Hansel and Gretel got lost in the woods. The Robinson family lost their way in outer space. Gilligan and all the rest went missing at sea. But I must not be very venturesome, because when I get lost, it’s never in such an adventurous locale. But whenever I get lost, I always know “there’s no place like home.”

In fact, I got lost just the other evening, that frigid night when the snow was falling and the wind was whipping it into a shimmering haze. Winter chill or not, Cooper needed his nighttime walk. Barb put Cooper into his winter sweater and smeared Musher’s Paw Protection Cream on his paws while I dressed in my long johns, jeans, tee shirt, light down jacket, heavy down jacket, hat, hood, scarf, cleated boots, and thick gloves. Grabbing a flashlight and looking more like the Michelin Man than my typical svelte self, I set out with Coop down our subdivision’s main drag, a road without street lights or sidewalks.

Following the flashlight’s narrow beam we walked about 1/4 mile until Cooper did his business, then turned and headed for home. The wind was now in our faces and the flashlight started to flicker and fade at the same time as my glasses began to fog. I stumbled, disoriented. I could no longer tell if I was walking in the street or across the front yards of neighbors. Inflated Santas leered at me while red-nosed reindeer threatened to pounce. Twisting and turning I finally recognized a light coming from our upstairs window and staggered into our driveway, home at last.

That wasn’t the only time I have found myself lost, outside and close to home. In the first summer of Covid, I was taking my usual 3-mile run. My course always took me through a hotel and office park just across a busy street from the house. I was familiar with each step, each turn, and each shortcut.

I was chugging along at a decent pace when fog quickly rolled in, not on cat’s feet, but dumped by a Caterpillar tractor. A whiteout engulfed me. The asphalt beneath my shoes disappeared. I had no idea whether I had kept on the road, had swerved into a parking lot, or was approaching the hotel swimming pool. My sense of north and south, east and west, deserted me. Fortunately, before I could stumble over the diving board and into the pool, I found salvation in the form of the traffic signal at the edge of the office park and I was able to make my foggy way home

A third time that I lost my way was the oddest of all. Barb and I were shopping in a newly-redesigned Walmart. We picked out whatever it was we were buying and discovered we were in the center of the immense store. We both looked up and down the aisle and realized that we had no idea where we were or where the checkout counters could be. High shelves loomed to our right and to our left. We were hysterical and claustrophobic. We pushed our cart up and down the aisle hunting for a helpful employee, or at least a trail of breadcrumbs, that could lead us to the storefront. Finally, in a daze, we reached our checkout destination just as the overhead loudspeaker blared “Panic in Aisle 7.”

We don’t shop at Walmart anymore.