The original plan was to make a lazy drive home after the World’s Longest Yard Sale. Sip some hot coffee. Watch the sun come up through the oaks on Cumberland Mountain. Pack up the camper and take our time along the winding roads of Tennessee on our way back to Georgia.

Nothing even close to that plan is the way our last day turned out.

We knew the plan had changed before we left on Wednesday. Coming home on Sunday was gonna be a bit of a challenge because we now had a deadline for being back in Newnan.

“Don’t blame me for this,” says Charlie, Marion’s daughter, “but are y’all gonna be back in time for Caleb’s baptism on Sunday?”

This information came to us just a few days before the trip.

“The preacher picked the day. Not me,” she says.

Marion looks at me. I give her the raised eyebrow look of don’t-trap-me-into-this-conversation. Marion shrugs her shoulders, hands held out.

“What time on Sunday?” she asks.

“It’s at 11:00, near the beginning of the service.”

Long pause. Some head scratching. Lips pursed. I could tell the wheels were turning.

“Well…we’ll be there.”

On Tuesday evening we were working on the last of the packing. Camp chairs. Coolers. Checking tire pressure on the camper. We were at about T-minus 14 hours before we pulled out the next morning.

“It’s gonna be tough, but we can make this happen,” I said.

“Well, I sure don’t’ want to miss it,” she says.

“Me neither.”

“I know,” she said. “We’ll just have to leave early on Sunday. I mean, really early.”

I hardly ever travel with deadlines. My style of traveling, our style of traveling is to take it easy, see the sights, stop whenever we feel like it, and when we get there, we get there. The whole idea of getting away is to get rid of the deadlines and obligations. The point is to enjoy life with no pressure.

The first four days of our trip were just like that. Nothing fast-paced. We ate lunches that we packed in the cooler. We drove. We stopped. We took our sweet time at every yard sale. We threw supper on the grill back at the campground. We sat outside in the cool of the evening. Not a care in the world.

But we all knew that Sunday was coming.

On Saturday night, the four of us were sitting around after supper. It was like we avoided the subject until now, and I brought it up only because it was now or never.

“So…if we’re leaving early, I’m gonna have to ride over to the cabins to pick up Joe and Romona first, before we hook to the camper.”

This began a sequence of planning and strategy that would have made General Patton smile. Everything that could be packed would be packed tonight. The next morning, everyone would have their assignments. Disconnect the water. Bring in the slide. Stow the coffee pot. Drop the tongue. Pull the wheel chocks.

“We should get up no later than 5am,” Marion says.

“Is that Central or Eastern?” Romona is checking her watch.

“Hey,” Marion replies, “everyone set your watches to Georgia time.”

“Ready. On my mark. Now.” It was impressive.

It was going to be a three-and-one-half hour drive back to Newnan. If we left at 7am, that would give us a 30-minute buffer. We wanted more if we could get it, in case something unexpected came up while on the road.

The clock betrayed us from the beginning. I woke up at ten after 5. Marion had set her alarm for 5am but forgot that her cell phone was on Central Time. Not a good start.

The only sound in the campground at that time of the morning was the sound of a diesel engine when I cranked the truck to make the five-minute ride over to the cabins. Back at the camper, everyone worked together to finish the hook-up. The world around us was sleeping and the sound of the impact wrench raising the jacks sounded like machine gun fire.

There was one last thing to do before we could get on the road. We had to pull around to the dump station to empty our grey water and sewage tanks. Flashlights. Hoses. The aroma of an outhouse.

No one had eaten yet, and that was probably a good thing.

By the time we hit the highway it was 6:45am, which meant we had a 45-minute buffer. We were feeling good about our chances.

The two-lane highway took more time than we anticipated. By the time we hit Chattanooga, we had lost 4 minutes, but that was no big deal.

We crossed into Georgia, and everyone started thinking the same thing. We needed a pee break. We needed to be fast and get right back on the road.

It was about this time we came up on our first traffic jam. An overturned truck. No ambulances. Just a couple of police cars. It didn’t take but 10 minutes to get past it, but the clock didn’t care. Our buffer had shrunk to 30 minutes.

Then, the pitstop wasn’t as quick as we hoped. A little drink and food for the road, but we had lost ten more minutes. The stress level was rising.

By the time we got to Cartersville, we could see a long line of red brake lights in the curve ahead. Nobody was moving. Another wreck. And we got swallowed up by interstate chaos.

The clock was ticking. Precious seconds were being eaten up. By the time we cleared the blockage, the GPS said we were going to be 12 minutes late getting to the church.

I could see the disappointment in Marion’s face.

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a crazy man racing a camper down the interstate, but I took it upon myself to get Marion to her grandson’s baptism. The only thing that was gonna stop me was a speeding ticket.

A thirty-foot camper sways a little bit as the speed approaches 80mph. I was Richard Petty with a two-and-a-half-ton wagon behind me. I was John Wayne driving the stagecoach. Blinkers on. Changing lanes. Hugging the concrete wall in the middle. I’m not sure a Bugatti could have kept up with me on the track around I-285.

Everyone in the truck had their eyes closed except me.

Charlie and Marion were texting. “There’s two songs and some announcements first. If you can make it by 11:12, you should be fine.”

At 11:09 we pulled off the interstate. At 11:10.35 we turned north on Hwy 29. The entrance to the church was in sight.

The camper may have been on two wheels when we turned into the parking lot. Marion pointed. I veered and screeched to a stop. My three passengers bailed and ran for the doors. I had to find somewhere to park a smoking hot truck and trailer.

It was 11:12 on the dot.

The good news is that she made it with 30 seconds to spare. The baptism was perfect.

And the drive through Atlanta made it a day we’ll never forget.