Gina and I moved to Pickford Hollow for its quaint, small-town feel, but I didn’t understand what everyone meant by “we take care of our own” until our first Saturday there.

Someone must have mentioned that our three-year-old Molly was celebrating her birthday, because when the parade reached our corner, the marching band stopped, played “Happy Birthday,” and the whole street joined in while she stood there giggling like the day had been planned just for her.