Thanksgiving always began the same way out where we lived—just us, the open air, and a .22 rifle. Every year, without fail, we’d set up makeshift targets in the yard—tin cans, paper plates, whatever we had—and take turns shooting. It wasn’t competitive, just tradition. Oddly enough, we didn’t do it any other time of the year. Only on Thanksgiving. Maybe it was the crispness in the fall air, or the freedom that came with a long weekend. Whatever it was, we looked forward to it—not just the turkey and dressing, but the sound of shots ringing across the countryside. It meant we were home.
Thanksgiving, for me, always marked the true beginning of the holidays. Not the commercials, not the store windows—but that feeling when the kids got out of school. That’s when it clicked. Even as an adult, I could feel the lift in the air, that same excitement I used to feel as a kid stepping off the school bus for the last time before break. And though I liked to start early—shopping in October, maybe a wreath up by mid-November—it was that school break that gave the holidays their heartbeat.
At our table, there was always debate over the white meat versus the dark. I remember one year, Daddy got tired of hearing us argue. “You can’t tell the difference,” he said. “Close your eyes. I’ll prove it.” And he did. Fed us pieces one by one, blindfolded. We guessed wrong every time. Turns out, flavor isn’t in the color—it’s in your mind.
Still, I’ll admit it—I always went for the white meat.
Pumpkin pie, with whipped cream—thick, swirled high—is the crown jewel of Thanksgiving for me. It’s more than dessert. It’s continuity. A bite of it takes me back to worn tablecloths, silver pie servers, my mother’s gentle laughter in the kitchen. You don’t mess with tradition.
Only once did I ever spend Thanksgiving away from home. We were filming a Dean Martin Christmas special in L.A. Everyone else had places to go, family nearby. Not us. We were the out-of-towners. Some folks invited us in, kindly, but we didn’t want to impose. So we did something strange—ate Thanksgiving dinner at a restaurant. Took us ages to find a place that wasn’t full. Never realized so many people did that. But it felt… off. Like wearing your shoes on the wrong feet.
Christmas mornings were magical—but once, just once, we had to shift it. Dad or Mom had to work that year, so we did Christmas on Christmas Eve. I remember writing a letter to Santa, pleading with him to come early. He did. And you know what? It was still wonderful.
Now, Christmas Eve has taken center stage. It’s when the family gathers, when the house fills with noise and laughter and the smell of cinnamon. We start with breakfast and never really stop.
The best gift I ever got? Might’ve been that red bicycle. But the cowboy outfits, the toy rifles, the little guitar that cranked out music—those all stand out too. Every Christmas morning, it felt like the world had reset itself to joy.
I decorate… carefully. Or rather, I let others do it now. My granddaughters, Sila and Caroline, have taken the reins. They wrap the presents too. I used to do it, especially for Debbie, but I admit—it’s better in their hands. My packages always had that “shook-it-and-it-rattles” look.
I don’t like blinking lights. Just give me simple colored bulbs—steady, warm. Something festive without the seizure warning.
No, I’ve never slept under the tree. But I like the idea. Sounds peaceful.
“Away in a Manger”—simple, sweet—has always been my favorite. Two melodies, both beautiful. It’s the story, really. That gentle lullaby feeling. And “I’ll Be Home for Christmas”—that last line, if only in my dreams—never fails to move me.
We recorded that one, changed a lyric too. “Presents under the tree” made more sense than “on the tree.” I still wonder what the original writer meant.
Harold and I wrote a lot of Christmas songs. One of my favorites? “I’ll Never Spend a Christmas That I Don’t Think of You.” It’s one of those songs that wraps around you like a scarf. Warm, soft, a little bittersweet.
Every year, Christmas Eve morning begins the same. Breakfast with the kids, the grandkids, everyone who makes us whole. The table’s crowded. The laughter starts early. By mid-afternoon, we’ve already opened a few gifts and someone’s napping in the recliner.
Shopping? I prefer the store—always did. There’s something about walking through aisles, hearing the songs, seeing the lights. But I do most of it online now. Convenience wins. Still, I miss the bustle.
My sister Faye makes a frozen pumpkin dessert every year. It’s a tradition now—cold, sweet, and always gone too fast. She always sets some aside for me.
I don’t decorate much anymore. Debbie keeps me away from fragile ornaments. Probably for the best.
As for Christmas movies—oh, I’ve seen them all. Too many times. But It’s a Wonderful Life? That one still gets me. That message. That reminder. That moment of seeing what the world would be like without you.
No, I’ve never been in a Christmas parade. We were asked, The Statlers. But we always took December off. That was our rule. Home for the holidays. No exceptions.
And the most emotional part of Christmas? Hard to choose. The Bible story. The family gathered close. The rustle of wrapping paper. The soft hush that settles over the house when the last candle burns down. I find myself just watching sometimes—not saying a word—just absorbing the beauty of it all.