Michael D. Davis.

The world has a way of humbling a person. One minute you’re falling through the air mad, sad, glad, then ya hit the ground and realize that your problems are minuscule compared to some. Let me tell ya what happened tonight.

So, I already wasn’t feeling good, but I needed to get my writing done. I head down to the office, I get settled in, and the wifi stops. A few hours of fix attempts, trips home, and screaming into the void, I got it back up and running. I had three articles to write, preferably before my editor woke up at 5 or 6 am.

I started in on it, and just when I was finishing up article number one, there is a knock at the door. I am down at the office in Tama at three in the morning, I hadn’t been expecting any visitors. At first, I thought it was a buddy, who is known to show up at odd times, but I saw through the glass of the door that it was a stranger. My first thought was I should grab my knife in case of an attack, but I disregarded this because I am not currently living in an ’80s slasher film. Instead, I just grabbed my phone, thinking a quick 911 call is always a good option.

I answered the door a crack, and there on the stoop stood an old man. The old man said he was sorry to bother me, but he saw my light on, and that he and his wife were trying to make their way back to Knoxville and were lost. We were off to a great start as I responded with, “Knoxville, Iowa?”

I took out my phone, mapped a route to Knoxville, and figured out which way to tell him to go. The bad part was I am, and have always been, bad at directions. So, I started to say, “You take this road here up, like you’re going to Sandhill, and after a bit, swing a right towards Grinnell.” But I knew that wouldn’t be any help. I figured the best thing to do was to take the old couple to the police station. They follow along as we cruise the two blocks over. I don’t immediately see a cop car, and I get a sinking feeling.

The old couple stay in their car as I make my way into the vestibule of the station. I was right, lights were on, but no one was home. So, I called dispatch. I explained the situation. They needed the address of the office for the report, I couldn’t remember it. I said something like, “I don’t know, 300-something State Street, we’re renting it from Marty Hardon.” I told dispatch, though, that we were currently at the police station.

They wanted to know what kind of car I drove, so that the officer could find us. I said, “Which officer is it? I think I know most of ’em.” It was Logan Andrews, the K9 cop. I said, “Yeah, I know Logan, tell him just to look for my black and white cop car.” Not too long later, Logan showed up.

Logan soon enough had the woman’s phone and was attempting to figure out how the navigation app worked. I believe at one point he was completely updating her phone for her. As Logan sat in the front seat with the old woman and played on her phone, I stood outside talking to the old man. We covered a wide range of subjects. We started with how they’ve been driving 15 hours from Altoona to get to Knoxville. Then he talked about the plight of the old fashion road map. He said he had some in his car, but his wife insisted on taking hers and driving nonetheless.

The old timer said he recognized the name Tama because he used to go pheasant hunting around here. However, he couldn’t remember his way around because that was when he was 16 and now he’s in his 80s. He told me how he had seven sisters and two brothers. His first brother died in World War 2, his second brother died in Korea, and he was drafted himself and sent to Germany. He told me he worked for Maytag for over 30 years and only took one day off, the day his son was born. The day after his son was born, he went back to work to find his boss mad as hell; his boss said he had six men doing his job while he was gone. The old man chuckled at this and said he asked his boss what exactly they were doing. The boss told him not to take another day off again, and he didn’t.

The old guy told me about how he’s keeping active in his retirement, and how he tore down the building that used to be his workshop, and his wife’s beauty salon. He told me about how he fixed a screen door, but has another door that needs fixing.

At some point in here, Logan fixed the phone and taught the couple how to use it. With a thank you and a wave, they drove off. Logan then talked for a second, then went back on patrol. I made my way back to the office to write, and it occurred to me, I may be tremendously frustrated with the wifi and my computer, but it could be worse. I could be 80 years old, lost at three in the morning on the edge of Tama.