Half the fun

Last night, as Mary and I cruised up and down Route 118 in Montgomery, looking for the home where we were to sing and play for a private party, I kicked myself for not bringing a printout of David's directions. I knew there was something about a school, a tan and white house, and the next driveway after that, but we weren't having any luck finding a house with a party..

Only after the second pass did I remember that I had the IPod and the directions were in David's note to us about the gig. 5 minutes before show time, we pulled up the driveway to the garage where we'd be entertaining a family and friends for the evening. The house was well set back from the road, in the woods. We wouldn't have found it without that mailbox number.

It was the second time I'd been lost in a week, and I was again reminded of how little I like that late/lost feeling.

Getting lost was a pretty common experience for me back in my younger years.

In my teens and early 20s, my cousin Marjorie and I had some epoch experiences with this. We've gotten lost in the South Chicago ghetto, on narrow Vermont roads after Midnight, in New Brunswick, Washington DC, New York state, New Hampshire. . . You get the idea. Marjorie and I spend most of our time laughing and talking about books, history, food, and of course, our big, complex family. Is it any wonder we lose track. Once, to add insult to injury, while driving up and down the same stretch of road looking for a turn off, we got ticketed for speeding. 

In college my friend Liz and her boyfriend gave me a ride to the Akron/Canton airport. No one had thought of directions. There were no smart phones, no GPS units. We spent about 40 minutes in greater Akron-Canton hunting before we finally found it.   Fortunately this happened before Security, taking off your shoes and full body scanners, so I bolted into the airport, and 20 minutes later I was in the air on my way to Colorado to visit my sister, heart still thumping.

Once, in my late 20s, I got a ride to a meeting with a school administrator I'd never met. On the return trip from Brownington, we got lost somewhere in the back woods of Wolcott/Elmore. It's the only time I've been unnerved when riding with a stranger. Why, I'll never know. I've definitely ridden with more questionable characters. He was a polite clean-cut guy. Perhaps it was the grey November woods, the tension of the meeting we'd just left, or perhaps a mystery novel I'd been reading at the time. The relief I felt when we popped out onto Route 12 and known territory was astounding to me.

And I got lost with my buddy Leeds, looking for our friend Dave's house in Middlesex. We wandered around for over an hour on rutted back roads, and ended up finding the other end of Bear Swamp Road, and backtracking our way to the party. It turns out the local teenagers had amused themselves by removing road signs. Not much else to do for entertainment on Bear Swamp Road I guess.

The earlier incidents of cousin and college friend came at a time when I didn't feel responsible for directions. I wasn't behind the wheel, therefore it wasn't my job. I didn't pay attention to places I'd been, even when I knew I'd be going back. Someone else would be driving. I was just a passenger.

The real change came when I worked for the Association for the Blind and had the luxury and responsibility of a paid driver. My territory covered the northeastern third of Vermont, the most rural third as well.   Since I scheduled the home visits, I was the one who got the directions. If we were travelling for two and a half hours up to Canaan, or even an hour and a half up to Troy or over to Guild Hall, I needed to get it right, or I'd waste a lot of time and money. I got pretty good at getting route numbers, street names and landmarks, and we almost always found the home we were looking for.

Once or twice the directions just didn't give us enough to go on.   The "big maple at the corner" had been cut down, the left hand turn in Hardwick at "the eatin' place" which turned out to be Route 16, the third left at the third restaurant.  It took us two tries to get to that one.    There were unusual landmarks too.  the big manure pile (It was) and the life-size wooden moose,  to name a few.

Over time I got good at spotting a sharp turn-off, a yellow house set back from the road, ponds, green mail boxes and other such markers. And I could find my way back to places after we had found them once.

After my itinerant teacher stint I started taking responsibility for navigating when I'd travel. I still had meetings to attend in my next job, along with parties, medical appointments and such. Later, when I became a chef, I had to get food to events, and it had to be there hot and on time.

Now it's travelling to music gigs, weddings in picturesque and remote places, dances in schools or granges in small towns. Often we are the ones fueling someone's special occasion, so being late is truly bad form, particularly if there's gear to unload, or a sound system to set up.

I have discovered that I like knowing where I am going, and sharing in the responsibility for getting there. It's another way of carrying my weight, like keeping a driver awake, or helping with gas, since I can never be the person behind the wheel.

I was not entirely on my game on that trip to Montgomery. I was only saved by luck. I'd have been sorry to miss the rowdy garage party, people in their 50s dancing on the cement floor, older folks, sitting, tapping their feet, smoking, drinking beer, and kids eating potato salad and blowing bubbles.

Knowing where I should be going when I'm on the road is one aspect of a trip that I can control. Everything else is in someone else's hands, but I can bring the directions for getting there.  I'd hate to miss something because I left the directions to an over-worked friend.  Getting there is, after all, half the fun.