Under the canopy, our squeals echoed. The posts outlying the rotunda were "safe" as the cousins played tag, our feet clicking on the flagstone. This while the adults tended to adult things. Every once in awhile I would glance over and see my mother and my Aunt Karen bent over cutting grass with hand shears or lugging water in the heavy galvanized pail we found in our cellar. Uncle George emerged, tall rubbing his back after crouching to plant the red geraniums. Once a year they tended to the past; while we remained in the present piercing the air in delight.