Stillestead is on a gravel road off another country road, nestled deep in trees
among pastures and cattle. It's really a dream.
Our "neighborhood" is shaped like a horseshoe with two entrances/exits on
two different roads, anyway...when we went to check out the house
for the first time, we noticed that the name of the street is spelled differently
from each other on the road signs. It didn't make any sense.
On the way back from church on Sunday, we stopped at a quiet little
cemetery next to the Primitive Baptist Church, about a 1/2 mile from our house.
We were determined to find the man whose name was on the street sign
and know once and for all which sign carries the correct name.
Surely he'd be in this little family cemetery next to all his kin!
No luck.
There were lots of people with his last name, but not first.
Maybe he's still alive?
Then a few days after this hunt, we met our neighbor, who also
carries our street last name, and of course, one of the first things I asked him
was about the spelling of the street name/sign.
He also informed us that our street was named after
his uncle, who is, in fact, deceased, and because of some family drama-
I'm not going to get into it here, but he'd buried it elsewhere.
Turn out the entrance we use to get to Stillestead is wrong,
SO TERRIBLY WRONG! It's funny!
One of these days, I'm going to call the city and ask if they'd
change it to the correct name; I think our friend deserves that,
and so does the mailman and delivery services.
Gigs slept in the car.
BooOOoOring!
