---

Rich Youmans

Neighborhood Values

I still remember that white sheet of paper, the handwritten names of our neighbors: Mr. Donahue, Mr. Schmidt, Mr. and Mrs. Rossi.

I was sitting next to my dad on our front steps, listening to Mr. Murphy’s deep, booming voice that always stood out, whether he was singing church hymns or yelling at a baserunner to slide.

“I’m not saying they’re bad people, but they should stick with their own kind. We have to protect the street, our homes.” Mr. Murphy held out the clipboard. “Think of the kids,” he added, looking at me.

I remember how my dad leaned forward and read the petition. It was the time of day he loved most: the sun slipping behind rowhouse peaks, their pointed outlines creeping across small lawns, flowerbeds. Soon the streetlamp would ping, its light pale as a star’s. Down the block, the For Sale sign in front of the Kelly’s house cast a new shadow.

I remember how my dad took the clipboard in his damaged hand, its thumb black and shorn at the tip. His foreman had called the day it happened: a routine tune-up, a fan blade turned on too soon. Al Davis, my dad’s best friend in the shop, had rushed him to the hospital. When Al’s car finally pulled up in front of our house, mom ran to the door just as dad eased out of the car. She stared at his thumb, bandaged to twice its size. The neighbors stared at Al Davis, his skin as dark as motor oil. When I asked later if he had kids I could play with, my dad said yes, but they lived far away.

I remember how my dad read the names on that sheet, how his jaw muscles tightened like two fists. And I will always remember how he handed that clipboard back to Mr. Murphy without a word, without his name. How he looked down at his thumb, and then up at the changing sky.

dusklight    the way hard edges begin to fade

---

About the Author

Rich Youmans lives on Cape Cod with his wife, Alice. His books include Shadow Lines (Katsura Press, 2000), a collection of linked haibun with Margaret Chula, and Head-On (Red Bird Chapbooks, 2018).