Steve Boleyn
Julius Boleyn was my uncle. Of course, I knew him all of my life, but he never seemed to age. He and my dad were brothers, but Julius always seemed to be the rascal, that every boy would want as an uncle. When he would visit us, he would find an old banjo somewhere and play it for his own enjoyment; a habit I’ve picked up for playing my fiddle (I’m not sure anyone else would enjoy my fiddling, ha ha).
Whenever he and my Dad were together, they would tell tales about their younger days. At the end of World War II, Dad was stationed in Camp Atterbury, Indiana, waiting to be mustered out of the service. My Uncle Julius was a new private assigned to clean the barrack’s windows; Julius was up on a ladder when my dad spotted him, and slipped up behind him and began barking orders at his brother. “You missed a spot there, Private! Clean that corner. Polish that ledge … don’t you look at me!” They were always glad to share a funny story, when they weren’t arguing with each other, which only seemed like all the time.
Uncle Julius was always glad to visit the farm. He would climb on a lawn mower, as soon as he could and stay out until dark. He would always tell my mom Minnie, “Pink, don’t you let Mike make you mow that lawn, I’ll do it.”
When my Uncle Julius was young, he and my Dad and Mom, and my Uncle Gold and Aunt Ola, lived together in Detroit, and worked at the auto plants. Mike and Gold moved back to Kentucky, but Julius got a good job at Cadillac and stayed in Detroit and it was hard for all of our families to get together. Now we are reaching out to each other again, and again we are far away.
