For whatever reason, while chopping tomatoes or brushing my teeth, I thought of the bell Mrs. Devlin rang every evening at 6:00 during my years of childhood play. The Devlins were a family that lived a few blocks from my home. Justin Devlin was a year older than me, one of the neighborhood kids who you had to get along with, like family, since we all were bound to connect with one another. With two blocks shared by so many children of a particular age, an extra person was always needed in a game of Capture the Flag or Ultimate Frisbee. The dynamic may have been different on school territory, but once back home we were all comrades.

Like most of the homes in my neighborhood, there were square patches of yards and porches loaded with gear. Bikes were depended on as a mode of transportation that liberated us, extending the territory we could explore. Days were active, a constant blur of outings into town for ice cream or climbing a tree, becoming so familiar with its wooden grooves and branches.

It amazes me that I have reached a point where I refer to these childhood pastimes through the grainy, dated images of a Kodak photograph. I consider this when watching my stepdaughter play. If a home came with a cowbell attached to the porch rafter, she would see this as a delightful yet antiquated feature—like butlers' pantries and laundry chutes. Until the Devlins' bell chimed at 6:00, which was the neighborhood signal that sent all the children to their homes, we were free to explore without inhibition. Innocence was not spoiled by constant adult supervision, and we all turned out just fine. xo,