Finding Direction: The Wind Vane Chronicles

What started out as one person going into Wally World in eastern Arkansas to get a step stool turned into all eight of us wandering around WW’s hinterlands for an hour searching for each other with our eyes wide at all of the costumed Halloweeners.  The 25% of the patrons not in full costume looked as if they were and we didn’t look much different, by now.

We were a bit bedraggled, already, and not yet halfway to Mt. Home from Memphis.  Tom’s GPS kept revising our ETA later and later and we had just left interstate highways for more rural two lane roads.

The AC/heat complaints issues continued unabated as the landscape changed from cotton fields and rice paddies to low wooded hills strewn with cattle.  Low slung bushes covered with bright red leaves filled the roadsides.  We debated whether they were poisonous sumac or something else and collectively decided they were “Arkansas low red bushes.”

We stopped to fill the van with gas at the only little gas station we’d seen in 50 miles as the setting sun gave way to a nearly full bright orb of moon to our right.  We kept looking for the “mountains” to which we were going, but all we saw were more hills.

Finally, we saw higher hills ahead on the horizon, but the “boys” wondered what had happened to the mountainous terrain they remembered growing up in around Mt. Home, Cotter, Flippin, Yellville and Gassville (the last two both pronounced with the “ville” rolling off the tongue as in “YELL-vul, GASS-vul,” putting the emphasis on the first syllable).

We finally arrived in Mt. Home with the last rays of day closing in ahead.  We drove through on the “main drag” full of every kind of eating place one could ever see and then past what the owners of our rental house had advised was the “biggest” super Walmart in Arkansas.  Some wanted to stop, again, for more provisions, but we decided to go on the six or seven miles further, first, to the country house where we were going to stay near “Gass-vul.”

I dug out the landlandy’s directions for exactly how to get there from Mt. Home, as it was a bit tricky.  I thrust them upon Tom, but he insisted his new electronic toy GPS would better find our way.  We argued had a strong differing of the minds.  I knew I was right in my thinking, figuring the lady knew best how to get to her own house.  But being a male, the driver of the vehicle full of seven family members and wanting to prove how smart he was in relying on technology, the usually sensible and rational Tom won out.

Well, that was until about 45 minutes later after we’d left all semblance of civilization in the pitch black (the moon was behind clouds) way up some part gravel/ part dirt, pot hole filled county road that even God would have trouble finding or navigating following the GPS’s ever more irritating voice.

All of us but Tom were now feeling rather queasy and full of qualms.  Me, the most, as I clutched the printed out directions to the house.  The GPS “brightly” announced “destination on the right ahead 1/2 mile . . . 1/4 mile . . . destination on the right 100 feet . . .  turn off road here . . . YOU HAVE ARRIVED” as Tom smartly turned the big van down a dirt lane into some stranger’s front yard between a fence and two huge trees.

We . . . were . . . totally . . . lost.

A might chorus of unhappy voices rang out.  There was no way to get out without backing up.  Tom could not see.  It really was pitch black.  There were two big trees – one on either side  and one behind – to navigate.

His brother-in-law, sitting on the back row, called out careful directions for backing up and turning.  It took a lot of breath holding and a good many tricky backing up/forward/turns, but Tom luckily smartly maneuvered  the van back out to the Godforsaken trail county road midst disagreements about whether to turn left, back toward the last paved road where we’d come from, or to go right.  Being the driver (and in control?), Tom turned right, taking us further away from civilization, it appeared.

NOW he asked me to turn the light on and read the directions.  I smugly sweetly said, “Are you sure?  What about your GPS?  What does she say . . . Babe?”  (I know, I know – I’m bad.  But, I couldn’t resist.)

We were on the right county road, but way off base as to the address, which was 65 CR 10.  We were in the 2000’s.    So, we drove on, looking to see whether the numbers went up or down, not knowing where the GPS had led us or how to find the right place.

We twisted, we turned, we dipped, we curved, we bumped and bumped, we yelled out as pot holes bounced us around, we passed a field looking small airport of some kind, we looked for mailboxes and numbers.

Just as we were about to totally give up and turn back toward life, we saw a big sign in a yard to our left that had the name of our rental house “Ozark Getaway” on it.  The house there was lit (our landlady had said she’d leave the lights on for us).  What looked like a main paved road lie about 100 yards straight ahead.  (Duh.  Just as she’d directed.)

We had really arrived.  And the house was beautiful.

To be continued . . .