The Stuck Truck

The door bell rang gently. I opened the door a little bit and peered out at the visitor.
"Hi, is this number 170?" the middle-aged man in a leather jacket and baseball cap asked.
"No, this is 178, I think," I replied. I could never remember our street address.
"Oh, this isn't the residence of Philip R.?" the man asked. (R. substituted for full last name.)
"No, it's not," I glanced at the clip board, pen and camera in his hands. Tax assessor, maybe?
The stranger puzzled aloud over the street numbers and was clearly annoyed at the seeming absence of Philip Somebody on the entire road.
I noticed that my grandparents, who lived just next door and bring us the mail from our little country post office box everyday, had just pulled into the driveway, as well.
After expressing his apology, the stranger hopped back into his large, tan truck, and backed out of the driveway. Or tried too. He got stuck in a snow bank at the base of the driveway. His wheels spun and caused a light powder to fly up, but the truck insisted on remaining where it was.
After that, everything was a blur. My grandmother was inside drinking tea and my grandfather was helping to shovel snow and tug at that stubborn truck. My brother brought out ashes from the fire place and we got sand, too. At last, after a good workout of a couple of hours in 15 degree (Fahrenheit) weather, the truck pulled free.
The stranger expressed his desire to pay damages done to the little sign that used to bear the numbers "178," and left his number. Apparently, his GPS led him to the wrong street, and consequently, the wrong house. He seems to be a very nice sort of stranger, but I wonder why he God had him show up today?
That was my morning.