Alison has never had a strong grasp on directions. North, South, East and West are simply words to her, not indicators. And while she can read and speak Latin, sing songs in various languages and recite every element on the periodic table, she's hard pressed to find her way home on her own.
She had a swim meet in Eastern Hancock County Saturday.
She did well in her first time in competitive water this year, but we arrived at 8:30 a.m. and didn't leave until 2 p.m. I've been trying to do this intermittent fasting thing and had purposefully not brought snacks.
By the time the swimmers left the water, the hallucinations were starting. Not remembering that she needed driving practice, I speed walked to the Subaru and asked her if she was hungry. She wasn't but agreed to plug "Arby's" into Google Maps.
"Not Dairy Queen?" she asked.
"Oooh. Dairy Queen," I said, guessing correctly that if there were an Arby's, there'd also be a DQ. I get a sandwich and then head to dessert. We agree that she'll drive once we get all our dietary needs met.
At DQ, I ask her what she wants. She reminds me that she filled up on the coach's bagels.
"YOU love Dairy Queen," she said. "Oh, but if they have those star things, can we get a box?"
I get her an individual item and we decide we need to listen to Christmas music on the way home. And, I remember that
Sambol's Tree Farm is in Hancock County. I got a great wreath there last year and was hoping to get another one but didn't want to make the trek out there.
Thank you, Google, it's just down the road. "Let's go!" I say.
She looks at me as she nibbles on her cherry star. "Uh, I'm driving. I can't eat and drive at the same time."
My little rule follower. We find music, she finishes her treat and we wait for the voice in the phone to tell us where to go. Hancock County abuts Marion. It's not exactly Kansas, but it's not her usual environment.
The tree farm is just down from the interstate ramp, so we had our bearings and didn't need Google to get home. I get my wreath, we get back in the car. I tell her to turn left onto the the state road and then look for Interstate 70 where she'll head west.
She looked at me, uncertain. "Follow the sign to Indianapolis," I say.
She gets us on the interstate and I said, "Just keep west, take the Keystone exit and turn right."
We belt out Christmas tunes. I turned to Candy Crush and email and it wasn't long before I heard her say, "Whoops" and inform me that she'd missed the exit.
I looked up and around as the Shadeland exit grew smaller in the rear view mirror.
"We could have gone home that way," I said. "But let's take Keystone."
"OK," she says, explaining, "The sign said Indianapolis."
Just this year, this kid has successfully navigated herself across Eastern Europe and around the state of Tlaxcala, Mexico. But OK.
I went back to my game. I was on a particularly hard level, and the girl has got to hone her local navigational skills.
My reasoning was that Keystone is clearly marked, and it's a straight shot home. A few miles north, a left, a right and then left onto our own Castle Row.
"You know where you're going, right?" I say when she exits smoothly onto Keystone.
"Yes!" she says indignantly. "I'll be turning right, right?"
I shake my head in the non-affirmative. "Left," I say.
"I'm pretty sure it's right," she said.
I shook my head.
"I
know what I'm doing," she said.
"OK," I say, thinking I've got all afternoon, a power source and a heated seat. I leaned back.
She rants at me a little bit more as she makes sure she's driving the speed limit, not a speck more, and checks traffic to change lanes to the right.
I bite my tongue. With more confidence than she deserved to feel, she turns right on 56th and heads east. I maintain my silence. Moving further away from home, but at a steady 40 miles per hour, she happily buzzes along. We come to Allisonville Road. She looks around a bit as we wait on cross traffic.
I'm still minding my own business in the shotgun seat.
"Hey!" she says suddenly. "I'm on the way to Nikki's house."
"Yup," I say.
We crack up as she sighs and turns right and then comes to the next intersection. "I turn right here, don't I?" she asked.
"I don't know, do you?" I ask.
She looks at me. "I think so," she says. "Yeah. I just came from there, so I'm just going to make a big square. I turn right. Right?"
"Right," I say.
We get back to 56th Street and head west toward home.
"You told me to turn right," she said.
"I said left!"
"No, you didn't. You said right!"
"I did not!"
We're shouting, but laughing at the same time.
We get to Keystone. She stops and looks at me, her foot magnetized to the brake.
I'm incredulous at this point. She's lived in this area for all of her 17.5 years on this Earth. Our Ogden friends used to live just up the street from where we are and beyond that is Taco Bell. I know she can get home from Taco Bell. It is not, however, in sight.
"Well, you have some options," I say. "You can just go straight and we can go home down Dominic's hill."
Dominic is a friend from her Christ the King days. If we biked near his house, we had to go up what was to her elementary school-sized legs and little girl bike, an enormous challenge. That incline behind the Chatard baseball field will forever be "Dominic's hill" to us.
She guns it across the intersection and gets us home without another question.
"You said right," she mutters.
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