Wherein Fr. Z relates a brutal tale of sudden realization and horror
in S. California, in the exotic periphery of Bakersfield, a priest friend zoomed up to the door of where I was staying and gruffly said, “Get in the car!”.
“Ralph!”, quoth I, “Is something wrong?”
“Just get in the car!”, he grumped.
I was used to this, since he occasionally did this sort of thing and in this sort of way. I, compliant, grabbed what I knew I might need for a longish Adventure With Ralph and, obediently, got into the car.
Off we went. I tried to wheedle our destination and mission from him, but he was stoic.
Soon we pulled into the driveway of the Kern