Many years ago, I had an interview at Needville High School. I’d never been there, so I asked for directions.

Then managing editor Bob Haenel said getting there was easy.

“Go to the light and turn left,” he said.

“Which light?” I asked.

“The light,” he replied.

Finding our way has gotten easier with the invention of global positioning systems, GPS, but there’s nothing like directions from someone who remembers the old-time navigation ways.

Bob loved giving those kinds of directions, and this is another conversation we had.

“You turn where that house burned down,” he said.

Being new to the area, I asked what house. He proceeded to explain the lineage of the people who’d lived in that house, thinking that explanation would cause the light bulb to go off over my head.

That didn’t work. He described the fire which led to a discussion about fires in the area and houses and businesses the town had lost.

I never did get directions I could follow but I got a great history lesson.

Directions from natives are great as long as you understand local landmarks. When we first moved to Fort Bend County, Terry High School and Willet’s Furniture were the two landmarks people referenced.

It got to the point where when we’d ask how to find something, we’d immediately say we knew where Terry High School was to save time.

Houston directions are confusing. Instead of I-45 and I-10, people say the Gulf Freeway, the Southwest Freeway, the Eastex or the Old-Katy Highway.

As newbies to the area, we had no clue what they were talking about. Not even the GPS identifies those roads by the local names, a point I appreciate.

The modern GPS is indispensable. There are times when I talk to the system like it’s a person sitting next to me. And, just like a passenger, I’ll argue with the GPS.

When that calm voice tells me to head west out of a parking lot, I get frustrated.

“I don’t have a clue about north or west,” I’ll yell to the dashboard. “Tell me which way to turn.”

I also talk to the GPS when it tells me to go one way and I don’t want to go that way. Usually that’s because I know there’s potholes on that road or that the traffic’s always heavy at that time of the day.

“Turn left in half a mile,” the robotic voice will say.

“I don’t think so,” I’ll reply. “Too much traffic.”

“Make a U-turn at the next intersection,” will come the snippy voice insinuating I did not follow the directions.

“That’s not the way I want to go,” I’ll yell at the car.

The GPS does not give up easily. For the next 10 miles, the system will continue to try and reroute me with U-turns until it finally accepts that I’m going a different direction.

And for those 10 miles, I’m constantly telling the GPS it’s not the boss of me and I can go any way I want.

But I’ll give modern technology a pat on the back. There’s no way I could’ve maneuvered through the Dallas interstate system without that electronic voice telling me to switch lanes and roads.

Even though I grew up in the Baton Rouge area, there’s no way my memory could’ve gotten me through the city without that little electronic voice and arrow showing me the way.

There are times, though, when I miss the fascinating oral history that goes along with the old-time directions of “turn left at the old Anderson house.”

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.