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My father grew up in Rochester, Minnesota when it was considered the best place in the United States to grow up. Anchored by IBM, his neighborhood thrived during post-war prosperity; neighbors got together to make a pool — he recalls them pulling their lawn hoses out to it to fill it at the beginning of the season. Summer afternoons gave way to late nights of playing and inventing every game. Similarly, my mom grew up running about a safe and happy neighborhood, caring for the wild cats who befriended her and her siblings, driving Honda dirt bikes fixed up by her father in the field across the road from where they lived. Come to think of it, I don’t know as many stories as I’d like from my parent’s childhood.

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Completely lucky, I love this picture.

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