Val Is the Old-Style, Backroads Siri

I'm used to bad drivers. I encounter several each day on my 10-mile round trip to town. Saturday afternoon, I might have happened upon a queen. Let's hope she wasn't like an insect queen, leading a horde of other bad drivers.

I got behind a mid-size blue SUV at the stoplight in town. There was a white car in between us. I didn't know the severity of my position until we'd traveled through two stoplights, past the prison, and turned onto my blacktop county road.

Even though most of us drive 50 mph, the official speed limit on this road is 35. I know that, because I saw the sign that was put up three or four times, before somebody knocked it down. The ne'er-do-wells run rampant in Backroads. They're either really bad drivers, or really resent being told how fast to drive.

Anyhoo, this blue car was driving 15 mph. I don't mind a driver going slow if they're not comfortable with the road. This driver was also not comfortable staying on one side, or continuing in a uniform forward motion. I noticed that after the buffer car, the white one, turned into its own driveway.

Blue Car swove from side to side. Almost came to a stop. We were down to 7 mph. Do you know how hard it is to make T-Hoe go 7 mph? I stayed back about five car lengths. Since I can't SLAM ON MY BRAKES, due to my traction control being off. Although the light didn't come on at all this day.

Blue Car got up to 15 mph again. Went up over Mailbox Hill on the wrong side, but darted back into its lane when an oncoming white Ford F250 appeared as it crested the hill. I wanted to take one hand off the steering wheel and twirl my crazy temple finger for that Ford F250 driver, but I certainly didn't want to be that reckless, and take a chance on losing control of T-Hoe by driving one-handed at 15 mph.

Of course Blue Car turned left onto my gravel road. But the shocking part is that it sped up to 25 mph on that bone-jarring gravel surface! Of course you've probably guessed that Blue Car turned onto my branch of that gravel road.

I'm so psychic. I KNEW that was going to happen. And that Blue Car was going to STOP right there, preventing me from going around, with no other route available to get home.

All I could do was sit there in T-Hoe, off the main gravel thoroughfare by about five feet, waiting for Blue Car to make a move.

A lady got out, leaving her door wide open. She looked 50-something. She teetered along the gravel towards T-Hoe. Huh. I couldn't figure if she was drunk, having an anxiety episode, on Ambien or another pharmaceutical, or just had bad knees. But she was very shaky. Held onto the side of her car, like she was walking on ice. Then hobbled closer to my window.

"Hello."

You'd think maybe she would have been more forthcoming in a greeting. What was I supposed to say to that? Certainly not what I wanted to, which was: "WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN ARE YOU DOING?" So I replied,

"Hello."

"I seem to be lost."

"Well, I don't know where you're trying to go."

"I'm looking for Rusty Blvd."

"Oh. That's the road you were on. It turns into Rusty Blvd right here, if you'd kept going straight."

"There's suppose to be a big fiddle get-together."

"I don't know anything about that. But it's possible. There are a couple of houses with cleared fields up there."

"So I should have stayed straight."

"Yes. If you go up this one, you'll have to turn around to get back out. If you close your door, I think I can get by. And that truck waiting behind me now. Then you can back up, and continue up that hill. It goes about a mile, then you'll hit another blacktop road. Don't turn off anywhere unless it's your fiddle house. Because the other roads are not Rusty Blvd!"

That lady minced her way to the back of her Blue Car, steadied herself with a hand on it, then got inside and blessedly closed the door that she'd left gaping open. SHEESH! People think anything goes out here in Hooterville with us hillbillies.

I drove past her, and the truck behind me followed. I couldn't see her in the mirror, from the angle on Hick and Buddy's Poorly Blacktopped Hill.

Just goes to show that Val is the old-style, backroads Siri. Two clueless mailpeople and one shaky lady can't be wrong. I'm their go-to gal for directions.