It used to be such a nice, quaint neighborhood. There were flowers and landscaping, welcome mats and ornamental mailboxes. On weekend, wives would bring lemonade on a tray out to their husbands while they washed the family car by hand. It used to be a place you where you never thought about if it was safe, because you just knew it was. That changed after the war, kids playing in yards were replaced by gangbangers standing on corners. Pitbulls replaced poodles. Windowsills with cooling pies were replaced by wrought iron bars. And the graffiti. That was the worst. The thugs occasionally went inside, but their tags were ever present. A clear sign to anyone passing through telling them exactly who was in charge around here.
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