At Reckonin’.

Long drives and long years may well augment faith, friendship, and love—memories to join the past with the present. ‘Twas three days before Christmas, and all down the road–

Near Bristol, Virginia, Friday, December 22, 1989, mid morning…

Though the snow, grime, and road salt of seven states had left their marks, all eight cylinders sang merrily as the old 1979 F-100 Ranger once again picked up a little speed down at the far southern end of Virginia’s Interstate 81. Paxton hit the wipers, clearing a few scattered snowflakes from the windshield, the remnants of what he hoped was the final dusting of his trip. And, Lord, there had been a few near-blizzard episodes over the past twenty-four hours! He took a moment to look around, now that the sun was shining brightly, scanning one side of the highway and then the other. The Shenandoah, the Blue Ridge, all of it, really, truly was God’s country. And if the fine weather held, and he hoped it did, then he’d be at the cabin in about another four hours. The very young man tapped the foot end of his Muriel Magnum into the ashtray. His eyes rolled across the speedometer—sixty-ish and holding nicely. The thirty-three-gallon tank was still three-quarters full. With one finger, he dropped his Ray-Ban Aviators into place and smiled. He took another sip of coffee, carefully replacing the styrofoam cup more by feel than by sight. He took another puff of his second cigar that morning (because, why not?) and smiled even wider. He’d been alternating between the radio, ever looking for Christmas music, and a Statler Brothers tape. At the moment, he was riding in blissful silence, the whooshing hiss from the cracked, smoke-releasing window notwithstanding. Then, right in the middle of his contentment, that lingering concern came once more upon his mind. He was, just then, reminded of what he kept forgetting.

…

Read the whole thing. Merry Christmas Eve!