The Storm

43rd is the kind of street where green awnings cast their dark shadows onto hot sidewalks in our long, mid-summer days, and the familiar sound of the brass doorbells ring every time the doors are opened. Along the street there are hard to pronounce names stenciled with gold lettering on wood framed, glass doors that open to narrow staircases leading up to some mysterious professional offices. I always imagined some old guy wearing a green visor sitting behind some huge oak desk with a squeaky chair and filing cabinets and papers scattered about. Probably just my imagination, but somehow, I know it's true! I’ve gotten to know most of the shopkeepers and some high-profile clients that frequent those businesses. They are some of the most interesting people you’ll ever meet. Many of the old shops were passed down from generation to generation, and now great-grand-children practice the trades their parents and grandparents did before them. There are stories of relatives coming to America with the hopes of a new life in the new world called America. And there are the on-going stories of love and hate relationships between the Irish, Germans, Jews, and Italians, not to mention the problems between the Chinese and Korean entrepreneurs. The Japanese did not fare so well, as many were still in internment camps after the war. And even the newly transplanted, old world immigrants, now being granted citizenship, viewed them with suspicion for their part in the war. They had their place in the sun, however (no pun intended), when Japanese restaurants made a foothold, but not without trouble. It seemed as if every nation under the sun was trying to survive this new America and make a good life, enduring hardships and the

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