The problem with growing old is an increasing awareness, particularly at Christmas time, of the growing number of empty chairs at the feast. The number of absent friends far exceeds the number of those present. This can lead to a sense of isolation, as if one is merely an onlooker at someone else’s party. Which does less than justice to the generosity of the revellers, who spare no effort to persuade you to share the fun and games. But it is undeniable that the bottle of Grouse Whisky of 2011, though received with relish and gratitude, fails to generate the same excitement as the cowboy hat, gauntlets and pop-gun of 1932. Discovered by the 7 year old boy long before the appointed hour, his excitement carried him into his parent’s bedroom in the middle of the night where he flashed his torch at the sleeping pair, pointed the gun and cried out with enthusiasm only to find that his alarmed parents were less enthusiastic about this present from Santa Claus.
A few years later,at a Christmas gathering of children and parents in the church hall of St Peter’s Harton I was expected, as a choirboy to contribute to the sing-song. I duly obliged with a heart-rending favourite of the day which would certainly have been Christmas No 1 had there been such a thing at the time….
“He”s the little boy that Santa Claus forgot, and goodness knows he didn’t want a lot. He sent a note to Santa for some soldiers and a gun,it broke his little heart when he found Santa hadn’t come.
Now in the street he envies all those lucky boys, and wanders home to last years broken toys,
I’m so sorry for that laddie,he hasn’t got a daddy, he’s the little boy that Santa Claus forgot”.
It was a time when we were slowly recovering from the Great Depression and not yet gearing up for war .They were times of hardship for many – a popular song of the day “Buddy can you spare a dime?” reminds us that the USA was also suffering.
But small boys were more interested in cowboys and they needed little more than a six-shooter and holster to safeguard them from marauding Indians, provided that they were accompanied by a cowboy hat, neckerchief and gauntlets.
Girls had yet to invade their territory.
My name is Charles Ramsay. I left the north-east 55 years ago, thinking not to return. Now in my 80s I decided to do so. This blog is about that decision.
Wish you’d posted this earlier. TK Max had a deal on cowboy hats. You might be stuck with socks.
Socks will be just fine
Uncle Chas – Ross directed me to this blog which I was going to read and not comment on – until I read on and realised, very sadly, that if I didn’t let you know now that I had read it and was very pleased to hear of you and of your life now, it might be too late. So – Happy Christmas, greetings from Hampshire.