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 needle that skims across a plastic landscape producing only endless sounds, we do not value the ups and downs, the peaks and valleys of life. Yet, it is on the slopes and depths that the music is heard. It takes a lifetime to play it back and hear it. This is a memoir of the spirit that reveals the meaning of one's existence.