I suppose I went hunting once in my life—and that was enough. I’m just not a hunter. Never was. It’s not in my blood. I remember carrying a shotgun through the woods before sunrise, trudging through the damp and the cold. By the time the sun was peeking over the hills around seven or eight o’clock, I was already thinking about going home.
Now forgetting lyrics—that happened more often than I’d like to admit. And not just any lyrics—songs I had sung a thousand times. Songs Harold and I had written together, line by line, chord by chord. And yet there I’d be on stage, face to the crowd, and my mind would just go blank. Harold, of course, never missed the chance to make a joke out of it. He’d stop the music, point to me, and say, “He forgot the words—and he wrote the song!” That always got a laugh. And truth be told, that laughter fixed everything.
When it comes to comedy, I think of the things that made me laugh—not just once, but consistently over the years. The Dick Van Dyke Show stands out. Still holds up today. I’ve always loved Perry Mason, too—have every book, and I’ll never get tired of those courtroom turns. And the Ed Sullivan Show… Sunday nights with the family, watching to see who’d be on next. Those memories are stitched into the fabric of my childhood.
Funny thing is, I’ve never been much of a laugher myself. I’m not the kind who roars or slaps his knee. I absorb comedy, think about it, appreciate it—but I don’t always show it. People have been kind to our own comedy over the years, and I’m thankful for that, even if I didn’t laugh out loud much myself. I’m wired differently that way.
My best friend growing up was Bobby, my neighbor. We were boys together, teenagers together. And then—he was gone. Died at sixteen. That sadness followed me longer than I let on. You never really stop missing the people who knew you when you were young.
I remember being nine years old and going to see gospel quartets like the Statesmen and the Blackwoods. Those guys would stand at their tables after the shows, selling pictures and albums, shaking hands, taking time with everyone. James Blackwood, J.D. Sumner—those were my heroes before I ever knew what kind of life I’d live.
I’ve always collected things—books, mostly. I just can’t throw them away. Fiction, nonfiction, research books, Bibles… I’ve got shelves filled with them. Rooms full, really. My family says I should clear it out, and maybe they’re right. But every book is a conversation I once had, or one I might still have.
As for meals—well, I’ll tell you my favorite is usually whatever I’m having that night. But give me a Cobb salad, a good hamburger, and don’t forget the chocolate pie. No matter what came before, it has to end with chocolate pie.
I never thought I’d share a stage with Johnny Cash, but there I was—nineteen years old, on tour, watching him night after night. Not because he sat me down and said, “Let me teach you something,” but because I was learning just by watching. Watching how he treated a song, how he worked a crowd, how he carried himself. He was kind. Unusual. Unique. The kind of man who might knock on your hotel room door at 2 a.m. with a guitar in hand, wanting to hear your new song. I smile every time I remember that.
I never played much sports in school. Tried basketball once. One day of practice wore me out so much, I never went back. I broke my ankle playing football at a Boy Scout meeting—not in school. That was enough for me. Sports wasn’t my path.
We had our share of flashy suits in the ’70s—no question about that. Red, white, blue, with plenty of sparkle. You wouldn’t wear it downtown, but it was just right on stage. Later we toned it down, picked our own clothes. I liked both eras.
The hardest night of my life was our last show. We’d planned it. We knew when and where and how it would end. We stood backstage and prayed with Jimmy Dean, then walked out knowing it was the final time. And when we sang “Amazing Grace” and stepped back with our arms around each other, that was it. No comebacks. No second acts. We walked off that stage and waved goodbye—for good. We left satisfied. We left blessed.
Of all the scriptures that have carried me, Proverbs 3:5 stays closest: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding.” That’s one I carry every day. That, and the hymns. My favorite? “At the Cross” by Isaac Watts. I’ve loved it since I was a boy.
I still write songs now and then, even in retirement. Nothing for the radio. Just for the soul. And sometimes, that’s enough.
Every night we ever performed, we gave it everything we had—because we knew someone out there had made that night special just by showing up. And we owed them our best. That’s what I’ll always remember. We gave it everything we had.