Unlike many of my friends, I have stuck, stationary and stable, on the same plot of land for seventeen years. I have not moved. Did not upgrade, or downgrade, or sidegrade my housing.

My primary reason for staying is it is a real neighborhood. We all actually know each other. We watch over one another. We rejoice some and mourn some together. We inquire into one another's well being and wait for the answer. We are that rare thing, a dinosaur, but a privileged dinosaur, a real neighborhood. My friends cannot believe that my way of life can still occur within the limits of a city. Perhaps, they say, this might still be true in a small town, but certainly not in the heart of St. Paul.

When my son Benjamin, in his sixteenth year, decided to take advantage of our absence to throw a beer party, the party was shut down by four adults from the neighborhood. They walked into our house assuming they were welcome, and took charge, assuming we would grant them that right. In both assumptions they were correct. As I have taken it upon myself to parent various of their children over the years .

Some years ago, when most of our boy children were in high school, one of the gang became a source of concern to the neighborhood. He dropped out of school, grew his hair long, dressed in an unkempt manner, and was running a mild war with his parents. Neighbors would express their anxiety to one another. Wonder out loud about what was happening to Freddy. How would he turn out? What kind of a man would this boy become?

I was not worried, and told everyone so. Told them all the following story:

When Ben was nine years old he borrowed Freddy's bicycle. Freddy was eleven and had just the week before been given this new ten speed . This was a shiny bike and an unlikely bike for Freddy to have for his parent's were not wealthy enough to purchase things like this casually. Freddy worshiped that bike and knew full well that if anything happened to it he should not expect another one until he was prepared to buy it himself. Nevertheless, he loaned it to my Benjamin.

Ben was crying as he lay beside the spilled bike in our back yard. He had caught a crack with the front tire and dumped it on the grass. He had to tell Freddy he had scratched the bike. I decided to soften the blow by finding Freddy and breaking the news.

He was around the corner. I said, "Freddy, Ben crashed on your bike."

Freddy asked, "Is he hurt?"

And that is all that he asked.

From that moment to this, I have had no fears about what kind of a man Freddy will become.

The author of this essay is John Cowan. He has written two books of similar essays: Small Decencies and The Common Table Each is approximately 160 pages in paperback. To purchase either book by mail send a check for $10 per book to him at 1498 Goodrich, St. Paul, MN 55105. Price will be negotiated for any order over 20 books. If you wish to discuss consulting or speaking engagements or attendance at a workshop he may be reached by e-mail. His address is Johnedie@aol.com

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