Carol Burris Writes - Father's Day 2003

Compass

It’s always the little things that take you back.

I was sitting at a traffic light when I saw it. The car in front of me caught my eye. It was an old car; the nondescript dark paint had seen better days. I tried to determine the make and model, but too few letters remained for me to hazard a guess. I didn’t notice anything specific about the driver other than to note he was male.

What caught my eye was there right in the center of the dashboard. Actually it was on the ledge that forms the top of the dash I suppose. Is that still called the dashboard? If I were a guy I might know if there is a specific name for that piece of auto interior.

Balanced half an inch above the surface to allow for freedom of movement was a compass. Black orb with white lines to mark the direction it flung me back to childhood and the compass wars.

Well, maybe “war” is too strong a term. What I remember is this: my father would attach a compass to the dash. It would work for a little while and then it would begin indicating directions randomly. Sometimes we would continue northeast even after we’d made a ninety degree turn. Other times it would spin around while we continued to go straight. A few weeks or months would pass while be fussed over it. My mother would complain that they never worked and why did he waste the money. And then one day it would be gone.

Sometime later a new, improved compass would arrive. He would try a new mounting technique or location and the cycle would begin again.

If he were still driving these days, I suppose one of us would have gotten him a GPS. But at 90 he stays pretty close to home.

I didn’t understand his fascination with compasses. He never was a man who lost his way, on the road or in life. If it was possible to go somewhere on one route and return on another, he would always opt for variety. We called it the grand circle tours.

Or was it all a reaction to my mother whose confidence about which side was on the right or left was tenuous at best? For her north was always straight ahead with east on the left - or was that the right? - regardless of her true orientation in space. “Turn left” she’d say, pointing to her right. We kids learned to trust the point and not the words. I didn’t give it much thought until my young daughter was confused for several months about her right and left after a week long visit. Perhaps the compass was Dad’s way of counteracting Mother’s disorienting influence.

Whatever the reason, my dad’s sense of direction in all things has helped me steer my own course. Thanks for everything.

Happy Father’s Day.