A “Just So” story.
In the Common Era year 1916, the Rev. Dr. William Archibald Spooner, Warden of New College, Oxford University, Greater London, England, visited the United States of America. The details of the visit are unknown. However, the First World War was raging at the time, and London was at risk of bombing raids from German airships. A trip across the then-wide Atlantic Ocean to the then-safe, then-neutral USA probably seemed like a good idea at the time – the Lusitania notwithstanding.
At the time, holidays were usually supposed to be happy, and people said so. “Happy New Year”. “Happy Valentine’s Day”. “Happy Independence Day”. “Happy Thanksgiving”. “Happy Birthday” (the associated song had first been inflicted upon an unsuspecting world four years prior). Christmas was no different, and people wished each other a “Happy Christmas” – as they still do in England to this day.
The Rev. Dr. Spooner, a gentle and respectful soul, venerated by all who knew him, would have been no different from everybody else, and doubtless, during a function in his honor in New York City during the Christmas season, which, then as now, could have been on any date on the calendar after Labor Day, wished everyone the compliments of the season.
Alas, on this occasion, the affliction which now bears the worthy gentleman’s name interfered. And what was supposed to be “Happy Christmas” came out,
Crappy Histmas.
This utterance [ahem] did not have the desired effect. In deference to the old fellow’s reputation and memory, those present resolved to forget the occurrence, and all official records of the words, the speech in which they were spoken, and the event that occasioned the speech, have been expunged.
Mortified, Spooner retreated to the home at which he was staying, and, having free access to the bar, opted to pour himself a restorative. Having heard from his hosts about tequila, he decided, though a poor mixologist, to experiment with a recipe he had overheard. He got out the tequila, orange liqueur, lime juice, crushed ice, and a shaker. He mixed, shook, poured.
The drink was cloudy, like a mist over the mountains after a rain. And prominently, noisily, vibrantly red.
“Now what?”, he moaned inwardly. He turned back to the bar, reviewed the ingredients he had pulled out to mix his drink.
Tequila. Tick.
Orange liqueur. Tick.
Ice. Tick.
Lime juice … whut? He looked more closely at the bottle.
He had pulled out cherry juice instead.
Shaking his head, he took a sip. “Distinct essence of cough syrup”, he muttered. “But cough syrup cures what ails you, I guess this will too.” He put the glass to his lips.
“Dr. Spooner?”
The venerable gentleman turned to the door of the room that held the bar. In it was framed the debutante eldest daughter of his host’s family. She had evidently been searching for him.
“Ah!” she exclaimed. “There you are! We’re glad you’re all right. We’re so sor …” At this point, she saw the drink in Spooner’s hand. “What have you got there?”
The Rev. Dr. Spooner held up his glass in a ceremonial position, and prepared to tell the beautiful young lady the name of the drink that he had just created. “A Cherry Mist, miss.”
It came out “A Merry Christmas”.
The name stuck, and the rest is history.