Just lately, one beautiful calm spring morning, I heard a flock of geese flying north before I spotted them. (Come fall I’d like to pack a bag and grab a tail feather.) Craning my head back, chin up in the air, I watched them approach and fly past in a V-shaped formation; the leader squawking marching orders, the others replicating its call. How do they know when to go and especially, how to get there? Their God-given, natural instinct fascinates me and, oh, to have a bit of that transferred to my brain.
Standing in the middle of my yard facing our dear, weathered barn, I know the sun’s golden globe will rise over the horizon come morning, so that means that’s east. Because that is definitely east, behind me then is surely west.
Facing one quarter to my right I look out at the cemetery and church steeple in the distance. This I know, is south. Because that is definitely south, behind me then is surely north.
Leaving my yard, all of this sure-as-sure-can-be knowledge flees the space between my ears to places unknown. I am hopelessly directionally challenged.
One day years ago when my daughter was attending college at University of Wisconsin-Green Bay, she needed to come home. This happened to be in the dead of winter and an impromptu snow storm was brewing. I was in Green Bay and somehow took a wrong turn off Highway 41.
Dread set in immediately. While I try hard to calm down and ask God for help, it seems I cannot hear his voice for panic has taken my ears captive. The next thing I thought of was to call my daughter.
“Honey, I am lost.”
“Oh Mom. Just stop to think and look around. Where are you?” (She mentioned “think” because she knows me and knows my think-ability leaves the building.)
“I don’t know. I’m lost.”
After a brief moment she said, “Pull over, we’ll Facetime.” OK.
“Now turn me around,” says she, “so I face the windshield. I’ll see landmarks.”
Smart, smart girl. She takes after her dad.
Years ago, when I was working at Shamoco Ford they sent me to St. Norbert Abbey for training. I got there without an issue and a well-received afternoon of schooling left me with a great satisfaction to have gone. Feely rather smug, I walked out of the building and, stopping short, could not find my car. Nothing looked familiar. The first thing I did was pray for help. I was completely at a loss. Immediately, God sent an angel in the form a backpack-strapped student, complete with ear buds in ears.
“Excuse me? I am trying to find my car and this doesn’t look familiar.”
He was so kind. “You must have gone out of the wrong door. There is a parking lot on the opposite side of campus.” Gently showing me the way, he sent me off with a smile as I claimed my car.
One day when my daughter was small, we were heading home after shopping in Green Bay (to my credit my disability never stops me from going places) when I felt my stomach drop. I was lost. Calling my eldest son, who happened to live in Chicago at the time, I explained the situation.
“Mom. Look for Highway 29 West. You have to head west.” Looking up, there was the blessed highway sign: “Hwy 29 West – Shawano.” I had to call my child, who was physically in Chicago, to get his mother and little sister safely home to Leopolis. Oh, my patient, helpful family.
When we were in the throes of farming and I’d help with fieldwork, my husband early in our marriage, told me once, “Drag that north field east-to-west.”
Really? I mean, really?
“OK, look. Take a right out of the yard and when you turn into the driveway at our other farm, it’s the field to your left. Point your tractor facing the swamp and go that way back and forth, ending toward the house.”
Okay, landmarks. Now we’re cooking.
Another huge obstacle adding to my directionally-challenged angst are those big, orange, menacing detour signs. “Local Traffic Only” and “Road Closed Ahead.” Oh, joy. It’s enough to make me turn around and go home.
You might suggest I take advantage of technology and use my GPS. I do, truly I do. I tend to question their instructions, however. My husband and I drove to Texas to visit our daughter. Taking our time and, for the majority of the trip, pouring over physical maps served us very well.
At one point (we had packed our golf clubs), we wanted to golf at Oklahoma State Park. Putting it in my GPS it took us to an out-of-the way place that definitely was not a golf course. Come to find out it was my fault, I had left out one word. Seems GPS needs specifics. Who knew?
(“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and do not lean onto your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him and he shall direct your paths.” Proverbs 3:5-6)
Kay Reminger was born and raised on a dairy farm, and she married her high school sweetheart, who happened to farm for a living in Leopolis. Writing for quite a few years, she remains focused on the blessings of living the ups and downs of rural life from a farm wife’s perspective.
FARM LIFE FROM A FARM WIFE: Geese draw envy of directionally challenged
