If you’ve been reading The E List long enough, you may already know that I spent my childhood summers in a magical place called Sea Gate. At the turn of the century, it was a New Yorker’s dream; a private beach community at the tip end of Coney Island. My great-grandparents bought a rambling, shingled Queen Anne facing the sea, and relatives followed suit. My grandmother married the boy next door and it seemed we were related to everyone on Surf Avenue. One by one, the old famillies moved to Long Island or Westchester, or further afield to escape the atrocity that Coney Island became in the 60’s. But not us. We returned to the house and our grandparents every summer, spending all our days on the beach, diving for quarters in the waves, slurping lemon ices at the “Riv” (short for Riviera, OUR snack shack), and watching my odd collection of relatives inventing ever new versions of Scrabble (children were NOT allowed to play)… Read the entire newsletter here.