Christmas special

This article is in The Spectator’s December 2019 US edition. Subscribe here. ‘If you don’t get your act together,’ I told my husband, Bobby, ‘I’m going to have to find a new partner.’ In life, I had no doubt he was the one. In bridge, it was another story. The four-person game seems to have evolved as a distinct form of whist in the 19th century. Today, people commonly explain it as a more complicated version of spades. It begins with bidding: each player opens his hand, counts his points (aces are four, for example; kings are three) and determines which of his suits are strongest. Teams of two then try to communicate what cards they have through a set of predetermined codes called conventions.

New Haven, Connecticut Greetings friends. Old Digby Dent (BR ’89) here. I’ve been press-ganged by the good folks at The Spectator into sharing a few reflections on living well as the fiery splendor of autumn gives way to the dour cold of winter. The leaves are gone, the days grow short and it’s dark by four in the afternoon in Boston. Worse still, the obvious recreations of warmer days having given way to the inconstancy of the third season, we find ourselves waiting for enough snow to ski, cross-country or alpine. What is to be done in the unsteady interregnum from now until The Game? Sailing is no damned good if you can’t guess how cold it’ll be on the water.

This article is in The Spectator’s December 2019 US edition. Subscribe here. I’ve always resented Christmas — because Christmas is a holiday that makes liars out of us all. Let’s not get into whether Jesus was born of a virgin. Suffice it to say, I struggled with this idea from a young age. Back in kindergarten, having no idea what a virgin was, I consulted Anne, my precocious neighbor and classmate at the Convent of the Visitation School. Anne showed me a biology book, which presented in very graphic detail the mechanics of intercourse. Anne explained that being a virgin meant you hadn’t had sex. ‘Mom, how did the Virgin Mary get pregnant with baby Jesus?’ I asked. ‘Oh, God did that,’ she explained dutifully.

This article is in The Spectator’s December 2019 US edition. Subscribe here. Kemmerer, Wyoming Before 1965, when immigrants to the American Republic came almost exclusively from Europe, the largest white ethnic group in this country was of German stock. It may still be so, though I am unaware of recent statistics that demonstrate the fact. Certainly, a linguistically sophisticated visitor arriving here today from Europe might easily arrive at that conclusion. The now ubiquitous ‘Yah!’ is phonetically indistinguishable from ‘Ja!’, and while ‘Yah-wohl!’ has yet to be widely heard in American streets, connoisseurs of the American language in the 21st century would hardly be surprised should it crop up there.

This article is in The Spectator’s December 2019 US edition. Subscribe here. ’Tis the season friends. The season to be merry. But also the season to remember. Especially those who gave their everything. For us. Great Americans who made the ultimate sacrifice to protect the greatest nation on earth. I speak, of course, of the true meaning of Christmas. The Yuletide. The winter festival. The hinge of the Judeo-Christian cultural year. The subject of so much opprobrium from the secular left. Christmas is under attack. It has to be defended. President Donald Trump is fighting back. But we all have a responsibility to stand up. To say ‘No!