Husby and I are on a holiday on beautiful Vancouver Island.
Our son lives here and as often as we can, we come out to visit.
To—ummm—see our son.
Not to walk the beaches and watch the ever-changing ocean or hike the endless woodland trails and visit the centuries-old trees.
Or take a boat and deep sea fish.
Or gorge on freshly-caught cod and hand-made fries at our favourite restaurant.
Which incidentally makes the best coconut-cream pie I’ve ever tasted.
Where was I?
Oh, yeah. Island. Holiday.
Last night, we were returning with our son from a day of rambles.
Our car was following the twisting, turning road into Courtenay.
A last long curve.
A curve marked by a line of reflective poles.
That lit up brightly as our car lights caught them.
One. Then the next. Then the next.
Each going dark as we passed them.
Watching them, I remembered something . . .
I was four and travelling with my family.
Nose pressed against the glass because I had been looking at a book but it had grown too dark to see anything.
Oh, and also because seat belts hadn’t been invented yet.
Every so often, we would pass by some small posts that lit up as we approached.
It was magical.
I stared at them long and hard.
How did they do that?
How did they know to light up just as we were passing?
I thought about it.
Then finally figured it out.
Somewhere inside, there were little people who waited until we approached.
Then lit them just for us.
It was very kind of them.
And I was sure to thank each one.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
Mom looked at me. “Who are you thanking?”
I pointed. “The little pole people.”
She didn’t ask.
She was used to me.