HEROES: A Man to Remember

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Oh, where are the curly-fused cannon crackers of yesteryear—so thick, so roundly red, so pregnant with earsplitting, tooth-jarring noise? Where are the backyard skyrockets, with their colored, cone-topped heads and their delicate pinewood sticks? Where are the politicians who spoke, jowls aquiver and veins distended, on the glorious day amid the pleasantly acrid smell of burnt powder? Where are the red, white and blue floats built on flat bed-trucks? Where is the George M. Cohan roll for the player piano and the rock salt for the ice-cream freezer on the...

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