The Coonride Digest: I’ll just recalculate

Greetings from the Ridge.
I succumbed. I relented. I gave in. After guffawing at my friends who’ve thrown away their maps and gone to using a GPS, Global Positioning System, I broke down and borrowed one.
Herb and I had to drive to Kansas City. On my bucket list of things I am simply dying to do, driving in city traffic rates right below visiting the proctologist and listening to Herb snore, but it was one of those trips we had to make and a friend of mine insisted that I try out his new GPS.
After a short crash-course in operating the little doo-whingy I plugged it into my dashboard and we were off for to the Cow Town – Herb, the man in the GPS system, and me.
The GPS short-course. You poke in where you’re going, the instrument sends your signal to a satellite that figures out where you are, compares it to a map of the entire universe, then zips a variety of information back to you – the closest restaurants, fuel, places of interest, and the time you can expect to arrive. Of course it does much more, but few people know how to train their GPS to do all its tricks and does it really matter that you’re within 40 miles of an Applebee’s?
All I cared about was getting to my KC destination and back again.
Harold – I called our GPS Harold. My friend had plugged in “male English accent” and we were blessed with an onboard voice that sounded like Tony Blair with a slight attitude. Harold became our car-mate for the trip.
“Proceed to Henrietta Street. Turn right!” intoned Harold as if he’d driven this route before. It was a reflex. I answered him.
“I know how to get out of Coonridge, Harold.”
“Freida,” said Herb, “he can’t hear you.”
“I know that, but I was raised to answer people when they talk to you. If you don’t mind I plan to talk to Harold all the way down Interstate 35. It’s nice to have someone intelligent to talk to on these long drives.”
Let me praise Harold for a minute. He does not take his attention away from the road to look at the corn and beans, he doesn’t talk on the cell phone, he never has to tinkle just ten minutes after you’ve left the last rest stop, and he never takes up more than his share of the front seat. If I’d have met Harold 57 years ago, we’d be married today.
But the most delightful thing about Harold – and this is no small matter – is that he corrects you politely. If you take the wrong exit, if you head the wrong direction, if you flip the Pontiac over on its top, he won’t complain. He simply says “Recalculating,” and then he – well, he recalculates. Harold should go into marriage counseling.
“Herb, this machine is like God.”
“Freida, we just started the trip. For all we know we’ll end up in St. Louis.”
“I’m not talking about divine guidance, I mean forgiveness. Wouldn’t the world be a better place if we’d all be like God and our GPS” 
“That’s okay. I’ll just recalculate.”
As it turned out, we hit Kansas City just as the city was being swallowed by the jaws of a blinding snow storm and were it not for Harold we’d still be looping the I-435 Loop. Herb was helpless and Harold saved the day. 
There’s an insane sense of irresponsibility that settles in the soul of the person not doing the driving and Herb had hunkered down in his seat to smoke his pipe listen to the radio as I fought my way through the speeding semi’s and crazed commuters. You’d have thought he was in Disney World. “Herb! Pay attention!” I’d shout. “Look for the exit! Harold said it’s coming up on our right and we’re in the far left lane! Herb! Open your eyes!”
Long trips combined with bad weather and suffocating traffic is hard on a marriage and by the time we’d reached the south suburbs and headed home I was ready to marry Harold and throw Herb out the window. 
“You were no help, you know that?”
“I couldn’t help it, Freida. You left me for another man. And a foreigner to boot.”
“Herb, just sit there quietly. In six hours you can get out of this car, but until then, pretend like you’re not there.”
“Freida, will you love me when we get home?”
“Herb?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m recalculating.”
You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door, but you’ll enjoy the trip.