I’m not a candle person, at least not in the sense most people consider them. My oldest daughter would quickly disagree with me. Candles are important to her. I think her favorite is Yankee. She always has one or two at the ready. She likes the soft light and the scent. She probably likes more about them than I’m aware.
One winter while on an autumn trip to our remote property near Pie Town, New Mexico with our pickup camper we encountered two days of overcast skies. Our solar panel stopped charging and it seemed as though we were going to spend a dark, chilly night atop New Mexico’s Rockies.
However, as we approached Socorro, our last encounter with creature comforts of civilization, as most people know it, Barb suggested a candle.
Having already driven seven hundred miles, we swung into the local Walmart. The display we found was extensive – short candles, tall candles, colored, white, free-standing and those in glasses with Christian themes. I left the choice to her.
“The clouds to the west look threatening. We might need all the help we can muster,” she said, and then chose six large candles in glasses bearing the picture of Jesus.
We reached our destination just as the temperature turned colder, bringing snow with it.
Barb’s choice of candles proved successful. We stayed on the place four days. Her candles provided enough light to read and enough heat that we turned on the propane only to cook.
Candles saved our bacon.