![]() My beloved boardwalk! Where we would come up from the beach, stopping on the steps for grandpa to rub the tar from the soles of my feet with a benzene-soaked rag. Where I strutted along the splintery boards in my glittery new sky-blue kitten-heels that I begged for until my grandparents finally gave in and bought for me, staring at the beautiful ladies strolling down the boardwalk to see if they noticed that I, too, was making that click-click-clicking sound. Where I sat on my grandfather’s lap licking a fat ice-cream cone and being tickled by his cigar-smoking canasta-playing Yiddish-speaking buddies. Where my mother tap-danced and had her start as an actress. The boardwalks that gave birth to Vaudeville and the culture that has defined American entertainment since the Civil War. The beach where I played in the sand with eleven great-aunts and uncles none of whom knew a word of English. Orders of magnitude more destructive than anything seen on the east coast by anyone alive today. crashing into each other in an unprecedented, historical explosion) has hit us here on the east coast causing as of this writing 104 deaths and massive devastation. Hurricane Sandy, more properly called “Superstorm Sandy” since it was the collision of three monster weather events (a tropical hurricane, a nor’easter, and a fall low-pressure system moving from California across the U.S.
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