The 1939 Story of Rudolph

In this episode - The 1939 Story of Rudolph . . .

Everyone knows Rudolph was the last reindeer to join Santa's team, but few people know about the department store copywriter who brought his story to the world.

The year was 1939, the Great Depression was waning, and a manager at Montgomery Wards in Chicago, Il. decided that the store should create its own children's book for the annual holiday promotion. Free to kids who came to see Santa Claus.

The boss tapped Robert L. May, an ad man for the store, to take a crack at a story. May always a hit at holiday parties for his way with limericks and parodies. But May didn't see himself as a winner. He had always felt like a bit of an outcast, and, at 35, he thought he was far from reaching his potential, pounding out catalog copy instead of writing the Great American Novel as he had always dreamed he would.

The now-famous story of a misfit reindeer named Rudolph turned his “nonconformity" of a large shiny red nose to advantage and saved Christmas by leading Santa's sleigh through a foggy Christmas night.

Here is the Original version by Robert L. May - Enjoy!

However, it wasn't the Montgomery Wards book that made Rudolph famous. It just so happened that May's brother-in-law (Johnny Marks) was a songwriter. May talked him into writing a song about Rudolph.

That song was recorded on June 27, 1949, by the singing cowboy Gene Autry. It sold more than 25 million copies and paved the way for the classic Rankin/Bass stop-animation film.

Thanks to Rudolph, Robert May's family was taken care of financially through the end of his life and beyond.

And as for Rudolph, well, as they say, he went down in history.

I'm Patrick Ball; Merry Christmas. See you in the next episode.

Comments

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...

Rediscovering the Magic of Summer . . .

Summer mornings, especially on a holiday weekend, have a special magic. The air is cool, the world quiet, and the day full of possibilities. This July 4th weekend, Lori and I decided to capture a bit of that magic by beating the holiday traffic with an early morning bicycle ride. We went through our usual pre-flight checklist: Stretched out the morning stiffness. Filled the water bottles. Strapped on the helmets. Checked the tires. Three tires passed inspection. The fourth had apparently declared independence. The rear tire on my e-bike was flatter than a Kansas highway. “Well, it looks like we’re not riding today,” Lori said, with the calm acceptance of someone who had already mentally promoted coffee to the day’s main event. “Why not?” I replied. “I’ll ride my old bike.” She gave me that look —the one that safely translates as, "Are you sure about this? " “Absolutely,” I said. “Why not?” I dragged the bike stand out and surveyed my options. One glance at the aggressive gear...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

Misfits at Halloween

In this episode - Misfits at Halloween . . . It’s autumn, and Halloween is approaching - how do you capture the experience, the smells, the rustling sounds of multicolored falling leaves, the quiet, peaceful feeling, the solitude of life in a small town? News flash, I’m here to tell you it’s not always as tranquil as sentimental storytellers like to depict it. Admittedly, like all agrarian communities, Cuba had its pranksters. Thankfully, though, in our small, rural farming community of the late 1960s and early 70s, I’m happy to report there was no teen violence, no gang shootings, and no serious vandalism. Well, ok, we did torment the local policeman, who we dubbed Barney Fife (I don’t remember his name). In the fall, most families would have harvested their gardens by Halloween, but inevitably, there would be leftovers. A group of us would hide behind Jim Welch’s garden fence on Main Street and hurl the leftover, soft, rotten tomatoes at Barney’s squad car as he patrolled the town. F...

On The Fly

Search This Blog