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Glenn Beck’s recent piece on the origin of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is the kind of storytelling America needs more of: a reminder that some of our most cherished traditions sprang up not from a government committee or a university think tank, but from grit, family, and the private sector. There’s something healing about reclaiming a holiday story that belongs to hardworking Americans and their ingenuity, and Beck frames that reclaiming with the kind of faith-friendly, family-first tone his audience expects.
The hard facts are simple and glorious in their ordinariness: Rudolph was invented in 1939 by Robert L. May as a Montgomery Ward promotional booklet, not as the product of some distant cultural elite. The little red-nosed hero began life as a cheap giveaway for a department store and then took flight into the American imagination because people saw themselves in the story of an underdog who proved his worth.
That origin also exposes a truth modern sentimental retellings often smooth over: the widely repeated tale that May wrote Rudolph solely to comfort a dying wife or to console a bereaved child is overstated. May did test early drafts on his daughter and his personal struggles informed the character, but the story owes its creation to a job assignment at Montgomery Ward and to the practical world of American commerce, not only to private grief. The real story — equal parts creativity and employment — is more authentic and, frankly, more inspiring than the mythic version.
The cultural ascent of Rudolph shows how free enterprise builds culture: Johnny Marks turned the booklet into a song and Gene Autry’s 1949 recording made Rudolph a national phenomenon, selling millions and embedding the reindeer in American holiday music. A simple marketplace transaction — a catchy tune and a popular recording — amplified a small department-store giveaway into a piece of national folklore. That’s the kind of organic, bottom-up cultural growth conservatives should celebrate, not scorn.
Rankin/Bass later translated the tale into the stop-motion TV special that has been part of countless family traditions since 1964, complete with Burl Ives’ warm narration and a roster of characters who belong in the American winter canon. The special’s longevity proves that when private creators and independent studios make art that honors family and faith-friendly values, it resonates across generations. This is cultural continuity produced by the market and by artisans, not by mandates or cultural gatekeepers.
Of course, in our era every beloved thing gets picked apart through the prism of modern identity politics, and Rudolph hasn’t escaped that treatment. Some commentators now insist on parsing the tale through the language of bullying and victimhood, as if every classic should be re-engineered to match contemporary sensibilities. That approach risks hollowing out the genuine moral of the story: that character, bravery, and usefulness win the day in a free society.
Let’s be blunt: Americans should be skeptical of anyone who thinks tradition needs to be permanently reinterpreted by elites who live separate lives from the families that actually keep these traditions alive. Rudolph’s rise from a Montgomery Ward booklet to a musical and television mainstay is proof that ordinary people and private creativity — not government programs or academic approval — make cultural anchors. We should honor that, not apologize for it.
Glenn Beck’s recital of Rudolph’s true origins is more than nostalgia; it’s a small patriotic act. It reminds us that faith, hard work, and the market together can make something timeless, and that real American stories often have humble, practical beginnings. This Christmas, celebrate the story for what it is: an American fable born of work and love, and defended by those who still believe in free expression and family traditions.
