Verna was a happy little person. She was almost fifty-seven but never failed to miss the bike rides on sunny Saturdays. She’d go down to the rail tracks and take this beautiful sunken road across the rough pasture. When she’d hear a train approach in the distance, the pedalling became irrelevant. Right then that big old smile of hers was at its best. She’d see a couple of unfamiliar faces in the train staring into the blank nothing and all of a sudden this urge would come over her. She’d feel an uncontrollable rush of waving and her hand would go high up in the air. Not more than a couple of times she’d take a good swing but always enough for the early traveller to remember Verna Ganey. “My riding and waving”, she’d call it and then add “to bring some shine into a stranger’s live and be a happy little person on a bike smiling and waving at you.”