Bits And Pieces

Men Get There

     Ever notice the major difference between a husband and a wife?  Sure his hair is shorter and he supposedly wears the pants in the family, if you ignore the slacks that she wears; but I mean this mental quirk that seems to affect all men and grind down patience pretty thin with the women.

     It's just that men won't ask directions.  They'll shout from the housetops if they can't find a special pair of socks or that hammer they put on the kitchen stove last week---but let them put their size twelve's on the car accelerator and it is a matter of pride that they find their way along.

     If you enjoy wandering around the countryside and back roads, taking your direction from the green moss on the sides of trees and letting your pioneering spirit take over even if you are an hour late for a dinner party, this masculine trait of never stopping for directions probably hasn't bothered you.

     But if your covered wagon longing is strictly for TV and you like to be around before your host and hostess have turned in for the night, this little habit known as "of course I know where I'm going" can be---to put it mildly---aggravating.

     And this is strictly a male affliction.  Take us gals for instance.  Behind the wheel heading for an uncharted spot we stick to main roads and will never stray far from a gas station where we can stop and get information.

     There is something positively frustrating in being lost for even a few minutes and I thankfully point the nose of the car into the nearest service station for help.  But not papa--though of course, he's never lost in his estimation.

     We start out for a dinner date at a place we've never been to before.  He's confident; I'm apprehensive.

     "Did you look it up on the map?" I ask as we go barreling along the Tollway.

     "Pshaw, that's not necessary.  I know where it is."

     An hour and several towns later Pop suggests casually that I might just take that little old map of Indiana out of the glove compartment and see how close this toll road comes to our destination.

     I suggest stopping at one of the Service Plazas, much simpler than ruffling through the disorder of the glove compartment and anyway, I'm a lousy map reader.

     "We're going East," he nods confidently.  "We're bound to run into Indiana that way--how can we miss it."

     I refrain from remarking the small town we're headed for is only an itsie-bitsie part of this great, big state and we go scurrying on.  By now I've discovered we should have turned off about two or three exits back, but Pop gazing squinty-eyed at the spot where my finger is pointing, is undaunted.

     There's this short cut he's heard about which should bring us in pretty close to our so called destination.

     One thing I will say, men have an uncanny aptitude for going in the right direction.  If they are supposed to go East, they go East, right through uncharted roads spraying dirt and sand in all directions.  They can turn, twist, back and zigzag but, by golly, they go East.

     We can't stop for directions now, the short cut is minus gas stations.  But Pop keeps whistling, the radio keeps jazzing, the wheels keep bumping from one chuck hole to the next and I keep sizzling.  But you know something?  We get there--late and dusty-- but there.

     When our host anxiously asks, "Have any trouble finding the place?"  Pop looks unconcerned.  "Heck no, it was easy," he answers without looking at me.

     I must admit when I've gotten on an uncharted road minus my informative gas stations I've stopped to ask passerby's directions.  They always appear startled, scratch their chins a couple of exploratory scratches and then come these directions:  "You go to that first bent over walnut tree on the South, then North until you come to what used to be a school house--been empty since we consolidated with the town school; can't say that was the best thing to do either--turn South, no North until you see Hankey's Feed and Grain elevator, over the bridge, a sharp North turn and there you are--You can't miss it."

     Well I sure can.  I can even miss that first walnut tree, and why do direction givers always say  "you can't miss it"?  Are they that positive of my ability?  And why must they say you turn South on the paved road or West on the gravel stretch?  That's when I stop them right there with a "you mean I turn right or left?"  In fact I'm never sure when approaching the exit gates of a toll road whether I want to go North or South and find it's a little late once I'm heading for Milwaukee that I should have turned toward Chicago.  

     I remember one elderly man leaning against his mail box as I stopped to ask directions.  He gave me a long winded recital of East and West turns up and under an overpass  but finally he stopped, scratched his head, and announced:  "Seems I heard they did away with this here road I'm telling you about.  There's a new, fast one here abouts, but darned if I know where."  With that he fished his mail out of his box and left me.

     So you see, I stick to the gas stations.  They have maps which they read to me, and they can tell me if the turn is left or right.  Also, they have a habit of counting how many stop lights it is to the turns; so I usually end up close to my planned goal.

     I suppose I must admit this male habit of finding his destination on his own is fine provided you allow an extra hour for country wandering.  Actually it's surprising the amount of the state you can see that way.  Anyway, as my husband says, "I get there, don't I?"  And by golly he does, every time.

Written April 26, 1962

     This was written long before cars had GPS and even cellular phones.  Maps were readily and freely available at service stations.  Unfolded they usually measured two feet by four feet and it was always interesting to look at the map on a hot day in a car without air conditioning. 

     Mom did do a lot of driving during the war years with a young daughter in tow; from Cleveland, Ohio, to Lansing, Michigan and then to Fort Dodge, Iowa.  It was years before the expressways were built.  Highways were two lane and usually ran through towns on its route.  Service stations usually had two gas pumps and always an attendant who would give you "full service" by cleaning windows and checking fluids in the motor while they pumped the gas.   

     This male "ability" has been subject of many sit-coms and movies. And, as a male, I like to go exploring when I drive. You never know what you'll find.  I remember once my wife Flo called me (from a pay phone) when she was on the way home from some outing.  Her first words were, "Honey, where am I?"  Eventually I got her to say she was on route 20.  After some further coaxing she could see the sun.  I  told her to head toward the sun knowing that eventually the route would lead her to familiar territory.  Lucky for me she wasn't too far west--because those directions would have had her in Iowa.