(Posted February 10, 2011)
County Highway 44 is dark this evening; one of those Minnesota winter nights of close, damp claustrophobia. No stars. No moon. Just dark, dank atmosphere pressing in on the world. My wife is driving her Toyota Matrix somewhere behind me. I’m piloting my faithful old Chrysler Pacifica. We’re in separate cars because on Sunday, when Rene’ will head home to see her mom in the hospital, I will be driving to Palo to sell books to Finns during the sliding festival.
“Recalculating…”
Theresa, the name my son Jack has coined for my new Garmin GPS, a gizmo I affixed to the dash of the car just before leaving home (a gift from my wife for Christmas) isn’t happy.
“…turn left 100 yards ahead. Make a u-turn. Follow Peakwin Lake Road south…”
Theresa, in a synthetically computerized voice akin to those you hear in primitive animated videos on YouTube, you know, the ones entitled “So You Want to Be a Novelist” or “So You Want to Be an IRS Agent”, is telling me to turn back, that I missed the turn to Two Harbors.
Thing is, I’m not going to Two Harbors. I inputted Two Harbors as our destination because the place Rene’ and I are headed to, the Larson cabin on Thomas Lake, is close to Two Harbors, which, when you’re dealing with a human navigator, means something. Unfortunately, approximation apparently means nothing to a silicone chip.
No, the chip is all ones and zeroes; all accuracy and exactness. No “close enoughs” inhabit Theresa’s thin little brain. So when I miss what she thinks is the logical turn from the Pewuaywan Lake Road towards Lake Superior, Theresa has an electronic meltdown. Ignoring her, of course, isn’t a solution.
“Recalculating. Drive one-half mile north on Peakwin Lake Road. Take a left. Drive south on the Peakwin Lake Road…”
And on it goes.
At one point early on in our dark journey, I had stopped the Pacifica along the side of the road and waited for Rene’ to catch up. I thought stopping once for my beautiful bride was a sign of my love, affection, and care for her welfare. Apparently, she disagrees.
My cell phone rings. I answer it.
“Hello?”
“Mark, where in the hell are you?” she asks as I drive towards Brimson.
“A few miles ahead of you. I’m gonna stop at Hugo’s and wait for you.”
“Where are we? I’ve never been on this road.”
Of course you have.
But I’ve been married over thirty years: I know better than to chastise my wife’s memory.
“You’re only a few miles behind me,” I say in as consoling a voice as I can muster. “You can’t miss Hugo’s. Bright lights. Big parking lot. I’ll wait in the lot.”
My cell phone goes silent.
That’s odd. Plenty of bars…
I drive a few more miles, see the bright lights of the famed tavern and pull into Hugo’s. I step out of the warm car into the cool night. I stand jacket-less in inky darkness and wait. The night air isn’t bone chilling. Tomorrow, when we’re slated to cross country ski with the Larsons and the Michelsons, should be a fine day. Headlights crest a distant hill to the south. The Matrix pulls into view.
“Why didn’t you wait for me?”
I thought I did…
Again, I maintain decorum.
“Larsons’ is only 6 miles down the road. Follow me.”
Rene’ rolls up her window. I climb back into the idling Pacifica and head east on the Brimson Road.
“Recalculating…”
I input the cabin’s address into the Garmin. According to Theresa, the distance from Hugo’s to cold Guiness, hot food, and lively converstation with old friends is actually 6.6 miles.
But who’s counting?
Peace.
Mark
