I have never been one to follow the crowd. Jumping on the bandwagon is not something I tend to do. If somebody tells me that this new thing is the best thing ever to come along, I’m usually among the last to try it out if ever I get around to it.

I have wondered many times why I’m wired this way.

Could be because my dad was a child of the depression who was never much impressed with anything new and out of the ordinary. He didn’t like hype. He liked things plain and simple. If the old way worked why would anyone want to start doing something in some new way. He didn’t need or want the latest gadget.

My sister tried to convince him to travel with her one year after he retired. She wanted to show Mama and Daddy the wonders of Tokyo, Japan.

“What’s it like over there?” he asked.

“Tokyo is one of the most modern and wonderful cities in the world. The food is incredible. The culture is interesting. The scenery is beautiful.” Marian was selling the trip really hard.

“You say it’s a big city? Lot’s of people in Tokyo?” Dad was calculating his response.

“Oh yes,” she said. “There’s millions of people in Tokyo.”

Dad was underwhelmed. “I don’t think I’ll be going. I’ve seen a city before.”

When I first heard about Buc-ee’s, I knew right away that I had no use for it. Some new-fangled, bigger than ever, better than ever brand of a gas station convenience store had come to Georgia from Texas. Friends whom I considered normal and whom I considered as capable human beings were going nuts over Buc-ee’s.

“Have you been to Buc-ee’s yet?” they’d ask.

“You gotta go to Buc-ee’s. It’s like Walmart, and Pilot, and Disney got together and had a baby.”

For the longest time, I simply ignored the taunting and the conversations that ensued.

My friends were getting together in groups and planning trips to distant cities like Macon and to Calhoun just to go to a Buc-ee’s store. Get what I’m saying. Normally sane and responsible adults were making 160-mile and 240-mile road trips to visit a gas station convenience store. On top of that, they went specifically to buy things they didn’t need with a picture of a buck-toothed beaver on it.

I refused to get excited about Buc-ee’s. The more someone tried to convince me I needed to go the more I stood my ground and the deeper I dug in with my heels. No way was I going to jump on the Buc-ee’s bandwagon.

Dumbest craze I’d ever heard of.

This past Sunday, as I headed up I-75 toward Tennessee, hoping to make it somewhere in Kentucky before nightfall, the last thing on my mind was Buc-ee’s. But as I got closer to Calhoun, the billboards were hard not to notice. Marion got on her phone and checked the diesel price at Buc-ee’s.

“We need to get off at highway 53. The diesel at Buc-ee’s is a dollar cheaper than any gas station around. Besides, Buc-ee’s is fun.”

I looked over. “You’ve been to Buc-ee’s?”

“Yep. The new one in Auburn. You mean to tell me you’ve never been to Buc-ee’s?”

I felt like maybe I had never been to church. Like I was the one guy who wouldn’t sing the national anthem at the ballpark. Like maybe I was the dark soul who would spread false rumors about Santa Clause to small children.

“Nope. I’ve never been to Buc-ee’s.”

“Oh my gosh! We definitely need to stop for fuel and get you a Buc-ee’s cup, or maybe a Buc-ee’s T-shirt. I’ll buy us a brisket sandwich and we can shop for the grandkids.”

The look on her face reminded me of a kid with visions of sugar plums dancing in her head.

We pulled off the interstate into a four-lane highway built with turning lanes just for Buc-ee’s. The stream of cars turning into the mega-store was similar to the traffic I’ve seen at a Braves game at Truist Park. There must have been 10 acres of concrete surrounding 200 gas pumps beneath sheds long enough to cover three football fields. Not a single pump was open.

The vehicles at the pumps were just the tip of the iceberg. Most gas stations have a handful of complementary parking spaces for overflow. Not Buc-ee’s. There are hundreds of parking spaces around this mega-plex. Tour buses parked in the back lot. Crowds of people standing around outside eating brisket sandwiches, standing among the outdoor cookers and firepits on display.

We filled up and circled the building trying to find an open spot to park. Mind you, this is just an interstate exit between Atlanta and nowhere. I’ve seen fewer people trying to get inside the Fox Theater to see the Allman Brothers. We parked and began to weave our way toward the front of the store. Everyone headed inside was skipping with glee. Everyone exiting the store was carrying bags of Buc-ee’s mania.

If you’ve ever been I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.

“Let’s go to the restroom first. You gotta see the restrooms.”

I am blown away that this is at the top of the list, but she was right. Private stalls. Clean floors. Wall mounted porcelain receptacles with full floor-to-ceiling tiled walls between each one. A Buc-ee’s employee on duty wiping counters and emptying trash cans and saying “Have a nice day” to patrons. I half expected him to hand me a warm hand towel for drying off.

Back in the store we walked past counter after counter and shelf after shelf of Buc-ee’s jams and peanuts and cookies and chips and cups and hats and jalapeno salsa. Each jar and bag sporting the face of Buc-ee himself.

Then I saw the peanut brittle. I couldn’t resist and stepped into the water and was baptized at Buc-ee’s.

We spent about an hour wandering through the beaver pond. The gift shop at Cracker Barrel dreams about being like Buc-ee’s. Cast iron cookware. Home décor. Fishing gear. Toys. Shirts. Sweatshirts. Candy. And a sandwich counter operated by eight husky-whiskered men wearing beaver caps and handing out brisket by the pound.

“I’ll buy us a brisket sandwich,” she said. “You want me to get two or do you want to split one?”

“Let’s split one.” I could hardly believe I was agreeing to this.

Here’s the thing. We didn’t really need that much fuel. We only pulled in to top off because the price was so cheap. We got 55 bucks of diesel and walked out with two bags of Buc-ee’s stuff worth about $90. I stopped by the bronze statue of Buc-ee and had my picture taken.

When we got to the truck, we got a Dr. Pepper and a Coke out of the cooler. We dug a plastic knife out of the glove box and cut our sandwich in half. Then we opened the bag of Buc-ee’s nuggets and finished off our meal.

The brisket sandwich was as good as everybody said it would be.