I grew up in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn with my father telling me tales of his childhood in nearby Borough Park. Only a few miles away from each other, the neighborhoods—and our stories—were worlds apart.

Yet in many ways, they were very similar. My father grew up in a brick house surrounded by family during the Depression. I grew up in a brick house surrounded by family in the prosperous 1960s. All in all, I had a happy childhood. But my father never told me he loved me, although I knew he did, through his words and deeds. But mostly through his narratives.