ABSTRACT
I am a Babylonian. Babylon on Long Island, New York, that is, a small town fifty miles from Manhattan. Every Sunday, my family piled into a 1953 Buick 88 (a black beast with no reverse) and did what everyone else did on that day-we visited grandparents for Sunday dinner. My family would inevitably arrive first, and sometime thereafter a loud bang at the door would be heard as the first of the Brooklyn contingent appeared with a shock of frighteningly frizzy hair, a smear of red lipstick, and
a howl of “Helloooooo.” Aunt Francis (Franny, as she was also known) would burst through the door, trip on the ledge, and plummet to the foyer floor. As the entire family rushed to her aid she would say, on cue, “Oh, geez, I’m a bundle of noives!” It happened every Sunday, for as long as I can remember; I could go on about the other antics that ensued every Sunday, but let’s just say Franny’s entrance gives you a general idea of the tenor of our family get-togethers.
