When my Dad got out of the service, we moved to small apartment on the Boulevard in New Haven, Connecticut. As I recall, it was a refurbished Army barracks. My mom told me that when the wind blew, you could feel it through the walls. I am fortunate to have some pictures of our years there but my memories of the Boulevard are sparse and dimly lighted. I do remember them as good times. There were tons of kids to play with, my parents had lots of friends (many of whom they kept touch with through most of their lives) and there was lots of space to play baseball or tag on the apartment grounds, even if it was mostly dirt. What more could a kid ask for?
Twice a week, I find myself in rooms with many men who grew up with difficult, even abusive fathers, men who say things like, I know my father loved me, even if he couldn’t show it. I am fortunate to have had a father who made it clear that he loved me, more often by his actions than his words. Was he difficult? Not by the standards of my friends in those rooms. Still, he could be a strict disciplinarian with a quick hand (as was the nature of discipline back then) and he had a tendency to push me toward being better by pointing out the things I didn’t do well instead of my successes (also more common back then). He was a man of few words. My uncle once said to me, Your Dad doesn’t have much to say but when he does, he sure knows what he’s talking about. Dad wasn’t given to emotional or philosophical discussions … that was the province of my Mom. No one ever called my Dad a Softie and if they had, he’d likely have considered it insulting. 
Older Eyes 