It’s a few minutes until Thanksgiving. I thought I’d stay up and watch the clock change. I’m sipping tea, listening to gentle music playing in the background.

I think it’s Bing Crosby, or maybe Nat King Cole. The volume is too low to tell. Either way, it sounds like 1948 in this living room.

Yesterday, my wife made a batch of cornbread and biscuits. She left them on top the refrigerator so they’d get good and dry before she crumbled them them into cornbread dressing.

There is a big debate between calling it “dressing” or “stuffing.” And while I am no authority on the matter, I can tell you this:

Once, I spent Thanksgiving at a buddy’s house, his mother was from West Virginia, and she served “stuffing.”

She cooked the entire feast without ever dropping the Winston cigarette that dangled from the corner of her mouth. And she must have had a few too many cups of holiday cheer because she accidentally shoved all her cornbread into a well-known orifice of the turkey’s body. I had never seen

this done.

“What have you done to the dressing?” I asked her.

“Dressing?” she said, laughing, elbow-deep in a turkey’s butt. “This ain’t dressing, kid. It’s stuffing.”

You can imagine my surprise when just before serving the turkey, she rammed an extra-long spoon up the bird’s backend and announced, “This stuffing looks a little undercooked, but oh well.”

It was apple-pecan stuffing. Everybody ate some and a few hours later we all got deathly ill. And I don’t mean to get graphic here, but we were having projectile-like symptoms.

And that was the last time I ever ate salmonella-flavored West Virginia stuffing.

Anyway, I’m sorry I brought that up. Especially on Thanksgiving. What I meant to say was that I hope you have a great day. And I really mean that, I’m not just blowing smoke.

I love this holiday. The…

DEAR SEAN:

I’m 70, living in Mesquite, Texas (a suburb of Dallas). About 6 months ago, my wife (we’ve been married for 46 years) emailed me one of the articles you write. Liked it. Next day, she emailed another, then another...

One story in particular I appreciated was the one about Kiera Larsen.

Happy Thanksgiving, and I can’t get enough biscuits either.

Thanks,
YOUR-BUDDY-IN-MESQUITE

DEAR BUDDY:

I had to dig around for this one, and I almost couldn’t find it. But I finally found the story you mentioned. I remember writing it back in 2016 and that already seems like a lifetime ago. Thank you for reminding me about it, even though much of the content is ancient history now, I believe there is good in this world. Though sometimes I forget to see it.

Here it is:

Have you watched the news recently? I don’t mean to complain, but it’s a never-ending circus of sadness and horror. If they’re not reporting on mass shootings, they’re talking about the possibility of mass shootings. And when they’re done, they

discuss mass shootings.

Well, I speak for millions of Americans when I say that I’m disturbed. What about the good stuff this holiday season? In our giant of briar-patch world, there are millions of strawberries that pop up every day. And if you’ll permit me, I’d like to tell you about a few.

Ahem.

I’ll begin with schoolchildren who visited a Missouri Humane Society last Wednesday. The kids are part of a program in which students practice reading storybooks to rescue dogs. The purpose: To calm traumatized animals — and because everyone hates math.

FLORIDA—Ninety-year-old lottery winner, Ruby Sorah, won forty-three million dollars. Let that sink in for a second. This week, Ruby told reporters she’s giving all her money away. Every last cent. Not even a trip to Vegas to see Celine Dion.

And my granny never even gave Christmas…

I’m sitting on the sofa. I turn the television channel to a popular family-friendly cable network. I know I can count on a happily-ever-after story when I watch this channel during the holidays. Which is why I cannot stop watching these sappy movies.

(SCENE 1: A BIG-CITY NEWSPAPER OFFICE. THE EDITOR IS TALKING TO TIFFANY, A BLONDE REPORTER WHO DRINKS COFFEE FROM A COFFEE-SHOP-STYLE PAPER CUP.)

EDITOR: Tiffany, it’s almost Christmas, and I need you to travel to Quaintville to cover an important story!

TIFFANY: Quaintville? Is that a real town?

EDITOR: Who cares? This is a cable movie, and I’m supposed to be your grumpy but lovable editor, sorta like What’s-His-Name from “The Mary Tyler Moore Show.”

TIFFANY: Ed Asner?

EDITOR: Whatever. All I know is that the script says you’re an independent single woman, but you’re filled with indescribably painful angst and romantic longing.

TIFFANY: I’m on it, Chief.

(SCENE 2: TIFFANY ARRIVES IN QUAINTVILLE, SHE GOES ICE SKATING. SHE MEETS A HANDSOME MAN SKATING WITH HIS DAUGHTER.)

LEADING MAN: Hi. You must be the leading lady.

TIFFANY: How did you know?

HIM: You’re

holding a paper coffee cup.

TIFFANY: My contract stipulates that I have to drink coffee from a paper cup in every scene. But sometimes I drink Orange Fanta.

HIM: My contract requires me to wear heavy plaid flannel shirts even though we’re obviously filming this in July and I’m sweating my buttcheeks off.

TIFFANY: Is that your daughter?

HIM: Yes, I’m a widower, filled with indescribably painful angst and romantic longing.

TIFFANY: How did your wife die?

HIM: The script never says.

(SCENE 3: ANNUAL QUAINTVILLE CHRISTMAS PARADE. LEADING MAN AND DAUGHTER ARE WATCHING PARADE WHEN TIFFANY BUMPS INTO THEM.)

DAUGHTER: Look, Daddy! That lady is drinking coffee in a paper cup again! Just like they always do in the TV show “Gilmore Girls.”

LEADING MAN: Totally different network, sweetie.

TIFFANY: Fancy meeting you…

We have about a month until Christmas, and I’m asking people a simple question on Santa’s behalf. He actually asked me to do this.

Well actually, it was Santa’s secretary who called me ultra-long-distance to ask.

Or, if we’re getting super technical, it was his secretary’s assistant’s intern, Stacy, who called me. Santa has a lot of people on his payroll. But hey, he’s tax exempt so who cares? Stacy tells me the elves get great insurance, with full dental.

But anyway, the question Santa wants to know is: What do you want for Christmas?

There are no limits to how you answer. And nobody will judge you for what you want. Granted, if you ask for something like a 2020 Range Rover Evoque, forest green, with a sunroof, people might snicker at you and call you a shallow, narcissistic, self-important, gas-guzzling pig who is partly responsible for the perpetuation of American greed. But Santa won’t think that.

As it happens, a little boy (Brayden, age 8, Missouri) actually sent me his Christmas list. Which

is what inspired the idea for this column. Along with Santa’s phone call, of course.

Brayden asked for:

—A swingset.
—Bluetooth earbuds.
—A real bunny.
—Red duck tap.
—Checkered Vans.
—6,000 dollars.

So now it’s your turn. Maybe you want something odd, such as a gift certificate to Golden Corral, or a coin-operated pony ride. Maybe you want a ski-resort vacation. A reverse mortgage. A pet alligator.

Maybe you are a kid who is being raised as a Primitive Freewill Fundamentalist against your will and your parents don’t believe in celebrating Christmas because it was originally a Pagan holiday and in your household your parents believe that Santa represents Satan.

If you live in a house like this, listen to me carefully: Your Christmas is probably going to suck. Send me a letter, pronto. I’ll get it to the Big…

DEAR SEAN:

What is your favorite Christmas movie? Mine is “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” the one with Yukon Cornelius, and my mom says you look like him. Not Rudolph she means, but Yukon Cornelius.

Thanks,
KIMBERLY IN PENNSYLVANIA

DEAR KIMBERLY:

It’s a little early for Christmas movies, but I appreciate the compliment. Sort of. I mean, Yukon Cornelius isn’t a bad-looking guy per se. But he’s a little chunky, and I’ll bet five bucks he has severe sleep apnea.

I’ll be honest, I would much rather look like, for example, James Bond. But then I suppose looking like Yukon Cornelius is better than resembling the Abominable Snowman, or worse, Dudley Moore.

One of my good friends—for privacy reasons let’s call him Randy Hopkins—went white-haired prematurely. Overnight, Randy was transformed into Santa. All of a sudden, kids were approaching him on the street and asking for Barbie dolls, Batman figurines, peace in the Middle East, etc.

My friend would always bend down and smile at them with this wintery magical look on his face and say, “I’m younger

than your mom, you little brat.”

But you asked about my favorite movie. Firstly, you should know that this is a tough question. There are too many good ones to count.

When I was a kid I loved “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (1964),” just like you do. Especially Yukon Cornelius and the show’s hit song, “Silver and Gold.” Which I will refuse to sing from now on because I am self conscious after receiving your letter.

I also like “Frosty the Snowman (1969).” Whenever I hear Burl Ives sing about Frosty, I am a five-year-old again, drinking turkey gravy directly from my mother’s gravy boat, even though I know that my aunt Eulah will catch me and possibly beat me within an inch of my life using a wet dishrag.

“A Charlie Brown Christmas (1965).” It doesn’t get any better.

“It’s a…

COLUMBUS—It’s morning. We are at the Stewart Community Home homeless shelter. Kara is our tour guide today, she helps run the place.

We begin the grand tour at the reception desk. Here, Christmas decorations have already come out. On the desk there is a colorful plastic mailbox which is labeled: “Santa’s Mailbox.”

“That’s where residents put their Christmas lists,” says Kara. “They pick three things they want from Santa, and we buy them. We have a guy who plays Santa Claus, he’s got the real beard and everything. You should see our Christmases, most fun you’ll ever have.”

I ask what kinds of gifts residents ask Santa for. Kara says they mostly ask for socks, hats, mittens, underwear, or haircuts.

“Last year,” Kara says, “one lady just wanted an arts and crafts set. You know, it’s the little things.”

An elderly black woman shuffles to Santa’s Mailbox and places a letter inside. She does not make eye contact with me. She hurries away before I can talk to her.

I meet a middle-aged woman in a wheelchair. She

has one leg. She is parked in the hallway so she can greet passers-by.

“She’s been through hell,” Kara whispers. “First a horrible divorce, then doctors found a blood clot, she lost her leg, lost her job, her money, no family. We found her living in her car with her cat.”

This is just one version of a similar story for most residents here. And you can see this story all over their faces.

An old man in slippers walks the halls accompanied by a tiny dog on a leash. The dog is named Rat Rat.

“Hey, Rat Rat,” says Kara.

The old man says, “Where’re your manners, Rat? Say hello to the young lady.”

We all take turns greeting Rat Rat. Then, the old man lifts the dog into his arms for a kiss. These two have been together for a…