Well, They Did It In Maybery

Originally published in Bridges magazine.

This is the absolutely 100% true story of how my wife almost didn’t become my wife because of a Sunday drive and a country tradition.

Before we begin, I must say I never considered myself as particularly country or hillbilly, despite growing up in a small Kentucky town. Though we did our fair share of fishin’ and huntin’, I watched Star Trek, collected comic books and pretended I was a disc jockey. Not exactly qualities that get you a seat by the see-ment pond at the Clampett’s mansion, right?

I get the feeling, though, that Norma Kay thought we were a bunch of possum-eatin’, cousin-marryin’ yokels. While we may have tried possum once at a family reunion, there was absolutely no cousin-marryin’ in our lineage. Well, if you don’t count Uncle Edsel. The less said about him, the better.

Anyway, back to the cataclysmic event that almost wrecked my impending marriage.

Back in the day – as the kids say – there was a quaint family tradition known as The Sunday Drive. This involved packing up everybody in the immediate family into the car for a trip to destinations unknown. My father loved the Sunday drives. He was a nut for them. Dad’s Sunday drives started sometime around lunch and could easily last until supper. While the itinerary varied each week, we would eventually end up on a two-lane (or fewer) road up some hollow, where we would inevitably stop for snacks at a combination gas station/bait shop/taxidermist.

Believe me when I tell you that you haven’t lived until you’ve enjoyed cheese crackers that smelled like night crawlers.

Sunday drives were exciting when I was small. The older I got, the more they became something to be endured. Who wants to be stuck in a car all day, eating wormy cheese crackers when you could be home playing with your friends or reading the latest issue of Amazing Spider-Man? But we understood that these drives were important to Dad, so we went along.

Then, once upon a time, I met a girl named Norma Kay and decided I couldn’t live without her, so I asked her to marry me. Two boxes of Kleenexes later, we were engaged. Oh, and Norma cried too.

My Dad was so excited by the fact that I wouldn’t end up living alone with my comic book collection, he insisted we celebrate by introducing my bride-to-be to – wait for it – The Sunday Drive. Imagine my joy.

Reproduced here for the very first time is part of the conversation Norma Kay and I had when I tried to prepare her for this experience:

Her: So we’re going where?
Me: Nowhere.
Her: We’re just, uh, riding around? For how long?
Me: A few (unintelligible mumbling).
Her: What was that?
Me: A few hours. Don’t hate me.
Her: I could never hate you. But can I ask one more question.
Me: What’s that?
Her: Did you keep the receipt for the engagement ring?

Ha! What a kidder I had landed.

So the big day arrived, we piled into the Ford Country Squire station wagon with the fake wood paneling and set out for the great unknown. For a while, things were going better than I had dared hope. The small talk was great, she laughed at my Dad’s jokes, and she laughed at Mom’s embarrassing stories about all the places I peed when I was a baby.

Then came the moment that would almost change history.

“Who wants a snack and a bottle of pop?” Dad said. He pulled the ol’ Country Squire into the gravel parking lot of Wally’s Worm World at the foot of Booger Holler. We all climbed out, ready to stretch our legs after eleven hours of sightseeing. When we got inside, Dad purchased each of us a little bottle of Coke and a package of peanuts, just as he had every Sunday for the last two decades. We got back in the car and my Sunday Drive instincts kicked in. All of us – except for Norma Kay – ripped open our pack of peanuts and poured them down in our bottle of Coke.

As I took my first delicious swig, I glanced at my fiancée.

Her eyes were the size of the hubcaps on an El Dorado. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

Naturally, I jumped to the obvious conclusion.

“Got a peanut stuck in your windpipe, baby?” I said, while taking another swallow of my country cocktail.

She shook her head, her eyes now open to the exact diameter of a Giovanni’s 18 inch pizza. For the rest of the ride she had little to say.

Later, when we were alone, as she tired to express her disbelief that anyone would despoil a perfectly good Coke with peanuts, I came up with the only explanation I could muster.

“Well, they did it in Mayberry,” I said. “Andy and Opie put peanuts in their Coke.”

“Really?” She was skeptical, but it was good enough to convince her that we weren’t that family from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I saved the wedding.

That was a long time ago. But every time The Andy Griffith Show comes on, I know she’s waiting for Barney or Gomer to dump the peanuts in the Coke.

If you ever see an episode where that actually happened, please let me know. I’m sure it I saw it.

At least that’s the story I’m sticking to.