Glenn Beck is out. Some guy named Chris is in.
Friday, Jul 3, 2009
This post brought to you courtesy of Google Maps.
I could tell that the road didn’t look right, even for Kentucky. At any minute I just knew the creek would turn back into a road. Or like the Wizard of Oz, everything would blast into Technicolor if I could just go a little further. I checked my directions by backtracking in my mind, and sure enough, I was still on course.
I was doing what the paper told me to do. Have you ever talked to a customer service rep who couldn’t understand the situation but could only follow the directions on the paper? Did you ever shout, “Could you stop reading your script and just THINK?” I was that stupid.
I realized there was going to be a problem about five miles in when I came across green branches hanging across the “road” and realized that we’d been where no man had gone before. At least, since this spring. There were no power lines, fencing, driveways, or any other forms of life. I was hoping for a beer can, but noooo. The reason I pressed on was because there was no way to turn around.
When I saw the mud, I swung for the left and punched it, hoping to bump over the worst of it like the Dukes of Hazard. I thought we had a decent chance because it hadn’t rained in a week.
We were stuck. Apparently, that flying stuff only works in the movies. I concede the 12-passenger van probably wasn’t the best vehicle to try this in. Our navy blue 4 x 4 that plays country music, which is what I would’ve been driving had the situation been normal, is in the shop because that’s the way my life works.
The lady at AAA wanted to know if there was pavement nearby because she didn’t want the tow truck to get stuck.
Oh boy.
That’s when I understood this wasn’t going to go well: “You do know I’m in Kentucky, right? There are stories about Kentucky. Let me tell you some.”
“Well, what ROAD are you on?”
This is complicated.
“What’s your cell number?”
OK, this is really complicated. I have a trac-phone about to die and/or run out of minutes, and I just got it, and I lost my real cell phone with my real phone numbers, and I don’t know my (!) phone number, and DON’T YOU PEOPLE HAVE CALLER ID?!
“Well, ma’am, what road are you on again?”
I need a professional. I need a local who knows how to take a left at the old oak tree and cross the creek where it’s low. I really tried to explain to her how I got here, but like the FBI, she wanted names, people, names. Just Google map it, and you’ll get here just like me, but do not look for nice little street signs before you attempt a rescue. You just gotta go for it, you know?
From the back seat, my girls want to know what we’re going to do. I used to watch Survivor Man so I took inventory of the situation. In the deep recesses of my brain, I kind of remember seeing Carri Peterson’s cell number before. I count cards when I play Rook and poker, so this wasn’t a huge stretch. Pulling this number out now could be an asset along with the stale french fries in the bench seats.
“Are you praying?” the girls want to know.
“No. I’m trying to hypnotize myself to remember Carri’s phone number. I mean, yes! Praying!”
Ring, ring. Ba-da-bing. It wasn’t an Indian who fixes computers; it was Carri! Don’t hang up or have to go! Carri assured me that guys in these ridges live for these moments, which would be great so long as we could find a guy. I’m sexist. Please don’t send me a lady.
And just like that, after a chain of phone calls by someone who knows someone whose cousin…. some guy in a Polaris Ranger pulls up out of nowhere. Awesome.
Let’s pause to thank the Lord and give it up for beer cans and bass.
His name was Chris and I almost married him on the spot. Hey ohhh.
He didn’t understand, “Aw shucks. I do this all the time.”
“Yeah, me and the 14 other people who got stuck out here today had a tailgate party. Man, it’s crowded out here. You should put down some gravel. Just saying.”
When the chain broke off and the Polaris Ranger spun out, he told me that I was lucky to have got stuck right here and not up the hill. It’s waist-deep up there and I wouldn’t be a gettin’ out of that. Three cheers for this spot!
So before he left to upgrade to a real truck, we struck a double pinky swear and picked a scab to become blood brothers for-ev-ah that he’d come back. Please. You don’t understand that I’m not from around here (or maybe, just maybe, he did….).
An hour later after my new very best friend forever, Chris, and I had some strategy talk —he did the strategy, and I did the talking—- and I was free free, I was free at last, just minus the suspension, shocks, and a tank of gas. Small price!
BFF Chris personally escorted me to The Valley where I was meeting some new friends (met right here from the ole blog). He knew the Valley. He knew my road, Burnt Beach. (Burnt Beach is a four-wheelin’ trail with cliffs and mudslides, which are mildly 78.2% different than in, say, Florida. One is t-ball and the other is MLB All Stars.) And he wasn’t taken no more chances today with them city slickers. And then he apologized for getting my ve-hi-cle all muddy.
That, my friends, is service. Group hug!
When we pulled in my final destination, triple A, who never found me, wanted to know if I was “happy with my experience today using triple A.” Now that, friends, is what I call reading from the script. Long live common sense….for all of us.







