I recently had a strange, sad experience while watching an old movie with the family. Most Saturday evenings, the Kengor abode delights in what we call “Family Movie & Snack Night.” The missus — my lovely Susan — lays out a cornucopia of exquisite snack food. The spread is so good that it rises high above mere snack-level, though she includes plenty of conventional snack fare, such as popcorn, of course. You can’t do a movie without popcorn. During this time of year, the family’s film choices naturally turn to Christmas themes. They range from kid favorites such as Home Alone and Elf and the fantastic 1983 A Christmas Story, to older classics such as Going My Way (Bing Crosby and Barry Fitzgerald) and its sequel, The Bells of St. Mary’s (Bing Crosby and Ingrid Bergman), Holiday Affair (Janet Leigh and Robert Mitchum), The Miracle of the Bells (Frank Sinatra and Fred McMurray), and various versions of A Christmas Carol. The latter includes the 1938 version with Reginald Owen, the superb but largely unknown 1984 TV remake with George C. Scott, and even the surprisingly excellent 1992 “Muppets” version with Michael Caine. And of course, each year we hunker down for the best movie ever made, Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life — the perfect film. (READ: Paul Kengor, “It’s a Wonderful Film—Yes, the Best Ever.”) A couple of weeks ago, we tried an old movie we had never seen: Bob Hope in The Lemon Drop Kid. Unfortunately, we soon learned it isn’t a good movie. It’s a comedy loaded with slapstick silliness, most of which isn’t particularly funny. Moreover, though considered a “Christmas movie,” it isn’t much of one, except for one scene that’s not only good but splendid and almost magical. Dressed as Santa Claus, Bob Hope and his romantic interest, played by actress Marilyn Maxwell, stroll through the streets of a city bedecked with Christmas lights and snow and beautifully sing “Silver Bells.” Personally, the scene particularly resonates with me because it reminds me of Christmas images from downtown Pittsburgh (the town of my birth) back in the era. And indeed, the song’s co-writer, Jay Livingston, was from nearby McDonald, Pennsylvania, and his images were inspired by downtown Pittsburgh at Christmas time. In the movie, Hope and Maxwell walk arm in arm and croon: Strings of streetlights, even stoplights Blink of bright red and green As the shoppers rush home with their treasures Hear the snow crunch See the kids bunch This is Santa’s big scene And above all the bustle you’ll hear Silver bells Silver bells It’s Christmas time in the city. Excellent lyrics and a great feel. I think it’s one of the best Christmas songs, period. In fact, the song is so nice that it almost saves the movie. Almost. The Lemon Drop Kid aside, “Silver Bells” was so good that Hope, in the years ahead, in his iconic Christmas specials, sang it every year, walking in the snow with some pretty girl. The Hollywood studio created a snowy lot and let the scene unfold. For instance, here’s Hope singing the song on separate occasions with Marie Osmond and Olivia Newton-John at the height of his Christmas show’s popularity in the 1970s. But what really hit me about watching Bob Hope in The Lemon Drop Kid is this, which prompts me to write this piece for this Christmas season: I was very surprised to learn that the older kids in my family as well as my future son-in-law and daughter-in-law (who love and know a lot about old movies and history) had no idea who Bob Hope was. Thanks to their old man, my kids have quite a knowledge base of old actors and movies. But somehow, Bob Hope never came up on their radar. Taken aback by that, I proceeded to ask my students if they knew of Bob Hope. I got a bunch of blank stares. And he was once synonymous with Christmas in American popular culture. This will alarm and sadden anyone over the age of 60. As folks of the older generations will attest, Bob Hope was a household name. And he was once synonymous with Christmas in American popular culture. His annual holiday special on NBC was must-see TV. He did jokes and comedy skits with leading celebrities. He sang songs in snow-filled sets with pretty girls. He presented the college football AP All-Americans, who made the trip to Hollywood and one by one trotted to Hope’s side as he made playful jokes about them. Hope even presented the annual Rose Bowl Queen from nearby Pasadena. He closed out the show by wistfully humming his sentimental signature song, “Thanks for the Memories.” Perhaps most importantly, Hope’s Christmas show included highlights from his USO Tours. And those were really Hope at his best — his most hopeful (pun intended). God bless the man. Each year, he brought Christmas to lonely troops abroad, from Europe to Vietnam. Those were soldiers who, to borrow from Hope partner Bing Crosby, longed and wished “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” Alas, they were stuck overseas, far from their families. Hope brought them a smile with fellow comedians and with stage appearances by “pin-up” gals like Betty Grable, Connie Stevens, Raquel Welch, and Ann-Margret. The USO dubbed Hope “the One-Man Morale Machine.” He lifted our boys’ spirits when they were at their lowest. The only regrettable element of that service abroad is that Hope himself often was not home for Christmas. His daughter Linda recalled: “I remember saying, ‘Why does Dad always have to be away? All these other families have their dads home for Christmas.’” Her mother, Dolores (herself a great American) would gently buoy her daughter by instructing: “No, not all have them are home for Christmas. Think of boys and girls who don’t have their dads for years and years because they are serving overseas. Remember the boys and girls whose fathers may never come back.” Bob Hope remembered them first and foremost. And we should remember Bob Hope. It seems unthinkable to those of us all old enough that Hope could today be forgotten. His radio shows, his TV and film appearances, and certainly his USO Tours spanned over a half century, from the 1940s to the 1990s, from World War II to Operation Desert Shield/Storm in 1990-91. The man seemed timeless, with us forever. To that end, some readers might remember how the country watched in anticipation to see if the ageless Hope would make it to 100 years old, a landmark he approached in the spring of 2003, giving a new twist to the phrase, “Hope springs eternal.” He made it on May 29, 2003, with little time to spare. I remember receiving the news of his death two months later, on July 27, 2003. I was in Ventura, California, getting ready to hop in the car to go to the Reagan Library, doing research on Ronald Reagan, a close friend of Bob Hope. (Hope was a big Reagan supporter and a big Republican.) The news of Hope’s death stopped me in my tracks. In fact, when I heard the news, it reminded me of first getting news of the death of other celebrity giants of the era, such as Jimmy Stewart and Frank Sinatra (also big Reagan supporters, incidentally). At the time, there was hardly an American alive who didn’t know who Bob Hope was. If you were putting together a list of the top names in entertainment in the 20th century, spanning Hollywood’s Golden Age and the height of television in the 1950s, Bob Hope would surely make your top 10. Today, his name elicits a blank stare from young people born after his death. Here’s hoping (pun intended again) that we can rekindle his memory at Christmas time. I have a suggestion: For Christmas this year, grab a few young people in your life and pull up on YouTube an old Bob Hope Christmas special. No doubt, they will find some of the broadcasts corny, archaic, even weird at times. Nonetheless, that was history. Bob Hope is history that they should know. Thanks for the memories, Bob. Merry Christmas, everyone. Editor’s note: Paul wrote a very brief version of this article for his regular column in the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review. Upon request, he did this expanded version for us at The American Spectator. READ MORE from Paul Kengor: Foul, Potty-Mouthed, Woke Women Indiana U’s Historic Season The NFL’s ‘Criminal Element’: Remembering the Raiders–Steelers Rivalry of the 1970s