I’m a horrid navigator. Familiarity often fails. Even Omaha has its many pitfalls.
So I rely on Google Maps. I don’t actually look at my phone. I just listen and make every turn as told.
Jaxson, my 11-year-old grandson, was playing football in Firth. “Firth” is a Scottish word for a narrow inlet or estuary formed at a river’s mouth as it flows into the sea. Not much help in landlocked Nebraska.
As I left Omaha, Google said it was 90 minutes away. Shortly thereafter, my phone died. I followed its last instruction. The service station attendant was clueless; nor did she sell maps. A kind customer used Google for a few details.
I soon was lost again. I wandered through Nebraska farmland until fate intervened. Thankfully, I missed the first quarter of a beatdown. With clear directions from Jaxson’s dad, I finally made it home.
My topological impotence was futile. I was so reliant on Google and GPS positioning, I spurned foolproof maps and ceded my ability to find Firth.
To add insult to injury, there was no haggis.
