A Word in Favor of the Scenic Route

Years before I came into this world, Dad was an Air Force Navigator. I can only assume he was great at navigating from up in the air. From behind the wheel, not so much. When we were still taking ambitious family vacations, I have vague memories of heading north instead of south on an highway on-ramp, or ending up on the wrong highway completely. Once or twice we ended up in the wrong state entirely. My sister Megan navigated us back to our Chicago hotel safely after a cousin’s wedding in northern India after Dad got too turned around. She was 11 at the time. I give Dad credit for listening to her when she spoke with some amount of authority about which turns to take.

Dad also has a great sense of humor. After a number of vacations where we’d been hopelessly lost, he came up with the term ”naviguesser” and that then became the job of the person sitting shotgun. It was a coveted role. Unfortunately, my sister Patti and brother Kevin both wanted to do it through the middle of Georgia once, and after a map grab back-and-forth a few times, it went straight out the window. The rest of us in the back and way back weren’t sure if we should laugh or cry, knowing our fate had been sealed.

Things were less tense during shorter excursions around St. Louis, where getting a little lost didn’t have dire consequences like a late arrival at the motel booked ahead of time, with the risk of losing our reservation, with a car full of six cranky kids, and a wife who had plenty of thoughts on the topic, but knew to keep quiet under the circumstances. No, around town Dad would simply shrug and say, “Chilluns, it looks like we’re taking the scenic route today.” And I will say, the scenic route has plenty of its own charms.

I know, not just because I’m the proud daughter of a confirmed naviguesser, but because the year I got my license (ok, two years after I got my license and finally got to use a car) I realized I’d inherited Dad’s gift for directions. I’d set out toward my destination, usually with only a vague sense of where I needed to go. “I’m fairly sure it’s kind of next to the soccer field we played on in that tournament in sixth grade” or “I know her house is off that street just a little after West County Mall, or maybe a street or two before it, and I either take a left once I get into her subdivision, or two lefts. Well, I’ll figure it out when I get there.” And of course I rarely do.

You do a lot of 180s. The worst scenario is you know you’re on the right street for your destination, and you suspect you’ve gone too far, but you don’t know for sure, so you either keep going straight with the chance of overshooting it by several miles, or you turn around with the chance of having to turn back around and cover the same stretch of road at least 2 more times. Another problem with this approach is that once you actually find where you need to be, you have absolutely no idea how to get there the next time.

Like Dad, I’m willing to stop and ask for directions. But if I’m too flustered by the time I find someone, the instructions go in one ear and out the other. I keep up with the person for up to two turns. After that, they’ve lost me. And I know I’m cooked if the last thing they say is “you can’t miss it!” So often, I’ve been tempted to answer “my dear, you have no idea!” Why asking them to repeat the instructions or write them down for me is too monumental a favor, I don’t really know. But worried about embarassing myself in front of someone I’ll never see again, I get back in the car and drive aimlessly until I find someone else to ask.

But we’re here to talk about the charms of the scenic route. Here’s the secret I eventually learned: if you calm down and accept being a little lost for awhile, you can appreciate some things along the way. Here are some of my favorites: a table of used paperbacks with a sign saying to help yourself, a little creek at the end of a shady subdivision, a pick-up game of backyard baseball, funny street signs like “Quiet Drive” or a welcome sign that says “Home of Bob and Bunny Brown.”

Those last two I saw early in the morning this Fourth of July. I was in St. Charles county, lost again, looking for the local parade. It was quiet, and the holiday decorations were spare in the neighborhood where I’d landed: a flag by a porch light on one house; some red, white and blue bunting over a few of the windows on another. I think that was all. These St. Charles neighbors are proud Americans, but not too showy.

I came to one deadend street and saw a fenced-in yard with one tree in the very corner, some bases, two chewed up baseballs and a sign that said “Beware of dog.” I decided that the dog was actually pretty friendly, maybe just young still, and energetic. And I thought to myself “someone is having a happy childhood in that yard, right there.”

I wouldn’t have seen any of it I’d had a more accurate map with me, but I’m glad it turned out the way it did. I’m proud to be American, too. And I’ve gotten to see a lot more of America than I would have otherwise, because I have this wonderful legacy from my Dad–the willingness to accept getting a little lost. Or a lot.