“I've been talking to Hugh,” John said.

“Why, what’s on his mind?” I asked easily.

“Well, Hugh hired a guy named Dave to fix the rust on his car and Hugh says Dave eradicated a lot of rust for cheap.”

“How cheap?” I asked.

“About $300,” he said.

Simultaneously we turned our hands and looked at each other. We had both thought of our rust-bucket 1979 Execuvan whose streetside nether edge had disintegrated into a ragged lace hem a foot deep. “I’m worried some day the police will yank our Execuvan right off the road,” John said.

BY CATHERINE DOOK

It’s the people you remember.

John and I sped north down the old scenic highway in our 1979 Execuvan toward Campbell River with a serenity that outdid all time and anxiety.

The sun shone on the ocean water, the trees rustled and nodded, and our tires hummed on the warm pavement. We shot through Qualicum Beach, famous for sand and shallow water. The gardens were abloom with daffodils and we drove past an old man in a Cowichan toque waving a cane. Farther down the highway, Fanny Bay was full of bandbox houses the colour of ice cream.

“Reminds me,” I said dreamily, “of the time Dad landed his Twin Otter in the high Arctic settlement of Holman Island.”

BY CATHERINE DOOK

John was delighted with his purchase. “Only $148 at Canadian Tire,” he said. “A portable GPS with hundreds of North American maps included. The salesman said it even has a woman’s voice that tells you where to go.”

“It’s MY job to tell you where to go,” I said. I felt rattled. My whole identity as backseat driver was being threatened to the core by a three-inch square screen on a stick. I narrowed my eyes and stared at it hard. “I’m the one who gives directions,” I repeated. “Besides, which of us are you going to believe?”

“Her.” John said simply. “I paid $148 for her. I’m committed.”

So it was that the following weekend, once John had stuck the GPS on a little pedestal on the van console, we set out from Cowichan Bay for Campbell River to see what was there. “I’ve never been to Campbell River,” John said, “But I’d like to go.”

“This GPS looks like one of those plastic birds with a bobbing head,” I complained. “It’s top-heavy and it looks dumb.”

But John was too engrossed with programming his new toy to pay attention to me. “Campbell River,” he muttered. “Ready, and go.”

“Darling, there’s only one highway on Vancouver Island,” I said. “We aren’t going to get lost.”

In dignified silence John turned the ignition key. With a great obnoxious blast out the exhaust the van lurched forward. The sky was blue, the pavement was smooth, and as our little village slid past us I breathed a deep sigh of content. Then I coughed. “This van smells like old shag carpet,” I said. “Quick darling – open a window!”

A clear woman’s voice interrupted me. “Drive 3.5 km, then turn left.” John started. The van swerved slightly, then as he straightened the wheel we both stared at the screen on the dashboard in astonishment.

BY CATHERINE DOOK

“Most of the writing I’ve tried to do this week,” I told my husband John, “begins with, She sat paralyzed in front of a blank sheet of paper with her eyes glazed over like Maraschino Cherries.”

“You need a project,” he replied.

“Do you have anything in mind?” I asked, then braced myself for his reply. The last time I’d suggested a camping trip, he confessed he’d always wanted to live in a mud hut on the banks of the Orinoco River in the Amazon, and the last time I’d kissed him affectionately he’d interrupted me to ask why people have different-lengthed fingers.

“We all have legs the same length,” he’d argued, “or most of us.” Allowing John a spontaneous opinion is always a touch risky.

“I think we should fix up the Execuvan,” he said.

“You ARE joking,” I exclaimed. “Honey, anything new and shiny we install will end up out in the rain because that old rust bucket will disintegrate around it, leaving nothing but a heap of new parts and some beige shag carpet.”

“That shag carpet was really built to last, wasn’t it?” he said admiringly. “On your next trip to a thrift store, see if you can find some upholstery fabric. That third bucket seat, the one behind the passenger seat, has its cover in shreds.”

I couldn’t argue with him on that. It WAS in shreds. Even the foam that lay beneath the brown-and-beige plaid cover was dirty and half-ripped away, and the upholstery buttons holding the seat cover insecurely in place were rusted into little nubs. I thought for a minute. “I won’t find a matching colour,” I said slowly.

“One mismatched seat-cover won’t interfere with the Execuvan’s resale value,” he said.