Directions

Have you ever noticed that people differ greatly in how they give directions? There are those, like my husband,who think in terms of compass points. You know, as in "go 2.3 miles and turn north. Then proceed 1.8 miles. Turn west." I can figure out the 2.3 miles part, that is, if the little dookickey on the dashboard is working...(which in our 1991 Honda happened about once a month, so was totally unreliable as a measuring device--or for telling how fast you are going) but since we don't happen to have a compass in the car, how in the world am I supposed to know which direction is north? My daddy once upon a time managed to pound into my consciounes the following information: face north, and your right hand is east, and your left hand is west. Now, as I remember it, the reason you face north is so that your family and friends have your back, and you can see what those sneaky northerners (known in these parts as yankees, or d___yankees, said as one word of course) are up to before it is too late to run for cover (or load your weapon) . But I still haven't figured out how you know which direction is north, if no yankees happen to be coming over the hill at the moment that you need to know which way north is?
My way of giving directions is something like this: start slowing down when you pass by where the old Piggly Wiggly used to be--no, not the new old one that is out on the end of Morton St., that's where the old one moved when it moved from this street--the old one, the one where the Goodwill was after the Piggle Wiggly moved to Morton St., and then it was a tire store--well, anyway, slow down when you get to where the old Piggly Wiggly was, and watch for the house with the bright red door--oh, they painted it purple? I guess I haven't been past there since they painted it. Did they paint the trim to match, or just the door? I always thought the red door with the orange trim was sort of gaudy .... oh yeah, well, after you pass the house that used to have a bright red door,.......well, you probably get the idea.
I like to think that God sometimes gave directions in a similar way-- after you pass the burning bush and themountain where Moses got the stone tablets, it will take you about 40 years to cross the desert, and there you are in the Promised Land. And by the way, don't forget about the Ten Commandments. Of course, there He was much more specific--which is probably a good thing.
I do admit that I have no sense of direction, since any time I go into a building, I am totally lost if I come out a different door. In fact, my husband once took advantage of this weakness, or at least he tried. We were on vacation with our son and daughter-in-law, and three babies under four years old. The babies, DIL, and I were all asleep in the back of the Suburban when husband and son stopped to get gas (we left on our journey at some ungodly hour well before dawn, as is usual with my husband--two hours on the road, and then we might stop for breakfast). I got out, looked at son, who was pumping gas, and said,"I'm going inside to use the restroom." When I came out, no Suburban was in sight. So I went back in, walked through the whole truck stop, and went out the other door. Still no suburban. So I walked all the way around the truck stop, just to be sure I was not overlooking a black Suburban (sort of like not seeing a tank parked in your yard). Son later told me the part of the trip to which I was not a witness. About 30 minutes down the highway, Dad says, "Where do you want to stop for breakfast?" Son says," I don't care." Dad says, "Ask Mama." Son turns around to look in the back, then turns back around without saying anything. Dad says, "What did she say?" Son:"She's not back there." Dad:"What do you mean she's not back there?"
I don't know exactly what else was said, but it then took them about another ten minutes to find a place to cross over and go back the other way, to the truck stop. When they got back to the truck stop, Dad says,"Go in and get your mama." Son: "I'm not goin' in there! You go in and tell her you forgot her!"
So husband comes in, finds me drinking a coke and looking at birdhouses, cheese domes and other fascinating souvenirs in the truck stop gift shop, and says, "hey, honey, did you go out the wrong door again?"
I may have no sense of direction, but so far I have never left a loved one at a truck stop.