We lived in little communities, surrounded by farm land. Many evenings we would be invited out for supper or fellowship with church members.
On the way home, I would be riding in the backseat. I was a pre-schooler, tired from playing and filled with good country cooking. Cars in those days had no air-conditioning, so the windows would be open, letting in the night air and the fresh country scent.
The headlights would cast an eerie glow on the trees ahead of us. To that little five-year-old, it seemed as if ghostly giants watched over us as we made our way home.
Fifty years later, I still feel the little girl inside when I make my way home after dark. My headlights flash on friendly ghosts, keeping me company as I drive.