It seems as if things never work out perfectly. A couple of months ago, my granddaughter made reservations for my daughter and me to join her at a motel in Knoxville where she was participating in a triathlon. We had plenty of time to plan our trip, which would include overnight stops in Marietta, Ga., with my sister-in-law.

Somehow, I just couldn’t seem to get myself together for the trip. I finally gathered and packed my clothes several days before our departure day. That day I rushed home from an early morning beauty shop appointment to finish the packing I had kept putting off. To my credit, I had made a list and marked it off as I progressed. Around 10:30, we were ready to load the car. I dashed to our library to grab the next thing on the list, the GPS. The box sat in its place, but it was empty.

There we were, ready to jump in the car and head for far-away places, but no GPS. I checked on the table in the foyer and several other places in the house, but to no avail. Was I going to have to get on the computer, search for maps, and take time to print all that out? Maybe it was in the car.

In frustration and desperation, I grabbed my car keys and clicked the garage door remote. The door didn’t budge. I punched it again. Nothing happened. I raced outside and went through the usual routine to raise the door minus the remote. The door squeaked its way open. Success! The GPS was tucked away in the car.

After we loaded the car, I unplugged small appliances and made sure that everything was locked, etc. Then my daughter took her place at the wheel. I punched in our destination on the GPS. We had a pleasant, leisurely drive and arrived at Marietta for an enjoyable time with our relatives.

The next day, we left in clear weather, but soon clouds rolled in. A downpour that looked as if there was no end in sight hovered over us for miles and miles. I noticed that we had been led on a state highway off the Interstate. I tried to apply what my husband used to say about a compass to the GPS — you might think it’s wrong, but it’s not. We called my son-in-law and told him the highway number we were traveling. He pulled up a map on his computer, and found the highway. He reassured us that we were headed to Knoxville, but our route had us by-pass Chattanooga. In just a few miles, we would merge back on to the Interstate. We did.

My granddaughter did well in the triathlon, which ended with a victory cruise we shared with the competitors on the Tennessee River. Everything went well on our return trip — well, almost. I seem to have lost a couple of inexpensive tablecloths I bought during a shopping stop in Marietta.