Waves on the beach, out of reach

My mom and I took a road trip this week, driving six hours north to stay with my aunt who has recently moved back to the little town where my mom and her family grew up. This is a familiar, well-worn path for my mom and I - we would trek up there about twice a year, staying in hotels, buying Twinkies and Lipton's Raspberry Iced Tea for me and coffee for her to snack on, lying in the grass beside the river, climbing trees and magic rocks and balancing along the railway tracks that led to their old house... We would do it because there was something so restful about the familiarity and peace of that old town. The drive itself was comforting, but staying there for a few days was pure magic. I travelled back in time through the dust on the dirt roads and the prickle of the long grasses that grew by the tracks.

What they say about small towns is true: everybody knows everybody, and a stranger cannot come to town without it being an event. Our arrival in town could certainly have been classified as an event. A reporter for the Star & Times lives across the street from my aunt, and by nightfall, everyone knew we were there. What they didn't know, however, was why we were there, and that was enough to cause ripples of curiosity and suspicion throughout the town.

I went out for a walk that evening, as I would for every evening during my trip, and as I walked the town, people waved. This is a phenomena we simply do not see in the city. When people passed me on the road, they waved, whether they were out watering their grass, speeding down a dirt road, or talking in front of a shop downtown. I was a newcomer in town, and I therefore commandeered the attention necessary for a wave. When I first received a wave, I was too shocked to do much of anything but stare dumbly and somewhat panicked at the taillights of the retreating car. "Did I know them? Did they know me? Why did they wave? What am I doing wrong?" But as I became somewhat accustomed to small town ways (waves - haha), I began to hesitantly reciprocate. They would wave, and I would throw my hand back more and more enthusiastically in response, unable to hide the ridiculous smile that inevitably blossomed across my face. "They waved! They're waving at me! It happened again!" It was my new favourite game, and the townspeople never disappointed me.

The waves were a tangible form of connection with this town I to whom I was a stranger, though I loved it so dearly. The waves were, in short, a gift.