This story was deemed "safe" enough by my mother in the early 1980s for me to not only read it, but to publish it in my high school literary magazine. (Somewhere, deep in a pile of boxes, the issue I saved awaits its turn to we seen.) 

To me, it feels more controlled than most of my father's writing––perhaps because it was so far in the past for him by the time he wrote it. Many of his other stories have a just-barely-survived-it immediacy that I'm always drawn to (and and imitated for my whole life), but this one has more distance than most.