Harry L. Serio

Newark, New Jersey, in the mid-twentieth century, was, for a teenager growing up, a mix of wonder and fear, excitement and discovery, joy and pain. What I have written is memory–a life not necessarily as I have lived it, but as I have remembered it. I have spent my days slipping over the surface of life, seldom probing its depths. I have learned a little about everything, but never quite gaining the wisdom that comes from living out the true essence of one's being. Like an old phonograph...