Joanne Sherman’s column: ‘If it ain’t broke …’

The two of us have always been the A Team of roadtrips, like Butch and Sundance. But something has changed lately.
We’ve become a snarky, bickering Bonnie and Clyde, only without the machine guns. And thank God, because … well, never mind. He mentioned this sudden lack of highway compatibility during our trip south, after I’d placed both hands against the dashboard, pumped the imaginary passenger-side brake pedal and shrieked, “Red light! RED light! RED LIGHT!”
He stopped (too abruptly, in my opinion) and said, “I saw it. Calm down. You never used to be so tense when I’m driving. What’s wrong with you all of a sudden?”
Just like Clyde to cop an attitude.
I’m sure he never saw that red light until I braced and screamed, but he was right about one thing. Until recently, I was the relaxed navigator on our team, munching road-trip potato chips, head buried in an atlas or refolding a 3-foot by 4-foot map. I never even looked through the windshield, I was too busy keeping my finger on the blue line.
I’m an excellent navigator, though one time I did lead us 87 miles along a road that turned out to be a grease-stained map crease. I didn’t even know it until that “Welcome to Kentucky sign,” which at first I thought had been placed in the wrong state, until I realized that, no, we were.
We’ve clocked many thousands of blissful road-trip miles together, with him as the driver and me as the mapper and the only thing that’s changed is technology. And therein lies the answer to the puzzle. I never paid attention to the road, I was too focused on that map.
I seldom looked up except to make sure we weren’t in the wrong state, again. But now that we have GPS technology telling us when to turn, I’m able to assist the driver by alerting him to stop signs, brake lights 14 cars ahead, snow, school zones, road debris, mist on the windshield, and every possibility of impending doom.
And I’ll be honest, I wonder how we ever managed without me.
I became so good at assisting, he finally said, “Fine, you be the driver.”
I declined. I can, but no thanks. He is a far better driver. For one thing, he’s been doing it longer. A lot longer. Also, he was a race-car driver, so he’s kind of like a professional, but more importantly, he has a calm demeanor, whereas I tend toward knee-jerk hysteria.
Only one time in our 60 years of road-tripping did I think we were done for. I was holding the map and searching for chip crumbs when he said, “We’ve got a problem.”
No one wants to hear those words, especially not at 11 at night in the snowy hills of Pennsylvania. The problem? The get-gas light was on. We pulled off at the next exit but it was dark in every direction — no gas station lights to be seen.
I could sense his concern and I remember thinking, “Well, great! We’re dead.”
Not one hour earlier I’d suggested a bathroom stop and reminded him that I was starving. He said “O.K., next exit.”
But he passed it because he was in the wrong lane, and he passed the one after because he didn’t like that brand of gasoline. Meantime, my urge was far more urgent and I’m pretty sure the sounds coming from inside me were because my stomach was eating itself.
We drove on in silence. No signs or lights, except in the far distance, two mountains over. Oh yeah, and that stinkin’ get-gas light.
There was half of a lint-covered Baby Ruth in my pocket and I ate it without chewing because I wasn’t about to share my last meal. I knew we were going to die right there on Route 80. Using the inside of the candy wrapper and the stub of a mini-golf pencil, I wrote a heartfelt goodbye letter to our kids. Just five words: “This was your father’s fault.”
I started hallucinating and saw a huge percolator lighting up the sky and thought, “Oh dear Lord, I died already! I’m in heaven and there’s coffee! Yay!” Actually, it was a neon sign for a restaurant and a gas station, so, long story short, we didn’t perish that night.
As a driving team, I know he liked us better the way we used to be. And honestly, I did, too. I don’t have the disposition to be a front-seat early warning system. That’s why I was pleased when one of the gifts I received at Christmas was a 2025 Atlas. Large-print edition.
I keep it on the front seat. And tucked in the back, behind Wyoming, is that Baby Ruth wrapper note. Just in case.