Rummaging around in my desk drawer not long ago, hunting the staple-puller, I came upon a small square piece of paper with the words “Directions for Being a Genius!” at the top. It was step-by-step instructions for how to win the Old Fashion Peg Game found at every table at every Cracker Barrel in the whole wide world.
I wrote about the peg game years ago, when friends took me to lunch at Cracker Barrel and showed me how to succeed in leaving one, and only one, peg on the game board.
Not surprisingly, the peg game has been on my mind during the recent brouhaha surrounding proposed changes at Cracker Barrel. Would the game disappear along with Uncle Herschel and rocking chairs on the front porch and the Old Timer’s Breakfast? I could only hope against hope that it wouldn’t.
For a brief time several years ago, Cracker Barrel was the setting for several of my potential romantic rendezvous. (And, yes, the plural of that French word is the same as the singular.) Dipping my toe into the somewhat scary world of online dating, I decided that Cracker Barrel was almost certainly a “safe place” to meet a blind date. Cracker Barrels are located in well-lit, heavily-traveled parts of town. They’re filled with people. And at the time, alcohol wasn’t yet on the menu. I wouldn’t have to worry about my date getting drunk and out of line.
In addition to the Cookeville Cracker Barrel, I’ve met men in the Tennessee towns of Crossville and Lebanon and Alcoa and Morristown and probably some others I’ve forgotten about. I’ve met men in the Kentucky towns of Danville and Berea and Georgetown and Cave City and maybe some others. But I never ventured into any other state to have lunch with a man I didn’t know.
None of my Cracker Barrel meet-ups blossomed into true love. In fact, only a handful blossomed into a second date. But they did blossom into a 150-page, college-ruled spiral notebook filled with stories about the men I met and the things we talked about and, in a few cases, the presents they brought me. I plan to turn those stories—the good, the bad and the ugly–into what I hope will a riveting memoir entitled “Meet Me at the Cracker Barrel,” which I just may start writing as soon as I finish this column.
Stay tuned.
But back to the proposed changes at Cracker Barrel, which now—after a great deal of self-righteous outrage from those who see “woke” everywhere–look as though they’re dead in the water. I didn’t give a care about Uncle Herschel being taken off the logo. And if the powers that be wanted to declutter the dining area by removing the antique tools and the photographs of someone’s long-dead kinfolk and the metal signs from the walls, I could live with that. Heck, I’m okay if Cracker Barrel wants to serve mimosas at breakfast.
I just hope they’ll always keep a warm fire burning on the hearth on a cold winter’s day and giant checkerboards on the porch between the rocking chairs and catfish and fried okra and hash brown casserole on the menu.
And, more than anything, I hope there will always be a peg game on every table. I recently discovered that the game I have at home was missing a couple of pieces that—try as I might—I couldn’t find anywhere. For half a second, I wondered if it would be okay to pick a couple of stray pegs off the floor the next time I visited a Cracker Barrel and slip them into my purse. They’d never be missed, right? But no. That would be stealing. So I broke down and bought another game.
Which I just might take it off the shelf this very day to see if I can leave one, and only one, peg without looking at the cheat sheet.
(September 6, 2025)