Exclusive excerpt from author page of manuscript
Growing up in Atlantic City was a child’s dream come true. While my friends in Philadelphia could only spend summers on its white sand beaches, I had the luxury of living in the city year-round. I have only wonderful memories of those days spent laughing and holding hands with my friends while jumping ocean waves and skipping along a boardwalk filled with amusement piers, custard stands, and storefronts packed with cotton candy, saltwater taffy, creamy fudge, and macaroons.
The hawkers pitched ocean boat rides and the auctioneers lured customers into their shops with free samples of Teflon frying pans and miracle hairbrushes. The famous Ice Capades filled Convention Hall with its nightly extravaganza every summer and the Miss America parade graced our famous boardwalk closing down the tourist season each September. The world renown Steel Pier called to me each Friday morning where I danced with friends to the latest 45s at the record hop. It was there that I received my first kiss and watched as the Supremes, the Four Tops, and the Temptations performed to sellout crowds.
For years I longed to ride the diving horse, courageously sailing from its sky-high perch to the tank below; unfortunately, that dream was never fulfilled but I would still do it today if the opportunity ever arose. My husband’s foster mother actually did enjoy that glorious ride on one of those majestic beasts. How thrilling it must have been. I know for a fact that all the horses were very well treated.
I also was fortunate enough to grow up in the Ducktown neighborhood of the city and it truly was the safest area of town where a young girl never needed to fear walking alone no matter the hour. It was a tight community where everyone knew each other by name, and all took pride in their neighborhood. I can still recall the tempting aromas of the shops, their windows filled with hanging Italian meats and pungent cheeses and the clerks who forever flirted with my shy but beautiful mother. Pizza was five cents a slice at the Italian bakery and the best subs in town were served by the White House sub shop on Mississippi and Arctic Avenues; their walls covered with signed photos of celebrities from past visits.
Unfortunately, the city met its demise, and the slow hunger of deterioration began. Not even the casino heyday could restore the gentle lady to her former elegance. I miss the Atlantic City of old but have endless happy memories of her glory.