When you're lost, it's an amazing test of wills and texts aplenty

By ERIC BERNSEE

Editor

Amidst the great generalization that Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus, the male of the species is forever portrayed as the one refusing to ask directions and getting lost in the traffic shuffle.

Although we allow that there's some truth to that TV sitcom-induced stereotype, I'd have to say I've always been pretty good at finding my way and reading a map (maybe not Lewis-and-Clark good, but at least Martin-and-Lewis quality).

And if I've ever been someplace even once, I'm like a bloodhound. I can generally find it again even without wrinkling up my nose and howling at the moon and the stars.

You see, it's not taking directions that's an issue for me. It's more giving them.

Maybe I've just been numbed by all those times I've been advised to "go down where that big, old tree used to be at the intersection" and turn south to find Belle Union.

Or west of Greencastle, where they, too, invoke that age-old landmark logic. For in Madison Township, all roads seem to lead from the spot where the old No. 10 schoolhouse used to be.

Of course, there's always Heritage Lake and finding your way around that place has always befuddled me, even after learning to think of Heritage Drive as encircling the lake like some scenic version of I-465 around Indianapolis.

Just when I thought I had the hang of navigating Heritage Lake, however, I found myself coming out of the wilderness onto State Road 240, which I originally presumed was U.S. 36. That's, oh, an eight- or nine-mile difference between those two, just the kind of miscalculation that sank The Titanic and stranded Gilligan on that darned island.

So, short of dropping breadcrumbs and clutching a St. Christopher statuette, I'm not sure how I'd ever give anyone directions to find their way in and around dear, old Floyd Township.

And with such direction-giving prowess on my resume, it somehow fell to me to help direct a relative Greencastle newcomer to Walmart the other afternoon.

She had planned to stop there en route home to Danville, so I figured to save her a few miles with my intimate knowledge of the Putnam and Hendricks county road systems.

Easy peasy, I explained, when you leave our subdivision, just hang a left on the first street south of the railroad tracks. That's Shadowlawn. You follow that through three stopsigns before turning left at the first stoplight, emphasizing the presence of CVS and McDonald's at that corner and how simple it would be the rest of the way east on Indianapolis Road through two stoplights. Can't miss Walmart, it'll be on the right.

Then when you leave Walmart, hang a right, go until State Road 240 ends and hop on U.S. 40 with a left after passing over State Road 75. Then left at Cox's Plant Farm, and follow that road through Clayton and right into the heart of Danville.

That knowledge in place, we parted ways. She left ahead of me, and I followed a couple minutes later to visit the Banner Graphic newsroom.

About 10 minutes later I get a text: "How far is Shadowlawn?" Automatically my joke-detecting reply is "Ha, ha."

"Don't laugh, I'm lost" advises the response. "Out in the country somewhere."

Somehow the intersection at Shadowlawn was obscured by traffic and the first railroad tracks after that were south of the bowling alley.

So she's all the way down to Antioch Baptist Church after turning around at least twice to look for Shadowlawn out in Limedale. (Got to be akin to searching for that lost shaker of salt in Margaritaville, I believe).

No harm, no foul at this point. I talk her down, sending her toward the Walmart via Veterans Highway and dutifully staying on the phone until the superstore is in sight.

A good bit later, after not hearing from her for a while (or long enough for anyone to have endured our Walmart), I text, "Home yet or did you get lost again?," trying hard not to be too sarcastic.

"On 40, looking for the plant farm," comes the response. "Oh, found it!"

Great, I think with a sigh of relief, my conscience clear having done what I felt was my good deed for the day.

But a couple of minutes later, the phone dings and I find a new text, "Crap, the road is closed. No detour, just road closed. I'll never get home! Guess I'll go back to 40 and down to Plainfield."

No need to do that, I reason. Drive east and hit State Road 39 to go north.

"I would," comes the latest text, "but now I'm turned around in Clayton and can't figure out which street goes back to Cox's. I quit."

I try to reason that it'll all soon be fine. State Road 39 is just down the road and Danville is literally around the corner.

"I'm just going to rent an apartment here cuz I'm never going to get out of here" comes the next over-the-top text reply.

Two minutes later it's turning into a really bad joke.

"Omg," the latest text reads, "SR 39 is closed too."

So, third time has to be the charm. Cartersburg Road is next, go left at the light and ultimately it turns into Tennessee Street in Danville, coming out on 36 at the Speedway station.

Finally a text of success. "Found it! Yes, I've been on this road."

It's almost 8 o'clock now and this had become a three-hour tour the likes of which Ginger and Mary Ann grew to hate The Skipper for arranging.

The silence is broken by another text. "Guess what?" it reads.

I can only imagine. So I reply, "Lost again?"

"Oh, ye of little faith" comes a response of biblical proportion.

"I'm home ... finally."

"OK," I offer, "then do me a favor ..."

"What's that?"

Never ask me for directions ever again.

After all, like the old saying goes, life has never been easy, nor was it meant to be.

Now that's direction worth taking.