Getting There: The Kindness of Others
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| JW Scowling at Phone - Photo by Charlie |
I dithered for days.
Since Pennwriters helped me over the years, especially with my short story collection, I wanted to support the organization. Of course I could drive to Frontier Park in Erie for the Lit Fest on Saturday, September 12. No problem.
But the small parking lot would be full by the time I arrived. I could leave my car on the street and tote my gear several blocks. Not my first choice. Besides, I hated the stinky porta potties festival goers used during the six-hour event.
For the millionth time in our kitchen, Spence mussed my hair. “You’ll have fun. Go. Stop at McDonald’s and use their bathroom.” Spence was so rational.
He convinced me. I would manage the minor inconveniences. And while I chatted with folks about writing, why not connect with my cousin Julie?
I emailed her Thursday.
JW: I’ll be in Frontier Park at the Lit Fest Saturday. If you could stop by the Pennwriters’ tent, I’d love to see you.
Julie: I'll be babysitting unfortunately . . . The damage from the storm last week was unbelievable! The Frontier area was one of the places that took a hit . . . They canceled events last week . . . I was at yoga class at Scott Park on Wednesday. In the middle of the class a tree service started cutting down trees very near us. Lol.
JW: Yikes. yoga with tree cutting? No fun. I sure hope they have Frontier Park cleaned up by now.
Like a saw cutting through the trees, Julie's words cut through my brain. How could a park full of damaged trees have already been cleared?
I emailed Todd, Pennwriters Area 1 Representative, and he replied within seconds.
Todd: So SORRY Janet! I keep forgetting you're not on FB. The event has been moved to McClelland Park (see below).
He included a bright-colored flyer of the park which indicated tent locations and ample parking.
JW: OMG, Julie. I emailed my Pennwriter contact. Yesterday, event organizers changed the location to McClelland Park. Thanks for the heads up.
Julie: Wow! I’m glad you checked. I hadn't heard anything about the move. Let me know when you come to Erie again.
JW: Okay. Though I've never been to McClelland Park, I'm sure Mr. Goggle will get me there.
Ms. Google, rather. A female voice warned me of debris on the road, speed traps, and the next turn—at least three times.
I searched my computer for directions. One hour and three minutes if I took I-79 and I-90. Not bad, but Google listed ten turns after I-90. I couldn’t memorize that many. I printed the directions and, in large letters, wrote Exit 29 Parade Street in case the phone blipped out.
Next, I grappled with the directions on my cell phone. I could preview the directions. I couldn’t locate a start button.
Turn the phone off and on to make the program work? Nope. I might lose the directions. I walked into the office where my son Charlie lounged on the guest bed, held out my phone, and explained the “no start button” dilemma.
Charlie, a history post cast fan, removed his earpiece and cradled my phone in his hands. He scrunched his eyebrows and swiped, tapped, swiped. He handed the phone back. “You needed to allow your phone to access your location. It will work now.”
Duh. “But if I start the directions when I leave the house, I’ll lose connection.”
“GPS will find you again,” he said.
Alas, GPS had blinked out on me and never found me again. Maybe, if I started the phone directions at I-79, I would have better luck.
The day of the trip I packed a folded six-foot table, Pennwriters flyers, lunch, and a copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul What I Learned from My Cat—my donation to our authors giveaway. I placed the four pages of printed directions—two for the drive and two for the park—on the passenger seat and stuck my cell phone in the cup holder. I left a half hour earlier than needed in case I got lost.
Directions
I located WiFi and turned it off. The app for cell reception eluded my searches. Since I didn’t disable WiFi any other time and GPS worked while I drove, I turned WiFi back on. Perhaps I stopped in a dead area. A line of three vehicles passed me, I joined the end and merged onto the highway.
Two exits north, I stopped at Saegertown and pulled into the parking lot provided for ride shares.
Traffic buzzed past.
Nestled among the silent vehicles, I focused on my phone. No Internet Connection flashed across the screen again. I gritted my teeth and searched for the menu connecting to cell service.
None. Nada. Zip.
“Why don’t machines work like they used to work?” I shouted at the silent vehicles.
They didn’t answer.
My phone didn’t either.
I’d used up all my extra time. I needed to head out now. Resigning myself to reading the printed directions once off the highway, I rejoined motorists zooming north.
Well, mostly zooming. We maneuvered through several construction areas. When I left I-90 at exit 29, the dashboard clock read 11:30. Yikes. That’s when I’d planned to be at the park helping set up the tent. I bit my lip and turned toward Erie.
At the traffic light I read the printed directions. I needed to make a left onto Wattsburg and a right onto Schrimper. I squinted through the windshield. The light flashed green. A line of cars hovered behind mine. With the gray-sky lighting and traffic flow, the road sign might as well have been written in Greek. I couldn’t distinguish the letters from the background. I drove straight, pulled into the Citgo station, and parked at a gas pump. With no time to lose, I grabbed my phone and paper maps—all four pages—and rushed inside the store.
Near the front door, a young woman, with round lens glasses which magnified caring eyes, was transferring individually wrapped sweet rolls from a tray to a shelf.
“Could you help me?” I waved my phone at her. “I can’t get my GPS to work. I want to go to McClelland Park.”
“Sure. Give me a minute.” She set a roll in place, put her tray down, and took my phone. Her fingers glided over the screen and she handed the phone back. “The park’s on the peninsula.”
My don’t-want-to-be-late unease roared into a raging panic. Peninsula! That’s what Dad’s family call Presque Isle on the west side of Erie. “We’re on the east side of Erie, right?” My voice wobbled and my essential tremors shook up a notch.
Her lips shifted side to side. “But the GPS is connected to the store’s internet. You’ll lose it when you walk out. Let me find Eric. He’ll be able to help you.”
She led me to the cash register and spoke to the middle aged man with straight black hair and tanned skin—probably the store manager. “Do you know where Eric is? This customer is having problems with her GPS.”
The man extended his hand, took my phone, and studied its screen. His forehead wrinkled. He handed the phone back and told the woman, “Go find Eric. He’s in the back. He’ll be able to help.”
A line of customers formed behind me. The kind man waved his arm in an arc over his head. “I’ll help you over here.” And he stepped to the next register.
People filed around me.
As if making myself less of an obstruction, I hunched my shoulders to my ears. Would I ever get to the park?
Horrors. The store parking lot had entrances on two roads at the corner of a four-way intersection. Which way was straight? My face must have broadcast confusion because the young man stopped giving directions.
He said, “Lets step outside.”
Outside he pointed at an exit—not where I’d entered.
I asked, “Straight through the light?”
“Yes. At the stop sign turn left. Go till the road dead ends at an intersection and turn right. That’s Norcross. Keep going until—”
“Wait. I can’t possibly remember all this. I need to write it down.”
The young man held my papers while I dug in my purse for a pen. “I threw three pens in here for the event. Why can’t I find any?”
“Take your time,” he said in a calm voice as if he could spend all day holding the papers.
Did this young man have a granny at home?
Finally, pen in hand, I took the papers and scribbled on the back of one sheet while he repeated the directions—only four turns.
“And if you get lost again, there’s another Citgo at thirty-eighth and McClelland. They will help you.”
I couldn’t help myself. I hugged him. “Thank you!”
I did get lost again.
Eric hadn’t mentioned how long to drive on any of the roads. The first was only two blocks. Once on McClelland, I drove forever. I didn’t catch any address numbers. The event directions listed extra parking at a church. I spied a church and swerved down that street. Factories, railroad tracks, and vacant lots. Not the right church. I made a U-turn and kept driving.
Finally, I saw a small sign near some bushes. McClelland Park.
Four college-age women in orange vests blocked the driveway.
I stopped, powered down the passenger window, and called to the nearest young woman. “I’m late but I have a table in the car for our tent.”
“You’re not late,” she said. “Drive right in.” And like a ballet, the women parted, two to each side of the entrance. I drove past the loading zone, past the fence edging the hill of the festival area, and past the dog park to the circle where I parked.
Leaving the small gear for a second trip, I grabbed the table’s handle and was closing the hatch when a woman called from a couple of cars away. “I’m leaving. I’ll drive you down the hill so you don’t have to carry that.”
She maneuvered the table onto the floor by her back seat, held the door for me to slip onto her passenger seat, then whisked me down the hill.
I thanked her—multiple times.
“I’ll find someone to carry the table for you.”
Was she an event organizer or an angel?
“Here’s someone.” And she gestured to a thin middle school youngster. “Carry the table for this lady.”
The boy grabbed the folded table’s handle with both hands. Trudging uphill across the lawn of the fenced in park area, he lugged his load around other vendors’ tents. The table bumped against his thighs all the way. At noon, he set the table down by the Pennwriters’ tent and scampered away.
I’d arrived—through the kindness of others.
Spence generated this AI photo after listening to my saga.
