History
New England Directions | HUMOR
Here in New England, losing your way after asking for directions is a recurring rite of passage. You’re invited to an unfamiliar village in New England, and you ask for directions. “Well, it’s about seven miles past the covered bridge, and if you pass the gun shop you know you’ve gone too far. There used […]
Here in New England, losing your way after asking for directions is a recurring rite of passage.
You’re invited to an unfamiliar village in New England, and you ask for directions.
“Well, it’s about seven miles past the covered bridge, and if you pass the gun shop you know you’ve gone too far. There used to be a stop sign, turn there. Watch for mailbox 47, but you have to be looking the other way because that’s the side the numbers are on. And don’t bother asking at the post office. There’s a federal law against giving out directions.”
In New England, losing your way after asking for directions is a recurring rite of passage. The roads divide and multiply, fork off or dead-end abruptly in a wall of snow. Asphalt becomes gravel, Class III deteriorates into IV. In summer you follow a sign to Strafford. A mile into the woods, with no space to turn around, you realize it’s a snowmobile trail.
How about that farmhouse back down the road, maybe they know the way? But a poster says: No Trespassing, No Hunting, No Trapping, Beware The Dog, Private! There’s a splintered rifle in the yard. You roll by eyeing the gas gauge nervously.
Can I get to Chelsea from here?
Don’t care if you can or not…
Ever wonder why the majority of New England jokes are about getting lost? That’s because being hard to find is a sign of character. Good fences make good neighbors, but invisible ones are even better. If you can’t take a joke, get lost!
Once I was invited to an Independence Day party. Go through Bradford, the lady told me, then take a right at the Stop & Shop. I overshot the turn by a dozen miles. Stop & Shop had become the Grand Union many years before, but the lady preferred to remember it the old way.
One evening not long ago the phone rang. It was Federal Express with a package for me. I gave the driver directions. Three hours later a taxi pulled in. The driver had lost his way, run out of gas, and called a cab.
“How’d you find the place?” I asked the cab driver.
“I live right down the road,” he said. “We’re neighbors.”
I’d never seen him before in my life.
Excerpt from “’All Roads Lead to Nowhere,” Yankee Magazine, September 1987
You’re invited to an unfamiliar village in New England, and you ask for directions.
“Well, it’s about seven miles past the covered bridge, and if you pass the gun shop you know you’ve gone too far. There used to be a stop sign, turn there. Watch for mailbox 47, but you have to be looking the other way because that’s the side the numbers are on. And don’t bother asking at the post office. There’s a federal law against giving out directions.”
In New England, losing your way after asking for directions is a recurring rite of passage. The roads divide and multiply, fork off or dead-end abruptly in a wall of snow. Asphalt becomes gravel, Class III deteriorates into IV. In summer you follow a sign to Strafford. A mile into the woods, with no space to turn around, you realize it’s a snowmobile trail.
How about that farmhouse back down the road, maybe they know the way? But a poster says: No Trespassing, No Hunting, No Trapping, Beware The Dog, Private! There’s a splintered rifle in the yard. You roll by eyeing the gas gauge nervously.
Can I get to Chelsea from here?
Don’t care if you can or not…
Ever wonder why the majority of New England jokes are about getting lost? That’s because being hard to find is a sign of character. Good fences make good neighbors, but invisible ones are even better. If you can’t take a joke, get lost!
Once I was invited to an Independence Day party. Go through Bradford, the lady told me, then take a right at the Stop & Shop. I overshot the turn by a dozen miles. Stop & Shop had become the Grand Union many years before, but the lady preferred to remember it the old way.
One evening not long ago the phone rang. It was Federal Express with a package for me. I gave the driver directions. Three hours later a taxi pulled in. The driver had lost his way, run out of gas, and called a cab.
“How’d you find the place?” I asked the cab driver.
“I live right down the road,” he said. “We’re neighbors.”
I’d never seen him before in my life.
Excerpt from “’All Roads Lead to Nowhere,” Yankee Magazine, September 1987