Village Squire, 1975-07, Page 20Her major problem
is getting from point
A to B alive
BY SANDRA ORR
Some people worry about getting laid off
their job and not being able to make the next
mortgage payment; or they worry if they will
ever be able to save enough to buy a house so
they can make a mortgage payment. People
worry about stretching one week's groceries
into two or making a small new coat out of a
big old one.
But if you worry about tripping over steps
or falling over the curb when everybody is
looking then you know that keeping your
dignity or even keeping alive is no easy task
these days.
I spend a lot of effort getting from one place
to another, in one piece and in a suitably
composed frame of mind. No matter how hard
I try, things never go right. Take my latest
diaster, a shopping effort.
At point of departure I -am full of
confidence. I stride to my car and meet
hazard number one. I get in my car and
blithely put my hand to the ignition, ready to
turn it, only to find that I must get out of the
car, return to the house and search there for
the keys. They could be anyplace, I think. I
usualiy keep the keys in the ignition --a bad
but convenient habit and, anyway, in the
country I figure it's safe.
I find the keys finally and get to my
destination; I search for my purse, in vain,
and conclude that I must have left it at home.
I return there in a somewhat dishevelled state
of mind and I find the unfortunate purse
sitting square in the middle of the driveway.
I must have dropped it, I mutter, warming
under the collar, while I was searching for my
keys.
set off again, having checked carefully
and calmly for purse and keys.
On the road I am following a lady who
suddenly slams on her brakes for a duck that
is crossing. At an unmarked point too. I meet
another person on the highway who pulls
right out in front of me (I did a nervous nose
dive) and who proceeds at exactly ten miles
an hour to the next turn-off.
How I escaped the consequences of these
hazards, I will never know, but I figured this
was a good time to buy a can of deodorant,
extra Targe and on special.
arrive at destination. This is the stop at
the drugstore immediately following the stop
at the grocery store. The car is loaded to the
brim with goodies, cans and perishables.
Ach, I mumble, what if somebody carts off
my groceries while I'm in the drugstore --
makes off with the fruits of our hardearned
money, I rationalize as I lock the car up tight.
I return from the drugstore in jovial spirits
(the drugs being cheap only to find that the
car is locked tight and the keys are in the
ignition. No, I don't have an extra set in my
purse but I check anyway.
Nobody could possibly pry into that car; the
vents are all shut, the windows up tight. The
Volks would probably float across Lake
Huron.
I go into the nearest store, my face red as
18, VILLAGE SQUIRE/JULY 1975
jam, and phone my husband who arrives with
the second set of keys. He's trying not to
smirk. I ignore hies smirk.
By this time my abilities as a navigator are
well-known; I have gone past places of
destination and nc,t realized it until later and
then had to turn around and come back; I
have turned at the first likely -looking corner
on a voyage without checking first to see if it's
the right one; I have even started out without
knowing where I'm going, so that now most
people give me iNide berth.
One day I called up a friend, in advance,
about a destinat ion.
"Go in the first door you see," she said.
Most people do . Why is she telling me,
wonder. ,
I'll grab the first object, likely a knob, and
draw the door back carefully, so as not to
injur my shin...
"Go up five steps...or is it four?" she says.
If it's more than four I'II try not to trip over
the fifth, I think.
"You'll meet somebody upstairs," Whew,
what a relief.
"And there's a bar, hot chocolate..."
Good. A reward for safe arrival at
destination --which I'll pf-obably need to calm
my nearly shattered existence.
But, I console myself, I've always had
trouble navigating. Take the time I was away
at school. I vias routinely one minute later for
the eight o'clock bus and thus every morning
I waited for the 8:15. Even in the rain. I never
did learn.
So, as I saunter out today, I offer myself a
little friendly advice: the next mud puddle
you don't s ee, for heaven's sake don't step in
it
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