make sure there isn’t a sleigh parked on the roof.
But what kind of emotional damage did little Jimmy Boyd suffer that terrible evening in 1952 when he slipped down stairs, hoping to shake a few presents? After all he was still a kid, maybe even had a sip of Billy Carter beer his folks left out for old Santa?
It is a long-standing tradition in most civilised countries to leave Santa a beer and maybe a hit of single malt scotch if it’s below zero. Lots of people leave him a drink, but not that many leave a wife decked out in a sheer negligee unless he’s been leaving a better class of presents at their house than the stuff we’ve been getting lately.
Jimmy Boyd eventually married but it only lasted a few years. He couldn’t get aroused unless he was wearing a red suit with fur around the cuffs and his wife was lying under a Christmas tree. Needless to say he didn’t get much in the summer time.
Mrs. Boyd had had enough. She ran off with the guy who lived next door then found out he couldn’t perform unless he wore an elf costume. Finally, she just gave up and spent the rest of her life drinking gin and reading Harlequin romances.
