This is where I grew up. Its a small section of Boston known as Charlestown, Massachusetts. Its a small section of Boston know for really two things. First, this is where the legendary Battle Of Bunkerhill took place. You know the revolutionary battle between the Americans and British. Secondly, this is the section of Boston know for the code of silence. An Irish community know to many outsiders as a tough, blue collar, beer drinking fighting, bank robbing capital of the world place. To the people who live here, that's semi -true ,but its a safe community that takes care of it own, and most, not all, of the people who get hurt, deceive it.....I grew up across from Dorothy playground in that whitish triple Decker in the picture on the left. When I lived there, the house was a pinkish color, not the whitish color that's in this picture now. I took this picture for some odd reason just a few months before my Dad died last year. I was driving past the park, where I use to live. For some reason that I can't explain, I wanted to pull over my car and take a few pics, so I did! I was out all day taking pictures for my magazine. The top floor of that triple Decker was my family's apartment. For that matter, it was my families compound. My Cousins, the Melansons lived on the first floor. My uncle Bernie , the Evers, lived on the second floor. My uncle Bernie and aunt Judy owned the house. My family lived on the top floor. We thought we were rich, because we lived in a triple Decker penthouse...Like some scary ritual, My Dad use to stick his head out the middle window and yell my name for me to come home and eat almost every night for my entire childhood. He did this while i was playing with my cousins and friends. My father wasnt a shy man. He didn't care who I was with, or what I was doing at that time. He would just open the window and yell Bobby in a loud bellowing voice. When ever he wanted me to come home I always heard my dad call.... That was with out a doubt my signal to drop what ever it was that I was doing and come straight home. I could be swimming in the pool. I could be playing basketball. I could even be sleding down the roundies, thats a place we sledded behind the park. I could have been anywhere in that park and I heard my dads voice. I miss him calling me. I would always stop and dart home. Home to my family, was our third floor penthouse apartment. It was a nice apartment, all the kids shared a bedroom, but it wasn't anything to brag about. It was just a nice apartment. My mom and Dad wereyoung and just trying to make it and raise a family. Im sure they had no money, but I didnt know that at the time. I thought they had lots of disposable cash. I was always asking my dad and mom for money. It was my grandmother who lived next door that always gave me money, and that was always for going to the store for her. Dad had a low paying job. He never finished high school. My dad drove a wonderbread delivery truck and my mom worked in the candy factory(Shraffts) down the street. Like most young couples, they were trying to raise their three kids, pay the rent and save up to buy a home. Everyone wants the American dream. I think back to my childhood. I really miss hearing my fathers yell for me to come home. At the time, I was probably 8 or 9 years old. I was so embarrassed at my Dad yelling for me from that window. Today, As I look back , I would give up almost anything to hear his loud obnoxious voice again, but I won't. My Dad died a few months ago. And the reality is Ill never hear his voice again.... I get some kind of warmth looking at this cold winter picture and flashing a few memories thru my brain. I remember all the great times that I spent in this park. Times that I spent with Uncle Red who was later killed in Vietnam in 1970. My uncle Red, whos real name was Francis Powers, taught me how to dive from the 16 foot diving board when I was only 7 years old. I still cant believe I did that at such a young age. I can also see my Uncle Richy playing basketball in the park. He died 2 years ago of prostate cancer. He was a firefighter. My dad also became a firefighter later on after we moved away fron the park. Uncle Richard was an incredibly happy person. Richy always had a smile on his face. The sad thing was that after his older brother was killed in Vietnam, Richy was never really that happy again. People would call him the life of the party but people close to him knew he was never the same after Reds death....My Uncle david never really went over to the park. He would come home from work and walk right into 12 St Martin street and put on the T.V.. This is the park where I kissed my first girl, a girl named Joanne Sindoris. She and her cousins could play street hockey better than me and all my friends put together. This is the park where I drank my first beer. This is the place that my Uncle Bernie would take me for all the talks he gave me on how to behave like a good man as I got older. This is the park that I played guns in that would later teach me some common scents hunting skills I would later use when I became a Special Forces(Green Beret) soldier. In short this is the small patch of ground that taught me almost everything that I had to learn about life at the time. This park was more than a playground for me. I still go to the park occasionally. It painful to pass by there since my dad died. I still look up at that third floor window and somehow expect my dad to be there, but hes not there. I have dreams at night since my dad died, that my dad is calling me to come home from the third floor window, but I cant seem to get there. I always wake up and feel lonely and afraid..... I know that my father is gone, some say in a better place, but i still think that by a miracle I may see his ghost up there in that window one day. If I do, I want to see him as that young good looking man I knew in my youth, not the old sick me he grew into as I grew up. I hope god lets me see him there one more time. You see, I had no problems, when he was there. I had a simple life back then, except like most kids, I didnt know it! I wish that I appreaciated him back then more. My Dad could solve all my problems just by calling me to come home from the park. His strong voice was very comforting to me, not then, but as I got matured in life......No one could hurt me back then. My Dad was my rock. My dad was like that big rock in the middle of the pond. The rock that you could jump off and if you got tired you could swim back to and regain your strength. You always expect that rock to be there. But now, my rock is gone. My Rock has been taken out of my pond of life. I never knew how much i missed it or how bad I would need it as I got older...I need my father now more than ever. I need advise dad. We never got aroung to really talking. The things that I learned form you were the things that I watched you do. To me, as a child, My dad could do anything...The sad thing is we all grow up. One day my dad turned old and I stepped up to the proverbial plate. Thats where I stand now. My grandfather is gone. My father is gone. And now, its my turn to be the man. I hope that I do a good job. Im trying for you dad. You did your job Dad.........You know the worst part about life for me is...The part where you can never go back and re-live your childhood....... Its the part that I will never hear my dad call me to come home.....I miss him