SOMETIMES IT’S A LONG WINDING ROAD

This service was supposed to be a routine delivery, but I was apprehensive . I checked for a phone at the service address. The phone company indicates that this is a Baptist Church. After a couple of phone calls with no answer, I decide to make the long pilgrimage to the church in the woods in hopes of finding someone there.. I drive along the interstate for 45 minutes, then I turn onto a state highway. After several miles my GPS, affectionately know as Bossy Bitch, harps repeatedly that I should turn left on a Farm Road, - not bad, two lanes, clearly marked, and safely shouldered. Then she demands a turn on to a County Road, clearly a secondary road, but it does have asphalt shoulders… at least for the first few miles. Bossy Bitch is exasperated with the recalculating. I can hear it in her voice. Then came the gravel shoulders then no shoulders. But the road does have a center stripe, for one more mile. What… now the asphalt is gone and the gravel is pretty rough. Oh, hell, now the gravel is gone!
My bossy bitch announces that she has lost satellite reception. I pull out my cell phone, where I would normally see bars indicating the signal strength, I see an "X". This is not good.
At the very end of the dirt road I find five mobile homes; some would call them trailers, and none were double-wide. The five trailers are arranged in a crescent with a flag pole in the center of the crescent. At the peak of the flagstaff a Confederate Flag waives. Never in my life have I been happier that I am a large white man. The first living thing I see is a Rottweiler larger than most Shetland ponies. I stated in an earlier post that I have great "respect" for large dogs and remain in my car to demonstrate that respect. As I am sitting there contemplating my next move, a young couple appear from behind a big red, Ford Dually with crossed weaponry appliqué adorning the rear window. Through my car window I ask the whereabouts of Mr. Killabrew. They point toward a barn behind one of the trailers. Neither of them ever spoke a word. At about that time, out of the barn strolls a short man with a full beard attired in jeans and a blue plaid flannel shirt and atop his head is a Johnny Reb hat. No embellishment here; it really was a rebel hat. I ask if he is Mr. Killabrew, and he responds, "It depends on who’s askin’." I then inquire, "Is the dog friendly?" Mr. Killabrew responds, "He is until it gets dark." Well, it is getting dark so I figure that I need to get this done quickly. I get out of the car and not only does the pony not attack, but Mr. Killabrew is courteous enough for a flag-flying rebel being served with a law suit.
But I do not linger as I need to get away from the large pony before dark and I am not sure that I can find the gravel road in the dark. I never did see the Church.