These are the reasons.

Every Saturday morning at our farmers market, a girl of about twelve plays the fiddle by the entrance. Her case is open for tips. She plays old Appalachian tunes, Irish jigs and once, memorably, a bluegrass version of a Beyoncé song.

My grandmother is eighty-seven and walks two miles every morning. This summer, when I was home from college, she asked me to come along.

This letter is for Walter Abernathy, of Abernathy Hardware.

After a big snowstorm in January, my two kids built a fort in the front yard and stockpiled about a hundred snowballs. When the mail carrier came up our walk, they ambushed him.

After a wildfire threatened our town in August, the firefighters worked for six days straight. My eight-year-old daughter asked what she could do to help.

My fourth-grade class started a pen pal program with a school in a village near Nakuru, Kenya. Every student got a buddy, and we sent letters back and forth all year.

My son is eight and has decided he's old enough to walk to school by himself. It's four blocks. I've agreed, on the condition that I follow about half a block behind "like a spy."

I have a small, scruffy terrier named Clementine who is too old to walk far. So I bought a basket for the front of my bike, and now she rides with me everywhere.

My daughter's first ballet recital took place in an elementary school gym with folding chairs, a basketball hoop folded up against the ceiling and a stage made of plywood risers.

Every morning at seven, two identical old women walk the boardwalk in our beach town, arm in arm, wearing matching tracksuits in different colors. Today it was lavender and mint green.

Every year, my daughter asks for blackberry cobbler instead of birthday cake. Every year, the day before, we pick wild blackberries along the old rail trail behind our town, and every year, she eats more berries off the brambles than she puts in her bucket.

My older brother joined a barbershop quartet at fifty-five. He's an insurance agent. He had never sung in public in his life.

I work at a fast-food place, and on the hottest day of July, the soft-serve machine broke. If you've ever worked fast food, you know this is a disaster.

In fourth grade I was the quiet kid who sat in the back and drew in the margins of my worksheets. Most teachers told me to pay attention. Mrs. Okafor asked to see my drawings.

On a trip to Alaska with my best friend, Tamar, we went sea kayaking in a quiet bay near Juneau. Our guide promised nothing. "The whales do what they want," she said.

The bodega on my corner in Harlem has a cat named Chulo who sleeps on the bread shelf and is, by most accounts, the mayor of the block.

Every Tuesday in summer, a man named Mr. Osei drives an old pickup truck full of fruit through our neighborhood, ringing a bell. He sells watermelons, peaches, cherries and corn from his family's farm two hours away.

My son's first science fair project was a baking soda volcano. Every family does it at some point. We were proud to join the tradition.

On my first trip to Spain, I stayed in a small guesthouse in Valencia run by a family. On Sunday, they invited me to a family paella on the beach.

Every Thanksgiving, after dinner, my family holds a talent show in my aunt's living room. It's been happening since 1994. Participation is mandatory.