Before Dawn
At 5:30 this morning, I stepped outside into the low thirties.
Above me, the sky was black and clear, and the stars were spectacular — a whole field of them spread across the darkness.
But that was overhead.
The walk to the barn was just dark.
Nothing enchanting or enlightening about it. No moonlight showing the way. Just a slow walk through blackness toward a barn I knew was out there because I’ve made that walk a thousand times before.
Dawn was somewhere beyond the eastern horizon, creeping ever so slowly toward morning.
When I reached the barn and flipped on the light, I expected the usual greeting.
Nothing.
The goats were still quietly huddled in slumber. Not a bleat. Not a complaint. Apparently, for once, I’d managed to get up before they did.
I started toward the milking station.
Still nothing.
I made it about halfway back before somebody finally realized the lights were on and the human was present.
That ended the silence.
From there, morning settled into its familiar rhythm. One goat after another through the milking station, milk into the bucket, and the usual cleanup afterward.
Meanwhile, outside, the darkness disappeared.
By the time the milking was finished and everything was cleaned and put away, dawn had broken wide open.
The blackness I’d walked through was gone. The stars were gone with it. In the time it took to milk the herd, the whole world had changed shifts.
And the day was only getting started.
Once everything here was squared away, Selina and I headed for Spokane.
I was driving her in to catch the bus for another two weeks with her folks.
But this trip was different.
It was the last one this year.
In two weeks, she’ll come home.
And this time, she’ll stay home.
At least until April.
Once I dropped Selina off at the bus station, we said our much-too-short goodbye.
It always is.
After all the miles, all the trips, and all the times we’ve done this, you’d think we’d have figured out how to make goodbye last a little longer.
We haven’t.
So Jesse and I watched her go, climbed back into the truck, and headed out.
Just the two of us.
A man, a boy, a vehicle…
…and Google Maps.
Which, as it turns out, was our first mistake.
I’d planned to stop at the Franz bread store while we were in Spokane.
That was the plan.
Unfortunately, somewhere between hugging Selina goodbye and getting back into the truck, the Franz bread store completely disappeared from my brain.
Gone.
Didn’t exist.
So I punched Colville into Google Maps, put the truck in gear, and prepared to head north.
Simple.
Colville is north of Spokane.
I know this.
Jesse knows this.
Anybody who has ever looked at a map of eastern Washington knows this.
Google apparently felt we were getting ahead of ourselves.
“Turn left.”
All right.
I turned left.
“Continue for three blocks.”
Three blocks.
“At the light, turn left.”
Okay.
Left.
“In 1.2 miles, turn right.”
Right.
So far, I wasn’t concerned. Spokane is a city. Cities have streets. Sometimes you have to wiggle around a little before you get pointed in the proper direction.
Then we turned left again.
Then right.
Then left.
Another stoplight.
Red.
We waited.
Green.
Off we went.
“Turn right.”
I turned right.
Another light.
Another crosswalk.
Another pedestrian.
Another light.
Red.
Naturally.
“Turn left.”
I looked at the phone.
“Left?”
There was no response.
Google Maps does not discuss her decisions.
She simply announces them.
“Turn left.”
So I turned left.
Jesse sat quietly beside me.
A few minutes later:
“Turn right.”
“Why?”
Silence.
“WHY are we turning right?”
She waited patiently for me to finish.
“Turn right.”
And suddenly I knew exactly who I was dealing with.
Hyacinth Bucket.
Or, as she would immediately correct me, “Bouquet.”
Anybody who ever watched Keeping Up Appearances knows exactly what I’m talking about.
That pleasant, perfectly composed voice that isn’t actually asking you to do anything.
She’s telling you.
And there I was behind the wheel, apparently cast as poor Richard — trying desperately to remain calm while knowing full well that nothing I said was going to make the slightest difference.
“Turn right.”
“But — ”
“Turn right.”
“Yes, dear.”
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So I turned right.
Jesse said nothing.
Smart boy.
Another block.
Another stoplight.
Another crosswalk.
More pedestrians.
A couple of homeless folks standing near — or occasionally a little too near — the street.
Stop.
Go.
Turn.
Wait.
Go.
Turn again.
After a while I started looking around.
Something seemed familiar.
“Jesse…haven’t we already been here?”
He looked out his window.
I looked out mine.
Neither of us was entirely sure.
Hyacinth knew.
She wasn’t talking.
“Turn left.”
“Yes, dear.”
And that’s when I noticed it.
We had just made a rectangle.
An honest-to-goodness, four-sided rectangle.
I know a rectangle when I see one. Jesse and I had spent the better part of the last couple of weeks studying the things.
Apparently today’s geometry lesson was a field trip.
Fine.
We completed our rectangle and continued.
Then we made another one.
And another.
By the time we were working on what I believe was Rectangle Number Four, I was beginning to suspect Google Maps wasn’t actually navigating.
She was doodling.
Twenty minutes had passed.
We had traveled several miles.
I had obeyed every command.
And I still wasn’t convinced we’d actually gone anywhere.
“Turn right.”
“No.”
A brief pause.
“Turn right.”
“I don’t WANT to turn right.”
She didn’t care.
“Turn right.”
I could feel Richard Bucket’s spirit sitting beside me.
Stay calm.
Don’t argue.
It only makes it worse.
I turned right.
Jesse remained perfectly still.
Another light.
Red.
Of course.
At this point I was beginning to believe Spokane had synchronized every traffic signal specifically for us.
Green behind us.
Green ahead of us.
Ours?
Red.
Crosswalk.
Wait.
Green.
Go.
“Turn left.”
“Oh…… COME ON!”
“Turn left.”
“Yes, dear.”
Left.
We were now somewhere between twenty and thirty minutes into what should have been the simple act of leaving Spokane and driving north.
I no longer cared how we got to Highway 395.
I just wanted OUT.
Highway, side street, county road — I was becoming increasingly flexible.
Had Hyacinth said, “In 500 feet, turn onto moderately maintained logging trail,” I probably would have taken it.
“Turn right.”
“Again?”
“Turn right.”
“Yes, dear.”
And then…
There it was.
Highway 395 North.
NORTH.
A road actually going in the direction of Colville.
I nearly hugged the steering wheel.
After somewhere between twenty and thirty minutes of left, right, stop, wait, crosswalk, left, right, red light, another red light, and four geometric figures large enough to be visible from space, Hyacinth had finally released us onto 395.
I glanced at the map.
As the crow flies, we were roughly two miles from the bus station.
Two miles.
We had spent the better part of half an hour traveling approximately two miles from where we’d started.
I looked at Jesse.
Jesse looked at me.
Neither of us spoke.
There are moments between a father and son when words simply aren’t necessary.
Especially when Dad has just spent half an hour doing his best Richard Bucket impression while a woman inside his telephone drove us around Spokane.
Then, as calmly as if nothing unusual had happened:
“Continue north.”
I stared at the phone.
“Oh, NOW we’re going north.”
Silence.
I shut the phone OFF!
Until next time, folks…
Keep your boots dry, your coffee hot, and your heart pure.
From all of us here at Piney Woods Mountain Ranch.
