P. J. ORourke - The Christmas Virtues: A Treasury of Conservative Tales for the Holidays

Templeton Press
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2015 by Templeton Press
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eISBN: 978-1-59947-506-6

Printed in the United States of America
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For Cordelia Mary, my princess

Contents

Jonathan V. Last

Rob Long

P. J. ORourke

Joe Queenan

Andrew Ferguson

Christopher Caldwell

Sonny Bunch

Matt Labash

David Iowahawk Burge

Heather Wilhelm

Stephen F. Hayes

Toby Young

Jonah Goldberg

Larry Miller

Joseph Epstein

Michael Graham

Christopher Buckley

Mollie Hemingway

Kirsten Powers

James Lileks

Acknowledgments

SO HERE WE ALL ARE. Third times the charm.

Every writer secretly wants to do a trilogy at some point in his career, and after The Seven Deadly Virtues and The Dadly Virtues, this book was almost called Revenge of the Virtues. But Susan Arellano had a better idea.

I owe large debts to two women for this book, and the first is to Susan, the mastermind of Templeton Press. She was a good friend before we published this series and is now pretty much family. And not only that, but the entire idea for The Christmas Virtues was hers. Theres no trilogy without Susan. And not just her, but her entire team at Templeton Press, especially Trish Vergilio, who produced this book on an impossible schedule, Toms Puyans and Angelina Horst, who did a million little things to smooth the way, and Bob Land, who has copyedited the entire series with care and precision.

And of course, there wouldnt be a Templeton Press without the wonderful support of the John Templeton Foundation and Sir John Templeton, Dr. Jack Templeton, and Heather Templeton Dill. My deep thanks to them as well.

Thanks also to my dear friend Adam Keiper, of the New Atlantis, who stepped in to help me with my introduction at a difficult moment. And to my bosses at the Weekly Standard, Bill Kristol and Fred Barnesnot only for taking me in as a wayward youth and making my adult life possiblebut for putting together a magazine full of brilliant writers I could conscript.

It was great fun rounding up the gang for one last mission. If you read either The Dadly Virtues or The Seven Deadly Virtues, youll know almost everyone in this book: Rob Long, James Lileks, P. J. ORourke, Christopher Buckley, Andrew Ferguson, Christopher Caldwell, Matt Labash, Stephen Hayes, Jonah Goldberg, Mollie Hemingway, David Burge, Joe Queenan, Sonny Bunch, Larry Miller, Michael Graham, Joseph Epstein, and Toby Young are all old friends by now. Im grateful to them for coming along on this adventure.

But we did add two new writers this time around: Kirsten Powers and Heather Wilhelm. Ive admired them both for years and am privileged to have them on the team and count them as friends now, too.

The other big debt is due to my dear wife, Shannon. I always say that shes my editor of first and last resort, but its true. Shes one of the most gifted editors (and writers) I know. Her fingerprints are all over this book, though youd never know it, because shes that good. Unless youre a writer, you cant imagine what a comfort it is to have so much talent sleeping next to you every night. And in addition to everything else, she is my love.

Cody John Paul (age seven) and Emma Elisabeth (age two) were not quite as helpful, though they each did their bit. It was Cody who revealed to me the deep ontological truths of Christmas on the day, just after Easter, that he came into the world. And Emma, who narrowly avoided being born on December 25th, was the best Christmas present Ill ever get.

My final thanks goes to Cordelia Mary, who is five, and to whom this book is dedicated. Like Britain and the United States, Cordelia and I have always had a special relationship. An example: A year ago or so, she and I had a rare moment of conflict, at the conclusion of which she shouted, My heart is mad at you.

In a not-perfect moment of parenting, I retorted, My heart is mad at you, too.

Cordelia stared at me, blue eyes blazing. And then she said, slowly, deliberately, and with stony finality, Well, your mad heart still belongs to me.

It did. It does. And it always will. I love you, my Red. All the way.

JVL

Introduction

The Miracle of Christmas

Jonathan V. Last

I WAS RAISED Catholic and educated by Quakers, but as a child, my real devotion was to the Church of Santa Claus.

At home, my Catholicism was mostly cultural, the kind of legacy birthright that came standard-issue for South Jersey kids in the 1980s. We went to church on Christmas and Easter and, occasionally, during ordinary time. The pope was a figure of distant admiration. When my grandfather was particularly agitated he would mutter Jesus, Mary, and Josephthough always more in the spirit of perturbation than petition.

At school the Quakers believed, theoretically, in Christmas. They would put a tree up in the office, though in retrospect that may have been the doing of the schools chief administrator, an intensely Irish woman named Pauline Martin. And they hosted a craft bazaar every December where children were encouraged to buy presents for their families, though even my childhood self understood that this was more a fund-raising exercise than a celebration. But they did hold a Christmas pageant, once. I was in second grade, and I remember being slightly confused because it was the first time Id ever heard Jesus, Mary, or Joseph mentioned by anyone from the Society of Friends. As far as the Quakers were concerned, the real Holy Trinity was composed of George Fox, Dag Hammarskjld, and the United Nations.

For my own part, I believed in Santa. I diligently sent a letter every Decembernot a wish list, but more of a How are you doing? Cant wait to see you! Id write him another on Christmas Eve, asking all sorts of questions and thanking him for stopping by. Id leave it on the coffee table in the living room with milk and cookies, plus carrots for the reindeer. Then, on Christmas morning, Id sneak downstairs before the clock ticked five.

The tree twinkled with tinsel and colored lights, presents spread beneath it like rolling foothills. But the first thing Id do was check to see if Santa had written back. He had, always, and so Id sit with his note, reading it over and over. Then Id carry it with me as I crept quietly among the presents, appraising each one, but never disturbing their arrangement. I would take my stocking down, gently empty it, examine the little wonders, and carefully repack it. And then Id sit on our ugly cream-colored sofa clutching the note while gazing at the presents and the tree for an hour in something like quiet contemplation.

These hoursthere were probably seven of them, totalwere the happiest of my childhood. I felt as though I held in my hand a kind of magic that belonged only to me, and between this miracle, the lights, and the stillness, I felt for the first time the beautiful calm of reverence. Toward Santa.