Columnist John Moore has two people to tell him how to drive: his wife and Siri. Courtesy John Moore

I firmly believe GPS was invented to save marriages. Before that, wives had to drive from the passenger seat.

I grew up in Ashdown, Arkansas, long before Siri started giving directions. Back then, the only voice you heard was the wife saying, “You missed the turn again,” followed by a silence thick enough you could drown.

Some men had a natural talent for getting lost. It’s part of their charm. At least, that’s what they told themselves. They could rebuild a carburetor, fix a fence, or skin a buck, but they could not find their way to the next town without stopping for gas twice and asking someone for help.

Many women, on the other hand, were born with an inner compass. My mother could tell which direction north was just by feeling the breeze through the car window. She could find a shortcut through the back roads that even the county surveyor didn’t know about.

Dad would argue about the route, even while passing the same church for the third time. He’d say, “I know where I’m going,” in that tone that meant he was completely lost.

Saturdays were the true test. A husband would tell his wife they were going on a road trip. He’d toss a folded map in the glovebox, never to be unfolded again, and off they’d go. An hour later, they’d be on a gravel road behind a herd of cows, and he’d swear it was a shortcut.

The wives didn’t yell. They didn’t have to. One look said it all. That look meant, “You’ve done it again.” He’d mumble something about the road looking familiar, and she’d reply, “That’s because we came down it twenty minutes ago.”

When GPS came along, it evened the playing field. The voice was always calm, never sighing or rolling her eyes. You could miss three turns, and she’d still say, “Recalculating.” That’s the kind of patience most men never experienced until much later when that little screen lit up on the dashboard.

I sometimes wonder how many marriages were saved by that word alone: “Recalculating.” It gave men a second chance without the glare from the passenger seat. It was like a marriage counselor in a box.

Back in the day, we didn’t have GPS or even decent road signs. We had landmarks. Directions from a local sounded like, “Go past the old cotton gin, turn right where the Esso used to be, and if you reach the big oak that got hit by lightning, you’ve gone too far.” Visitors never stood a chance.

Even now, men have trouble admitting they’re lost. It’s a matter of pride. They’d rather drive 50 extra miles than stop and ask anyone, especially if that anyone is their wife. Women learned long ago to bring snacks and patience. They knew the trip would be twice as long and half as efficient, but at least they’d get a story out of it.

The first time my friend Emmitte used a GPS, he treated it like a miracle. He said, “That thing told me where to turn before I even saw the sign.” His wife just smiled. She’d been telling him that for 30 years.

When I was a boy, my parents used to argue over directions to church picnics, fishing holes, and family reunions. Dad always thought he knew a better way. Mom always knew the right way. She’d give gentle hints like, “We might try the road that actually goes to Aunt Pauline’s this time.”

Now, with phones and GPS, the arguments have changed. It’s no longer about the road, it’s about the app. “You didn’t update it,” she’ll say. “I did,” he’ll reply, though he has no idea what that means.

Technology may have made traveling easier, but it hasn’t changed much else. Wives still have the sense to prepare, and husbands still think the world will sort itself out if they just keep driving. It’s part of the dance between men and women.

When I drive those old country roads now, I sometimes turn off the GPS just to see if I can still find my way. Somewhere between the wrong turns and the gravel roads, I can still hear my mother’s voice, calm as ever, saying, “Turn around, honey. You missed it again.”

Maybe that’s what GPS really replaced. Not just the confusion, but also the quiet companionship of trying to get somewhere together. Men might never admit we’re lost, but deep down, we all know there’s only one person who can tell us where to go.

By John Moore, author, Puns for Groan People and Write of Passage: A Southerner’s View of Then and Now Vol. 1 and 2, are available on his website TheCountryWriter.com, where you can also send him a message.

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