SPUGs

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The year was 1912 and the rampant commercialism of Christmas in America had begun to irritate the working women of New York City.

Americans had been exchanging holiday gifts for centuries, after the ritual became legal in 1680 following a ban by the Pilgrims, who considered it a crass anathema. By the 19th century Christmas gifts were a firmly entrenched tradition. But by 1911, when a few dozen women in New York City formed what would later be called The Society for the Prevention of Useless Giving, it had reached an early fever pitch.

The yearly emphasis on materialism annoyed the so-called Spugs, but there was also a practical complaint: the era’s custom of employees giving gifts to bosses and higher-ups in exchange for work favors. Frequently, these gifts didn’t run cheap, costing in some cases up to two weeks’ worth of wages, a tradition propelled in part by peer pressure that had grown only bigger with each passing year.

And so, with the help of two of New York richest women, the Spugs decided to strike back.

 “Are you a giver of Christmas gifts?” The New York Times reported on November 12, 1912. “If you are, do you give them in the true spirit of generosity or in the hope that you may get presents or favors in return? If that is the way you have been offering holiday remembrances, and if you wish to rebel against this hypocrisy, then you are eligible for membership in the Spug Club.”

The society was founded by Eleanor Robson Belmont, an actress whose husband’s family is the namesake of the Belmont Stakes, and Anne Morgan, the daughter of J.P. Morgan, one of the richest men who ever lived. The group began in 1911, with a few dozen female members, but exploded over the next year, growing to over 6,000, the New York Times reported then.

This growth was in part an expression of collective frustration, but it was effectively powered by the charisma of Belmont, who, in the 1900s, was one of the most famous stage actresses in America. She retired in 1910 after her marriage to August Belmont II, going on to become one of the “genuine grande dames” of Manhattan society, the Times said in her obituary. And while she would later become known as an early savior of the Metropolitan Opera, one of her first big philanthropic projects was helping out the Spugs.

What happened at the Spug meetings? Ice cream was served, for one thing, while women also took in what was then a novel form of entertainment: moving pictures. The rallies were also, at their root, about female solidarity, even if class divisions lingered, giving the occasions an air of maternalistic charity.

“Don’t call them ‘working girls,’” the philanthropist Gertrude Robinson Smith said at a meeting of over 1,000 Spugs in December 1912. “They are self-respecting, self-supporting women.” The Times went on to describe the meeting this way:

“At first it was difficult to single out the working girls. They were all as well dressed as their patronesses. In fact, all sister Spugs, patrons, and patroned looked alike to the reportorial eye. For the benefit of those who still think that the term Spugs is the name for some strange new bug, it must be explained that the letters stand for the Society for the Prevention of Useless Giving.”

The meetings continued, and by the following year, the Spug boom was in full force.

The organization initially was just for women, though men were later allowed in, mostly because of Theodore Roosevelt, who, in December 1912, became the first “man Spug,” prompting hundreds of others to join to movement to tamp down on Christmas gifts.”

Yet just two years later, the Spugs had scattered. War had erupted in Europe, and the attentions of Spug founders Belmont and Morgan—as well as the rest of the world—had shifted elsewhere. The Spug fad was over, though their point had been made, a message that wouldn’t seem out of date today.

Christmas Crackers

Home / Christmas / Christmas Crackers

Not the seasonal biscuit (we’ll learn about Animal Crackers on trees some other time), but rather a Christmas novelty popular in Britain and countries of the Commonwealth. A Christmas cracker takes the form of a small cardboard tube covered in decorative wrap and containing a strip of chemically-impregnated paper which, when pulled, creates a miniature explosive snap. When opened the cracker reveals a paper hat, a motto or joke and a small prize.

The cracker was invented in 1847 by a London confectioner named Tom Smith. The idea began with the “bon bon”, a French candy in a twist of paper. To this Smith added a small motto and then conceived the idea of a noise when throwing a log on a crackling fire. After much experiment Smith came up with the right chemical formula and the cracker was born. He soon discarded the candy and began to call his invention “cosaques”, after the crack of the Cossack whip.

Since the 1840s the Christmas cracker has contained mottos humorous, romantic, artistic and puzzling with prizes ranging from inexpensive plastic toys to decorated boxes to real musical instruments to expensive jewelry with special lines prepared annually for the Royal Family. It is now an indispensable part of Christmas dinner in millions of houses around the world, includingSweden when associated with “Knut’s parties”, are held at the end of the Christmas season.

A Christmas Lullaby

Home / Christmas / A Christmas Lullaby
A cheerful little Christmas ditty from Irishmen Shane MacGowan and the Popes.
 
It seems I could freeze-out, it seems like I’ll freeze.
Stumbling, I fell down and prayed on my knees.
The ice wagon’s coming to pick up the stiffs.
Had a chat with an ol’ one, he was gone in a jiff.
And Santa and his reindeer jumped over the moon,2
so, hush, little child, Santa’s coming here soon.
 
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral.
Too-ra-loo-ra-lie.
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral.
That’s the Christmas lullaby.
 
I hope you grow up angry, just like your dear old dad.
I hope you grow up brave and strong, not like me – all weak and sad.
You said “Daddy, daddy, you’re stinking of booze.”
I kissed him and said “Kid, I was born to lose;
but you have the future, and a big world to save,
and I hope you’ll remember all the love that I gave.”
 
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral.
Too-ra-loo-ra-lie.
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral.
That’s the Christmas lullaby.
 
Here’s to all the little kids who haven’t got no clothes.
Here’s to all the little kids who haven’t got no homes.
It’s Christmas time in Palestine, it’s Christmas in Beirut.
They’re scrapping ’round for rice, not for tutti-fruits.
And the Christmas lights, they blew up, now the lecky’s all gone dead,3
I look like a coal miner, and I’ve a pain inside my head.
 
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral.
Too-ra-loo-ra-lie.
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral.
That’s the Christmas lullaby.

Ballad of Harry Moore

Home / Christmas / Ballad of Harry Moore

Continuing our look at radical Christmas music, this is a poem by Langston Hughes commemorating the 1951 murder of Harry Moore and his wife, both workers for civil rights in Florida. The couple, both associated with the NAACP, had already lost their teaching jobs because of their activism. Their assassination was likely carried out by the Ku Klux Klan but no one was ever arrested for the crime. The poem was later set to music.

Florida means land of flowers.
It was on Christmas night
In the state named for the flowers
Men came bearing dynamite.

Men came stealing through the orange groves
Bearing hate instead of love,
While the Star of Bethlehem
Was in the sky above.

Oh, memories of a Christmas evening
When Wise Men traveled from afar
Seeking out a lowly manger
Guided by a Holy Star!

Oh, memories of a Christmas evenin
When to Bethlehem there came
“Peace on earth, good will to men”–
Jesus was His name.

But they must’ve forgotten Jesus
Down in Florida that night
Stealing through the orange groves
Bearing hate and dynamite.

It was a little cottage,
A family, name of Moore.
In the windows wreaths of holly,
And a pine wreath on the door.

Christmas, 1951,
The family prayers were said
When father, mother, daughter,
And grandmother went to bed.

The father’s name was Harry Moore.
The N.A.A.C.P.
Told him to carry out its work
That Negroes might be free.

So it was that Harry Moore
(So deeply did he care)
Sought the right for men to live
With their heads up everywhere.

Because of that, white killers,
Who like Negroes “in their place,”
Came stealing through the orange groves
On that night of dark disgrace.

It could not be in Jesus’ name,
Beneath the bedroom floor,
On Christmas night the killers
Hid the bomb for Harry Moore.

It could not be in Jesus’ name
The killers took his life,
Blew his home to pieces
And killed his faithful wife.

It could not be for the sake of love
They did this awful thing–
For when the bomb exploded
No hearts were heard to sing.

And certainly no angels cried,
“Peace on earth, good will to men”–
But around the world an echo hurled
A question: When?…When?….When?

When will men for sake of peace
And for democracy
Learn no bombs a man can make
Keep men from being free?

It seems that I hear Harry Moore.
From the earth his voice cries,
No bomb can kill the dreams I hold–
For freedom never dies!

I will not stop! I will not stop–
For freedom never dies!
I will not stop! I will not stop!
Freedom never dies!

So should you see our Harry Moore
Walking on a Christmas night,
Don’t run and hide, you killers,
He has no dynamite.

In his heart is only love
For all the human race,
And all he wants is for every man
To have his rightful place.

And this he says, our Harry Moore,
As from the grave he cries:
No bomb can kill the dreams I hold
For freedom never dies!

Freedom never dies, I say!
Freedom never dies!

Christmas in Washington

Home / Christmas / Christmas in Washington

For the next few days I will be posting Christmas song lyrics, but not of the usual seasonal variety. Featured will be the words of radical leftists using the holiday to advance one of their causes. We start with Steve Earle’s “Christmas in Washington” from his album El Corazon, issued in 1997 after the reelection of Bill Clinton.

It’s Christmas time in Washington
The Democrats rehearsed
Getting into gear for four more years
Things not getting worse
The Republicans drink whiskey neat
And thanked their lucky stars
They said, “He cannot seek another term
They’ll be no more FDRs”
And I sat home in Tennessee
Just staring at the screen
With an uneasy feeling in my chest
I’m wondering what it means

[Chorus]
So come back, Woody Guthrie
Now, come back to us now
Tear your eyes from paradise
And rise again somehow
If you run into Jesus
Maybe he can help you out
Come back, Woody Guthrie
To us now

[Verse 2]
I followed in your footsteps once
Back in my traveling days
Somewhere I failed to find your trail
Now I’m stumbling through the haze
But there’s killers on the highway now
And a man can’t get around
So I sold my soul for wheels that roll
Now I’m stuck here in this town

[Chorus]
Come back, Woody Guthrie
Come back to us now
Tear your eyes from paradise
And rise again somehow
If you run into Jesus
Maybe he can help us out
Come back, Woody Guthrie
To us now

[Verse 3]
There’s foxes in the henhouse
Cows out in the corn
The unions have been busted
Their proud red banners torn
To listen to the radio
You’d think that all was well
But you and me and Cisco know
It’s going straight to hell

[Chorus]
So come back, Emma Goldman
Rise up, old Joe Hill
The barricades are going up
They cannot break our will
Come back to us, Malcolm X
And Martin Luther King
We’re marching into Selma
As the bells of freedom ring

[Chorus]
So come back, Woody Guthrie
Come back to us now
Tear your eyes from paradise
And rise again somehow

Robertson Davies on Christmas Books

Home / Christmas / Robertson Davies on Christmas Books

The following by Canadian literary giant Robertson Davies appeared in the New York Times in December, 1991:

There are many people — happy people, it usually appears — whose thoughts at Christmas always turn to books. The notion of a Christmas tree with no books under it is repugnant and unnatural to them. I had the good luck to be born into such a family and, although my brothers and I were happy with such insubstantial gifts as skates, toboggans and the like, we would have been greatly disappointed if there had been no books. My father expected the latest Wodehouse, and some vast wad of political recollections — “The Life and Letters of Walter H. Page” when I was very young, and the awesome six volumes of Lloyd George’s war memoirs much later, were the sort of thing that he, and he alone in our family, could read — and my mother wanted and received novels of idyllic rural life by Mary Webb or Sheila Kaye-Smith.

For me, a standby for years was the annual collected volume of the English boys’ magazine Chums, through which I chewed greedily, consuming the historical serial (the boy who did wonders in the army of Wellington or the navy of Nelson); the contemporary serial (the boy whose mother sacrificed to send him to a good school — these were all boarding schools — and who emerged victorious from some scandal in which he had been accused of theft or secret drinking, and carried the school to victory in the great cricket match); the comic serial, about disruptive groups of boy conjurers, boy ventriloquists and boy contortionists who reduced their schools to chaos and their masters to nervous prostration by their sidesplitting japes and wheezes. These wondrous boys were not in the least like the boys I knew in Canada, but that merely gave them the appeal of the exotic. In between the pages of the serials, I read the articles about careers (civil servant, church organist, veterinarian) and about how to make a serviceable violin out of a cigar box and some picture wire.

I particularly relished a column of comic backchat between two wags named Roland Butter and Hammond Deggs. Here is a sample of their wares. R.B.: “Why did the djinn sham pain and whine?” H.D.: “I dunno.” R.B.: “Because the stout porter bit ‘er.” H.D.: “Oh, crumbs!” It was not until much later in life when I came under the spell of Demon Rum that I savored the full richness of that one.

Before Christmas there was always a period of expectancy during which my parents urged me to read Dickens’s “Christmas Carol.” Every year I tried and every year Christmas Day arrived to find that I had got no further than the appearance of Marley’s ghost. I was a slow reader, moving my lips and hearing every word, but I knew the story. It was inescapable. At school no Christmas passed without several children being dragooned into a re-enactment of the Cratchits’ Christmas dinner, for the entertainment of parents. Early in life I developed a distaste for the Cratchits that time has not sweetened. I do not think I was an embittered child, but the Cratchits’ aggressive worthiness, their bravely borne poverty, their exultation over that wretched goose, disgusted me. I particularly disliked Tiny Tim (a part always played by a girl because girls had superior powers of looking moribund and worthy at the same time), and when he chirped, “God bless us every one!” my mental response was akin to Sam Goldwyn’s famous phrase, “Include me out.”

Plough Monday

Home / Christmas / Plough Monday

In England, the first Monday after Twelfth Day, January 6, when agricultural labourers return to work and, in many places, when Christmas decorations were taken down. It was also a time when decorated ploughs were paraded through the villages to raise money for the purchase of candles used in blessing the coming agricultural year — a ceremony in which a plough was brought into the church — or just simply for a party to mark the end of the holidays. The men who dragged the plough were called Plough Stots, Bullocks, Jacks or Jags and the implement itself was called the Fool. Should anyone refuse to make a donation the men ploughed up the yard in front of the house in revenge.

The superstitious connection between the plough and the fertility that is desired for the fields is seen in the folk belief that young women who draw the plow or even sit on it or touch it would soon be married and blessed with children. A related custom in Rumania was called plugusorul — boys took decorated ploughs from house to house accompanied by bells and pipers.

Plough Monday in modern England is frequently the occasion for morris-dancing and St. George plays.

“Yes, Virginia, There Is a Santa Claus”

Home / Christmas / “Yes, Virginia, There Is a Santa Claus”

On September 21, 1897 The New York Sun, printed the following:

We take pleasure in answering thus prominently the communication below, expressing at the same time our great gratification that its faithful author is numbered among the friends of The Sun:

Dear Editor:

I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see it in The Sun, it’s so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?

Virginia O’Hanlon

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the scepticism of a sceptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

 Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The external light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies. You might get your papa to have men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if you did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest men, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

 No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

The unsigned editorial, later revealed to be the work of Francis Pharcellus Church, was not given any prominence that day — it was the seventh article on the page and ran below commentaries on New York and Connecticut politics, the strength of the British navy, chainless bicycles and a Canadian railroad to the Yukon — but it soon became famous around the world. The exchange between Church and Virginia O’Hanlon was reprinted every year until the newspaper ceased publication in 1950. Movies were made about the story; in 1932 NBC produced a cantata (probably the only editorial set to classical music); and in 1996 a musical by David Kirchenbaum and Myles McDonnel appeared.

Church (1839-1906) was a strange choice for the task, given him by editor William Mitchell.  The veteran reporter (he had been a war correspondent during the American Civil War) was childless and had had no particular bent toward Christmas philosophizing. Only on his death was he revealed to be the author of a piece of immortal Yuletide prose. Virginia O’Hanlon lived to a ripe old age and died in 1971.

Père Noël

Home / Christmas / Père Noël

In most of the France the gift-bringer is Père Noël, a tall old man with a white beard clothed more like England’s Father Christmas than the American Santa Claus: in a long hooded robe edged with white fur. Like Santa he carries a sack (in some areas, a basket) filled with toys but, lacking a sleigh and reindeer, he travels about with a donkey. On Christmas Eve he enters the house down the chimney and leaves presents for children underneath the tree or in their shoes which are placed by the crèche or the fireplace. It is customary for children to leave him a snack along with some fodder for his donkey. An earlier French gift-bringer was the figure representing the Christ Child known as Le Petit Jésus or Le Petit Noël but this has largely been displaced by Père Noël who first appeared under this name in 1855.

Begging Visits

Home / Christmas / Begging Visits

Ever since the Middle Ages people have used the Christmas season to go door-to-door soliciting charity in return for a song or good wishes for the coming year. In Alsace in 1462 visitors dressed as the Magi are recorded as having gone about on the eve of Epiphany. Sixteenth-century English sources noted the custom of the Wassail Wenches on Twelfth Night. In Yorkshire lads used to go “Christmas ceshing” — knocking on the door and shouting “Wish you a Merry Christmas, mistress and master.” Similar English begging visits were called “gooding”. “doling” or “mumping” and often took place on St Thomas Day. Plough Boys go begging on Plough Monday while the Silvesterklausen tradition in Switzerland takes place on New Year’s Eve. Klöpflngehen occurs in south Germany throughout Advent. In North America belsnickling and Newfoundland mumming sought hospitality more than charity. In Brazil the Reisados solicit donations for the celebration of Epiphany.

These visits were framed in such a way that a blessing was always exchanged for money or hospitality. In those cases where a gift was not forthcoming curses were often uttered. In pre-revolutionary Russia carolers sang kolyadki, songs of blessing that could turn into wishes for a bad harvest or sick cattle if little gifts were not forthcoming. On the Greek island of Chios groups of children revile the housewife who has run out of treats to pass out on Christmas Eve: they make uncomplimentary remarks and wish her cloven feet. Their remarks would be hard-pressed to surpass the venom of this malediction found on the Scottish island of South Uist:

The curse of God and the New Year be on you
And the scath of the plaintive buzzard,
Of the hen-harrier, of the raven, of the eagle,
And the scath of the sneaking fox.
The scath of the dog and cat be on you,
Of the boar, of the badger and of the ghoul,
Of the hipped bear and of the wild wolf,
And the scath of the foul polecat.

In central and eastern Europe the Star Boys still parade, though now the money collected is often directed toward Third World development. In the Austrian village of Oberndorf where “Silent Night” was first written, boatmen who were unable to work during the winter months used to go about at Christmas soliciting donations to see them through until spring. The custom died for a time when modern social welfare attitudes were adopted by the government but it was revived in the twentieth-century in a different form. Now groups of men walk round with their lanterns, bells and a Christmas crib atop a pole collecting money for charity. Even though the true begging visit has declined, Christmas is still the season for encouraging charity as shown by the example of the Salvation Army with its street-corner kettles.

Some social historians distinguish between those visitors who are seeking charity — such as the wassail wenches or those doleing or mumping on St Thomas Day — and those after only a spot of hospitality in return for good wishes — these latter they call “luck visits.” Customs such as wassailing or Nwefoundland mumming would fall into this category.