One snowy Saturday night, I was working at the Kahler Hotel when the manager called with an urgent yet thrilling task: Jim Nabors—yes, Gomer Pyle himself—was landing at the airport in an hour. My mission was clear. I was to retrieve the sleek black stretch Lincoln Town Car from the garage and chauffeur him back to the hotel in style.
Naturally, I had to tell someone about this brush with fame. I tried calling my buddy Doug, but his line was busy. So, in a moment of misplaced enthusiasm, I decided to swing by his house on the way and share the news in person. What I hadn’t accounted for were the treacherous, winding county roads coated in fresh ice. Halfway there, common sense finally kicked in: if I kept going, I’d either end up in a ditch, late to pick up Nabors, or both. Regretfully, I aborted the side trip and made a beeline for the airport, arriving just in time.
Jim Nabors and his manager, Stan Cadwallader, were already waiting when I pulled up. As the skycap loaded their luggage into the trunk, I couldn’t help but notice the brass plaques on their immaculate suitcases: “Jim Nabors, Honolulu.” Fancy. Nabors climbed into the car, warm and friendly, but his attention was focused on an animated discussion with Stan about Sharky’s Machine, Burt Reynolds’ newest movie. Though Nabors wasn’t in the film, his close friendship with Reynolds clearly made it a hot topic.
The snow picked up as we drove, and I could feel the tension in the car. They were eager to get to the warmth of the hotel. The big black Lincoln handled beautifully, but I underestimated just how icy the roads had become. Heading down Broadway, the light at the Highway 14 intersection turned yellow. And then came the quintessential Minnesota driving dilemma: hit the brakes and risk a skid or gun it through the light?
With Jim Nabors in the back seat, I played it safe and hit the brakes. Big mistake. The tires had about as much grip as a hockey puck, and we began sliding straight for the ditch. Desperate to salvage the situation—and my dignity—I straightened the wheels and floored it. The Lincoln, now channeling its inner snowmobile, plunged into the ditch, plowed through the snow, and somehow popped right back onto the road.
“Shazam!” Nabors exclaimed, his voice so perfectly Gomer Pyle it was like a scene from a sitcom.
Trying to lighten the mood, I quipped, “That’s just how we drive in Minnesota!” Nabors laughed, gracious as ever, but Stan looked like he was reassessing his life choices.
By the time we pulled up to the Kahler Hotel, the black Lincoln looked more like it had just conquered a bobsled run than chauffeured a celebrity. The front grill was caked with snow, a frosty badge of honor from our impromptu detour. Nabors stepped out, thanked me warmly, and disappeared into the hotel, leaving me with a story that made surviving Minnesota winters feel downright glamorous.