Growing up in the 1960s and into my teen years in the 1970s, if one wanted anything from the grocery store or needed gasoline to fill the tank over Christmas, you better have it done by 5 PM on Christmas Eve. Otherwise, you would have neither until December 26.

Everything closed. The world became peaceful and silent.

Nostalgia ages better than a bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild, and for me, this era represented a more civilized time, and one I remember warmly.

Christmas Eve 1964 found me riding with my father to my paternal grandparents’ annual Christmas Eve celebration that included the entire extended family. There were 38 of us present that year. My father, although a quiet man, was generally the center of attention in any room. When we walked in, some of the menfolk surrounded him and asked, “Well, Mac, how was the drive over?” It had been spitting snow — always a welcome novelty in the South around the holidays. My father replied, “You could have shot a cannonball right down the middle of the highway and never hit a thing.”

Quiet and peaceful are desirable things, and by the end of that decade, we as a nation were rapidly losing both.

Once inside my grandparents’ home, I so fondly remember being engulfed in the aromas of a carefully crafted feast and the jovial interactions of parents and children, siblings and cousins, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Many of the men at the gathering shared the pursuit of the South’s native and then-abundant Bobwhite Quail with well-bred English Pointers. That was both a bond as well as a discussion topic regarding the annual quail brunch my mother had hosted earlier in the day attended by most present.

Although we were a crowd that year, there was still a subdued current of peace and well-being throughout the home. As the snow began to fall in earnest, the celebration ended early as heads of households decided to beat the road conditions.

The following morning, we would awaken to a wonderful white Christmas and the still and quiet of the world.

My late friend Gene Hill, whom I regard as one of the greatest outdoor writers of my generation, shared a similar vision of a quiet and peaceful holiday celebration. Riding together to attend the National Championship for Bird Dogs, I asked him if he had actually experienced the perfect Christmas he wrote about in his short story titled, “A Christmas Story.”

What compelled me to ask this question was his opening line: “Christmas is bittersweet. The quiet sanctity of the season has long been bludgeoned by marketing, and the longed-for gentle quiet never seems to come.”

In the story, Gene described in a few pages what his perfect Christmas would look like: A peaceful cabin by a lake with his wife and kids and “Tippy,” his Labrador Retriever ; a warm fire and simple presents, some handmade; plenty of food, of course; and a few hundred yards away would be a duck blind he and Tippy could share together at daylight while everyone else slept.

Both of us being bird hunters and lifelong devotees of the sporting dogs, and embracing the time with special friends and family who were by our side in that pursuit, Gene and I were of similar mind on what a perfect Christmas would be. I have been blessed beyond reason to experience it several times.

Among those times are in a duck blind shared with special friends on a snowy Christmas Eve when the ducks are thick in the air, as well as a Christmas Eve quail hunt in a frosty field with my father and grandfather — when both were tough as hickory posts.

There was that Christmas morning in another duck blind with the greatest Labrador Retriever I ever had. She was so old that I had to hold her to keep her from shivering, but when I downed a brace of mallards that decoyed in, she bravely returned both out of the freezing water, although she had little vision left. She slept in my lap under a blanket the balance of the day. It was her last duck hunt.

Recently, while picking up a new Gordon Setter puppy from my breeder and friend in North Carolina, he concluded a long-ranging conversation we had at his kitchen table over coffee with the statement, “All bird hunters are nostalgic.” Indeed we are.

May your Christmas be filled with peace, joy, and laughter. And if nostalgic memories of a treasured companion pay a visit, consider yourself a lucky soul!

And finally, a thought from my friend Gene Hill:

There are a lot of legends and stories about Christmas wishes…and how I wish this year that wishes were real and I had one now and then. My old dog Tip, I know wishes she could run the fields again instead of having to shuffle slowly at my heels. And I’d like to wipe away the touch of winter that has come to stay forever with some of my old shooting friends. Some folks say to be careful for what I wish for because it might come true. But I don’t think you and I would abuse the privilege. I don’t know what I’d do if I was rich, so I wouldn’t wish for that this Christmas. I’d like to take the friendships that I deeply treasure and really stretch them out for times to come. Old dogs, old friends, old brooks and quail meadows that I have learned to love especially, should never change or go away. I think I know the wish that we’d all like to have. A handful of friends….a handful of dogs…would have their sweetest yesterdays become tomorrows.

Merry Christmas!