You, Yourself
~The 2025 Christmas Story~
Perrin Lovett
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.
He’d been busy for months, of course, the past two weeks especially so. The day before had been a six-hundred-fifty-mile semi-hell of dodging snowstorms and trucks from the Boston metro down to Roanoke. He considered that if not for the slower conditions, he might have made Blairsville in one (very long) drive. Still, at ten-thirty the night before, worn down by the road and still feeling the happy effects of Tricia and the Caldwells’ party, it was all he could do to top off the tank and grab a waffle before settling in at his motel near the airport. And it had been the Caldwells, practically a third set of grandparents, who had stopped just short of demanding he shelter overnight. ‘You’re tired, even now,’ John Caldwell had said around eight o’clock, Thursday morning, as Paxton was preparing to get on the road. ‘There’s bound to be snow and traffic along the way. If it were me, I’d try to get into Virginia, at least. But don’t push it. And, hey, here’s a hundred dollars for a room and so forth.’
‘Sir, thank you, but I still have some leftover money.’
‘Here’s one hundred dollars!’ Caldwell said again.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘John, he might need more,’ Margaret Caldwell said as she eased up to hug Paxton.
‘Yes, Mags! Here’s another hundred,’ John said. ‘And don’t forget to ask for a student discount preemptively. Show ‘em the Harvard student ID, and that’ll cut out any age questions. Won’t even look at your license.’
The student angle was a stroke of genius. Virginia motel clerks probably didn’t see many seventeen-year-olds on the road with Mississippi driver’s licenses. Of course, not many Mississippi seventeen-year-olds, more prone to being high school seniors, were freshmen at Harvard. Not that the cash would have been sneered at, but the plan to wow them with the Ivy card and, accordingly, hopefully, add a little responsibility to an otherwise youthful face, had worked perfectly. Of course, the Caldwells’ plans usually worked out for the better; they were God-sent, the couple. Old friends of his father, they provided the necessary oversight or minding a very young man might need when fifteen hundred miles from home. And their home in West Cambridge provided the perfect place for storing an otherwise cumbersome pickup truck, an item the dorms frowned upon for some reason. Rather wealthy, in a you’d-never-know-it way, they fussed without making a fuss. For instance, the few mechanical problems the truck had when it arrived, Mr. Caldwell enjoyed making a quick hobby of fixing. He’d even sprung for two new tires and a wax job, all unasked for and most unexpected, an early Christmas gift revealed just that week after the end of final exams. His box of Muriels was also Mr. Caldwell’s suggestion: ‘Premium for luxury breaks, and Edie Adams’s favorites for the road!’
The family was just a bunch of good, fun people, the right kind of Yankees. Their party, on Wednesday night, was essentially for him and his first completed semester. For him and for Tricia, too. Trish! ‘And meet our granddaughter, Patricia,’ Margaret had told him back in late August, no sooner than Paxton had walked into their large house. ‘She’s a junior at BC. Pretty, isn’t she?!’ She was extremely pretty. And what started as a ‘Nice to meet you,’ soon became a fast friendship, and now, a romantic relationship. If he was honest and speaking in a somewhat selfish manner, then he considered that she was the best thing he’d discovered about the Caldwell clan. Like everyone in her family, plus some kisses and cuddles the others didn’t impart, she’d been a great help adjusting to his new environment. And over the past few weeks, she’d acted as his personal shopping guide, dragging, er, taking him all over Copley and the Back Bay area, Faneuil Hall, and other exciting sales venues. Based on copious questioning, talking to his mother, and her mother, and to her grandmother, she’d been the one to (almost) unilaterally pick out Paxton’s mother’s presents.
‘They’re on sale, so get the whole place setting, Pax,’ she’d said one afternoon in a little shop. ‘Get all four of them for the full table.’
‘Aren’t these like the ones they sold on TV not so long ago?’ he asked.
‘Only by the name. Namesake, rather. Those were cheap knockoffs; these are the real thing. His house is right next-door! They’re as authentic as it gets. She’ll love ‘em. Wicked smaht!’
She was correct and wicked smart, so, in short order, Paxton purchased four pieces of Paul Revere-esque pewter from the shop right beside and in the very shadow of the man’s old ramshackle house. Tricia even wrapped them for her new boyfriend, something she was rather good at (and at which he was not…). The next Saturday, she, having just turned twenty-one, came in extra helpful for buying his old man’s gifts.
‘No, this is brand new. It’s probably not even available outside Bah-sten!’ she said over on Germania Street at the Sam Adams brewery store. ‘He’ll get a kick out of the newness, all for da Win-tah season. See? New for nineteen-eighty-nine, Sam Winter Lager. Win-tah Lah-gah!’
‘Okay, cool, Trish,’ he replied. ‘A six pack?’
‘No, Rebel. Get a case and two sixes to go with it. And a six for us!’ It was a done deal, and, later, they wrapped his father’s gift while enjoying their own bottles. And once he rounded out his parents’ gifts with a few trinkets and pieces of (mostly Harvard-themed) apparel, she also helped him neatly wrap and bow-crown those. His gift to her, however, or his gifts, required someone else’s help.
‘This place looks expensive,’ he said, somewhat suspiciously, as they stood inside a swanky little jewelry store off Newbury Street.
‘It is!’ Margaret exclaimed. ‘But I know the owners. And a trick or two. They have an unadvertised side selection that’s always half off, at least. And with the favor they owe Uncle John, well, it’ll probably be half that again!’ They browsed for only a few minutes before Mag’s eagle eyes found exactly what she wanted (or, what Paxton wanted, that is). ‘This set, right here.’
‘Earrings and a bracelet?’
‘Yes. Set with sweet pink tourmalines, her birthstone.’
‘I thought that was opal?’
‘Different stones, same color, same meaning. Trust me, these are a perfect match for the necklace her parents gave her for her birthday. It’ll all look splendid!’ And, eventually, it all did look magnificent on Tricia. The store wrapped the little gift boxes. But Paxton wanted something a little extra for his girl, something with the Rebel touch. And he found it one evening at Filene’s, deep down in the basement—a bright neon pink fashion sweater, complete with big shoulder pads and a huge, fuzzy collar that screamed 1980s. He also picked up a larger stuffed bear to complete his zany plan.
His scheme came together on the evening of the big end-of-semester party. After checking what grades had already been posted, he’d hit the “T,” burdened under his luggage and assorted gift bags. And he arrived at the Caldwell’s manor halfway through the afternoon. The couple was out, and would be, he soon discovered, for a few hours. A small staff was busy setting up. And Tricia was waiting on him. ‘Party before the party?!’ she suggested.
‘Oh, yeah, I have a few things for you, Christmas gifts. Would you like them now?’
‘Well, let’s look at them after a bit. Right now, I want to give you your present!’
‘Wow! What is it?’ he asked while gazing dreamily into her sparkling eyes. Then her intentions hit him. ‘Ooooooooh—’
And just a few hours later, during a regular party break, she delighted in her bear, which was wearing the sweater and holding jewelry boxes in both paws. The rest of the evening, that night, and the short good-byes of the following morning went swimmingly. But now, already barreling down the mess of the highway in North Carolina, he reflected once again on the other gifts, the ones he’d kept forgetting about despite all else. He’d thought about them, and he’d discussed the matter with Tricia, John, Mags, and even his roommate. A little later, the issue flared again in his head as he talked on a payphone at the convenience store off the road where he’d just scarfed down a cheap standing lunch. ‘…I’ll be leaving Asheville in a second. So I should be there in about two hours or so, if the traffic and weather hold off.’
‘Take your time, Buckshot. Just get here in one piece,’ came the orders from Blairsville. Such good and kindly words—how does anyone ever say no to a grandparent? And what did one give grandparents for Christmas?! He knew he’d faced that question in previous years. Now, supposedly being all responsible and so forth, the issue troubled him. After he hung up, he hastily glanced through the store’s window. “Asheville” t-shirts and hats felt tacky—and he already had two shirts for them, which still felt rather paltry. Air fresheners felt extra tacky. They had magazines, and they didn’t read comic books. Little packs of Hostess donuts? No! He only had about two hours to make a decision. So, determined to think of something, he put in a Johnny Cash tape, dialed it down to a lower volume, and set out for the final two-hour leg of his journey. He wondered why he hadn’t consulted anyone about the matter, say, Tricia. Then, he remembered that he had … but that he’d still let it all slip.
‘So, what’s the plan?’ she’d asked him late one afternoon over coffee somewhere midway between Cambridge and Chestnut Hill.
‘I’ll just read it, again, read my notes, again, and then take the test. Nothing to it,’ he said somewhat stupidly.
‘No, Rebel! The plan for driving home? Sounds hectic.’
‘Oh, that. Well, I suppose I’ll leave here the morning after our party. Not sure if I can make it all the way in one shot, but in no less than two drives, I’ll be in Blairsville.’
‘The cabin sounds lovely.’
‘It really is. They’ve had it for about seven years now, since Pa retired. I’ll spend the night with them, and then, the next morning, we’re going to caravan or convoy to Starkville. Then after New Year’s, I’ll do it again in reverse order.’
‘Sounds like a lot of driving.’
‘It is, but it’s not too bad. My first trip up was about fifteen hundred miles in total. I’ll be tired when I get all the way down there, but I’ll be happy to see everyone.’
‘So, what are you giving your grandparents? Mom’s parents, right?’ she asked. (She HAD asked, and still…)
‘Right, Mom’s. Granny and Pa, as we all call them. And I’m not sure. Maybe a— No, really not sure. It’s always hard with them—the people who have everything they want. I got them each a Harvard shirt, a long-sleeve for her, and a polo for him. Everyone gets some kind of Harvard-wear. Many thanks for the bookstore sale I stumbled into. But I want to, need to get them something else. And I can’t think of what it should be. No idea, really. You?’
‘They probably just want to see you,’ she said sweetly. ‘You, yourself. You’re a gift enough for anyone!’
‘True! And thanks. But I’d still like to get them a little something.’
‘You’ll figure it out, Pax. And don’t forget—and I know you won’t—but Christmas is about Christ, first and foremost. We, all of us, got the Greatest Gift. Anything we give each other, all of it trivial in comparison, is just a reminder of our shared debt, faith, and, of course, our love and friendship.’
‘You’re the most beautiful and learned Christian philosopher I know.’
‘Right, Pax, right. Just something Father O’Mally said at a recent Mass. But you, heart in the right place, will figure this out!’
She’d been so kindly confident in him. And still, even as he remembered her words, he was ambling towards the Georgia line without even the littlest something. He had the two shirts, but … what else? He turned off Cash, took a sip of Coke, and racked his brain. Not quite two hours later, he was still searching vainly for an idea when he saw the gas station off of U.S. 76 at the edge of town. ‘Might as well top off,’ he said aloud as he pulled in. Just before he got out, he said a prayer about the matter, something he’d done a time or two over the past week or so. He knew God had a plan; he just wanted to make sure he did his part in fulfilling it. And immediately thereafter, while he was pumping unleaded, his nose caught a delicious, telltale, mountain aroma. At the edge of the parking lot, towards the back, someone was boiling peanuts over an open fire, a rather common but still delightful sight and smell.
‘I’ll take a big bag, sir,’ he said to the man.
While the good gentleman was scooping in fresh, steaming nuts, a woman, his wife, no less, approached Paxton and said, ‘Youngster, we also gots some mighty fine pecans here! Already cracked. You want a big bag of them too?!’
‘Why, yes, ma’am!’ he said rather happily.
‘Comin’ right up. And I’ll make it extra big as you seem so nice and it’s Christmas time.’
‘Thank you, both, and a very merry Christmas!’ he called over his shoulder as he walked back to his truck carrying the bags. Once seated inside, he sampled a little from each. And for whatever reason, his quandary of the day left his mind, and he drove on towards the cabin without delay.
Granny and Pa lived in the first cabin in a little row of three off a very quiet gravel road on the side of a smaller mountain just south of town. As he made the turn and then rounded the farm down in a little valley, years of memories started to trickle back. When he crossed over the little creek, now up a little higher, the trickle became a flood. The clean, clear water flowed beside the road, and it ran behind the three cabins. Pa had built a retaining dam, and, thus, a small fishing pond, about one hundred feet east of their cabin; the couple in the third, far cabin had done something similar. And all of a sudden, there was Pa’s pond. And then, his little woodworking shed. And, at last, their quaint little rustic cabin, a convenient abode that might as well have been a thousand miles from anywhere and any troubles. It was their house, but he’d always felt right at home there. This visit was no exception.
He had just parked under the pine trees and was rummaging through his bags in the oversized toolbox when Pa came walking up. From the shed, he’d seen Paxton and made right for him. ‘Took your sweet time, Buckshot,’ Pa said as they hugged.
‘Yessir, someone recommended that,’ Paxton said.
Just then, Pa looked inside the open cab door, saw something, sniffed, and asked, ‘Muriels? For me?!’
‘Yes!’ Paxton said. ‘An early Christmas gift. I forgot to wrap them. And there might be a few missing. Four maybe.’
‘I can smell it. You smoking cigars now?’
‘Yessir. A few, at times. Like on the road.’
‘Good! Let’s have a couple out back tonight with a little whiskey. After the Old Bat goes to sleep or settles in with the phone and TV.’
‘Deal! Now, speaking of, where’s Granny?!’ With that, they took the Muriels, the nuts, and one of Paxton’s bags and made for the front porch. Inside, back in the kitchen, they found Granny placing pots and various ingredients into a large paper grocery sack.
‘Look who I found,’ Pa said as they entered. ‘And guess who brought me a mostly full box of cigars?!’
‘Hey, baby!’ Granny said as she rounded the island to hug Paxton. ‘Been waiting. And did you grow an inch on us? Gimme some sugar!’
After getting kissed and thoroughly fussed over by his grandmother, Paxton looked at her grocery sack and asked, ‘So, Granny, whatcha got here? Confections on the road?’
‘You know me, baby. Your mama can cook, but my sweets are my sweets. Never heard any complaints about them, and I have to make ‘em. Date balls, fudge, and my special nutty treats. Of course, only now did I realize I’m out of nuts. Not the first pecan. I suppose we’ll have to stop at the store when we’re out for dinner. That or round them up over in your neck of the woods.’
‘Wait! Pecans?’ Paxton said. ‘I happen to have a big, heapin’ bag of them right here.’ He opened the bag and showed her. ‘I thought they’d be nice and appropriate. Now I know they’ll go to really good use.’
‘Do I smell boiled peanuts?’ Pa asked.
‘You sure do. I got a big, fresh bag of them just a few minutes before I drove up. Nice couple at the gas station out on the highway.’
‘That’d be Frank and Carla,’ Granny said, more to Pa.
‘So why’re you being so stingy with your peanuts, Mister Paxton?’ Pa asked in his hurt Pa tone. ‘All real Southerners and most elephants love peanuts. Spare any for the common folks?’
‘Of course. But Granny first,’ Paxton said slyly. They promptly sat down with the nuts and some coffee in the comfy chairs by the sliding doors leading to the back deck. After chewing the fat—and some still-warm mountain goobers, he thought to ask, ‘Did you mention going out for supper? No roast or chicken, or— I was looking forward to special home cooking.’
‘Well, look forward to some special pizza,’ Pa said officiously.
‘We happen to have the best new pizza joint here in town,’ Granny said. ‘It impressed us, and we’re not even pizza people.’
‘But we’re knee with the younger generations,’ Pa said.
‘Hip,’ Granny corrected.
‘Well, both hurt,’ Pa explained.
Later, after that special pizza, which was something to write home about, they took a little Christmas light-seeing tour around town. They continued their discussion about various subjects, though most of them centered around college, exams, the Dean’s List, that scholarship, and general pride in a grandson. For a little change of pace, Pa was saying something about his favorite fishing lure and tackle store when Paxton noticed something different. ‘Is this a new van? Feels new. Smells it.’
‘Just got it, baby,’ Granny said. ‘New Plymouth Grand Voyager to replace the tired, old eighty-six Caravan.’
‘The Plymouth is a super Dodge,’ Pa said. ‘More expensive too. Might as well flash the cash to impress the minivan appreciation set.’
‘Not too shabby,’ Paxton said. ‘Probably great for a road trip too.’
‘We’re about to find out tomorrow,’ Pa said.
‘Why don’t you ride with us and leave your truck here?’ Granny asked.
Pa answered for him: ‘Cause a man has to have his truck, woman. He’ll probably need it to load up with cheerleaders and other broads when he’s home. What I’d do. And he might bypass us on the way back to Lincoln’s land and the eggheads.’
They discussed the convoy options and benefits for a few minutes, all eventually yielding to Pa’s wisdom. And then, Paxton remembered something. ‘Broads! That reminds me that I need to make a quick phone call when we get back. Long distance, but in a hurry.’
‘You can take your time, kind of, when calling a lady. What’s her name?’
‘Is it Miss Tricia?’ Granny asked. ‘The one you mentioned—once(!), and that your parents have tried to fill me in about?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Paxton said sheepishly. ‘She’s my official girlfriend! Gorgeous. Older too.’ As he filled them in, he was once again reminded about his gift dilemma. As they walked back into the cabin, he tried to broach the subject to gauge what might still be done, if anything. ‘So… I have, as I said, a few little things. Maybe things y’all can wear. But is there anything else you’re just dying to have?’
‘Well, never ask old people what we’re dying to do about anything. We’re all dying to make it a few more years,’ Pa said, again with his faux humble inflection.
‘Hush!’ Granny told him. To Paxton, she said, ‘All we wanted was to see you again.’
‘That’s it!’ Pa said, evidently recovered from his dying fit. ‘What else could we want? New van. Nice cabin. Social Security. And I happen to have a new box of cigars!’
‘And you saved the day with those pecans,’ Granny added. ‘But the main thing was just you being here! And let’s not forget, Jesus is the reason for the Season. We’re just loving accessories.’
So it was just as Tricia had predicted. Paxton told her as much an hour or so later, as he talked on the phone while leaning over the bar counter with a Coke. ‘Just like you said! And again, I’m sorry I waited until late to call. Eating out and catching up was important.’
‘Of course, it was important, Pax,’ she said on the other end. ‘And it’s not late. We’re young. But I really do miss you. Really, really miss you, if you know what I mean. It’s cold here. Hint, hint.’
‘Oh, wow, I know EXACTLY what you mean, Trishy. Is Mister Bear doing a good enough job standing in for me?’
‘Bear-ly,’ she said. They talked for a few more minutes, said a few sweet ‘I love yous,’ and hung up. Pa was waiting with a grin on his face.
‘I looove you, Paxy-Poo!’ he laughed out loud. Paxton laughed as well. Then he heard the allusive sounds of Granny in the living room, watching her “programs.” Pa tapped the Muriel box on the counter and then poured a few fingers of Southern Comfort into Paxton’s Coke. ‘Not so cold tonight,’ he said, motioning towards the deck. ‘Shall we, my good sir?’
‘Sir,’ Paxton said. ‘We shall!’
And for another hour or two, they chatted and relaxed the evening away. Pa had to pry Granny away from the “set” around midnight for a few hours of sleep. The next morning, they all meandered their way over to Starkville and another quiet, joyous family Christmas. Mom and Dad returned to their ordinary lives after the festivities ended. Granny and Pa resumed their retired life. And Paxton battled more snow and trucks as he inched his way back northward to Harvard, Tricia, and his future.
(Picture by the author with assistance of MagicStudio AI Art.)
Tuesday, December 23, 2025, rather late…
Nearby, a now very old, though lovingly cared for, 1979 F-100 Ranger rested beneath the pine trees. A box of finest drug store cigars sat semi-unattended on the arm of a wooden Adirondack chair. Paxton poured a few fingers of Southern Comfort into Tricia’s glass as they stood looking out over the deck railing into the quiet darkness of the night. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her in very close. After smooching on her like he was seventeen again, he said, ‘Not so cold tonight, is it?’
’No,’ she said, snuggling into his embrace. ‘And I still, after all these years, so love you. And this place!’
‘I’m so glad I, or we, rather, kept it all these years.’
‘Granny and Pa would be proud the tradition continues,’ she said as she glanced up at the stars. ‘Just a few more years, a few more Christmases, and this might very well become our retirement cabin.’
‘But, hopefully, not so many more Christmases alone,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I miss the kids this year. Terribly.’
‘Me too,’ she said. ‘They have those young, exciting lives now. And if we can stand the wait, then a majority of them will be here on Saturday. And! Think about it! Next Christmas, we’ll have all of them, here or wherever, with not one, not two, not three, but FOUR grandchildren! How about that?!’
‘Now, that I can look forward to,’ he said. He leaned his head against hers and asked, ‘But, really, this year, was there anything special that you wanted? Some special gift?’
‘Yes, there was,’ she said, squeezing him tightly. ‘And I got it! I got me a big old heapin’ helpin’ of you, yourself. What more could any girl ask for?!’
‘I’m just glad to be your loving accessory,’ he said as he eyed her tourmaline earring.
‘I’m satisfied to pay my debt, to receive The Gift, with your love and friendship to bolster and warm my faith,’ she said.
‘Wicked smaht,’ he slurred as he commenced a nibble attack on her ear.
THE END
Merry Christmas to All!
And, please, pass the Muriels*
*A few of the great (or trivial) ancillary matters attendant to this little story: Granny made the best sweets, bar none. And Pa forever loved Muriels, which, alas, are a little harder to come by these days than back in his day.
PERRIN LOVETT 
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