Directional Dilemmas

I am directionally dyslexic. This label appears much finer than saying I get lost a lot. I may someday be eligible for a federal grant to study this handicap.

I went to a nursing home today to visit three church members and managed to take a wrong turn even though the establishment is only 10 miles away. I come by this honestly as I am sure it is inherited. My paternal grandfather once turned the wrong way on a one-way street in his Indiana hometown after living there for 40 years. He saw three lanes of oncoming cars and in his alarm he swerved into the "out" lane of a fast food restaurant, almost smashing a departing customer. I have never caused a traffic accident and pride myself on no tickets for 18 years. I just get lost more often than most. It is annoying, but I keep it in perspective. I could be quadriplegic or have cancer. Instead, all I have is constant new scenery out my car window.

Besides my grandfather's directional genetics, I also have my father's. In the late 1970s my father bought his dream car. It was an Oldsmobile 98 Regency with a built-in CB, which were all the rage back then. He adored the CB culture, the slang, talking with the truckers, and hearing where the police were. After driving home from work, he still wanted to talk on that CB. So he sat in the car out in the garage and practiced saying, "Breaker one-nine, Breaker one-nine, any Smokies there over your shoulder?" He pretended he was driving and asked if police were around. One night, however, he gave himself away. Out in the driveway under the stars, he held the CB microphone and called out, "Breaker one-nine, Breaker one-nine, can I have an eastbound seven-one?" This was his way of asking for someone traveling east on nearby I-71. There was a silence, and then a trucker growled, "That guy must be smoking something: 71 runs north and south!"