When I was in Junior High, there was a math teacher, Mrs. Smith, who was tiny and smart and tough. She had a steely voice, steel-gray hair, and a no-nonsense, no fooling around attitude, tempered with a sense of humor that she allowed to peek out from behind her stern facade every now and then. During class, when we'd work on problems out loud and she'd call on us for answers, if someone gave a very wrong answer, she'd kind of roll her eyes and tilt her head back a bit, like she was reeling from the awful wrongness of that student's attempted answer. And she'd say, in that grim, steely voice "Ah, you're way out in Pawtucket!" I went to school in the southern part of Rhode Island, and Pawtucket lies northeast of Providence, far, far from us. (Relatively speaking. It's Rhode Island, after all, and nothing is really THAT far from anything else.) But that was her way of telling you just how VERY wrong you were. So far off that you were way out in Pawtucket.
And that's where the family and I were the other day. Way out in Pawtucket.