I flipped the newly installed kickstand down and let the bike stand on its own. The childseat over the rear wheel still carried the aroma of freshly extruded plastic, and I ran my fingers across the almost rigid surface, remembering when the plastic walls used to tower over me as I rode behind my mother. Or was it my father? How many of my memories are shaped by countless viewings of the family photo album? Turn the page, and there my father stands astride his Canadian touring bicycle in front of the Pittsford parsonage on the hillside, a red plastic child's seat bolted onto the back. For perpetuity my father will be wearing a plaid wool shirt that bespeaks a brisk autumn Saturday in Vermont. My brother Calvin sits in the back, his grin still infectious
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