I had the world by the tail. I was 19 years old, a freshman at Athens College, and earning $30 a week at McConnell’s Funeral Home.

I figured I was pretty cool. I could inhale without coughing, exhale through my nose and steer my green and white ‘55 Chevy while resting my elbow out the window.

I was also engaged to marry Carol, my high school sweetheart.

My ‘55 Chevy smoked so much that one fellow asked me if I was burning cordwood instead of gasoline. The tires were also bad. Another fellow said they were so thin that he saw air running around inside them. Of course, I didn’t have a spare. That would have been planning for a blowout, which was negative thinking.

My life was busy.

I attended classes Monday through Friday from 8 a.m. until noon, then jumped in my Chevy and sped off to McConnell’s Funeral Home, where I worked all day and alternating nights. Fellow employee, Buddy Evans, relieved me each morning at 7 a.m. I sped home, wolfed down breakfast and skidded up to class by 8 a.m.

Buddy was Limestone County coroner and drove a ’60 Chevy that still had the new smell. He and Bobbie had two children, Johnny, about 4, and Jerry, less than 2.

Carol and I set our wedding date for Wednesday, Aug. 30, 1961. My employer gave me Thursday off.

We were married in the chapel at Market Street Church of Christ. Dan Williams was best man. Looking back, I don’t think he did a very good job, as I was divorced only 25 years later.

Afterwards, we went to Uncle Bobby and Aunt Anita Holt’s house on Highway 99 for a reception. Dan and several guys painted “Just Married” all over my ’55 Chevy and tied tin cans to the bumper.

Just as we were about to depart on our honeymoon, Buddy and Bobbie Evans drove up in their shiny Chevrolet. Buddy chewed on his pipe stem as he eyed my old car.

“Where ya’ll going on your honeymoon?” he asked.

“Nashville.”

“You’ll be lucky if you reach Ardmore on those tires.”

He handed me his keys. “Y’all take our car, and we’ll drive yours.”