Writers’ Corner: ‘Who's Your GPS?’
As a geographic dyslexic, I’ve seldom been asked to be the navigator when riding shotgun. It often turns out I’m glad the driver doesn’t have a shotgun.
I absolutely love maps. I’m a geek that way. I can put my finger down on one and just imagine knowing exactly where the place is. Only I can’t read them to save my life. I envied the AAA ladies who could highlight them upside-down, behind the counter.
Yesterday, en route to a birthday party in a different town, we drove up and down the street looking for a nonexistent house number. We’d been there before. This time, I had a surreal feeling: all the houses had jumped up and switched places since the last time. As it turned out, the house number had been off by one digit when entered into the Global Positioning Service (GPS) on the phone. Until I rechecked our contacts, we slowly paraded up and down the street as though “casing the joint” for a later burglary.
Over the years, I’ve used computer generated printouts to get me from place to place, going turn-by-turn. I graduated to a Garmin GPS, plugging it into the car’s cigarette lighter. It was constantly “Recalculating” and often directed me to “Make a legal U-Turn.”
These days, my GPS is my phone. My sisters like the WAZE app, but it’s taken us to closed entrance ramps; making us late for a concert whilst driving in circles.
Cardinal directions mean nothing to me or my son. We know what a compass does, theoretically. It’s just second nature to us to get lost.
Apple Maps and Google Maps seem to be most helpful for electronic route planning. Honey’s GPS has a female Australian voice, which weirds me out. I wonder what they talk about when I’m not along for the ride.
Mine sounds like Siri. I had Hugh Grant, then Pierce Brosnan telling me, “You’ve Got Mail” for a while on AOL, but I didn’t keep them. I prefer the company of a voice I love. Google Maps Canadian customers reported their GPS voice changed randomly to an Indian accent. All they had to do was change it back to their preference.
For my GPS, I wish for my Dad’s voice to talk me through wherever I’m going; not restricted to restaurants, hotels, and gas stations. I still want him to guide me though “detours” and “bad weather.” He always knew how to patch ways together to get where I needed to be. Honey is the same way.
When I am disoriented, or just plain lost, I’d like to hear Dad’s voice saying, “Go down past the high school, look for the big white house, across from the Shell station, turn there, toward the farmstand where you used to buy penny candy. It’s not there anymore, but you remember.” He’d continue with, “You know where the convenience store used to be, near that little Italian restaurant? Drive past that, up a little more until the apartment your cousin had when she was first married. You’ll see a fountain. Keep going. There’s a light there. Take a left at the light, and you’ll see it!”
Dad’s directions had a built-in child safety feature: he was always there for me.
Bio: Cindy’s dad taught Driver Education in New York State, where she grew up. She was licensed at the age of 27, after five failed road tests.
Tip: Who is your True North, or GPS? How did this come to be? Share tales of your “journey” with me at cmyr@aol.com.
Sturgis Writers’ Mill is a community of writers who constructively encourage, support and challenge each other as they discover their unique voices. Any opinion expressed is solely that of the author.
This article originally appeared on Sturgis Journal: Opinion
