Lichter, Russell

Not everyone, to paraphrase Bugs Bunny, is born at an early age. But we are all born, to someone, somewhere, sometime. In my case, to David and Matilda, in the Year of Our Lord, 1945, in the coastal city of Long Branch, New Jersey, in the New World: swamps, skunk cabbage, stag horn sumac, Osage orange, poison ivy, cattails, railroad tracks, beaches, and the cold, heaving, endless Atlantic. The swamps of my youth are now all filled in with tract houses. I've regrets. Places I've visited where I wish I had stayed. People I've met whom I wish I had loved. And, in loving, often not loving uncondit...