"They all sent their regrets," said Lil.

"You know, they're not well enough to make the trip," said Nat. "Many of them are not?in too good health. . . . "

THE marriage wasn't all smooth going. Lil said: "We had many fights. We'd throw each other out the window. We always wanted to kill each other. But every time we walked out, we walked back."

Both of them were children of Russian Jewish parents. Lil's father was a successful merchant; he sold and repaired sewing machines. Nat's parents were poor. His father died when he was six, and his mother, who never learned English, had to work as a peddler to survive. She also had to send three of her seven children, including Nat, to an orphan asylum for six years.

At the asylum, Nat learned how to play the cornet and was in the orphanage band. After he got out, he worked as hard as he could to help support his mother.

"I played for outdoor movies they used to have on broadway-not movies, we called them 'stills'-and we got a dollar a night for blowing our heads off."

Then, two years with the Ringling Brothers circus. He'd travel around-"like the hippies do now"-starting in New England, then up to Canada, then all the way down to Florida.

"You'd go to Florida," he said, "and you'd be out of a job. So you'd join up with the minstrel show going north. At least with the circus you'd have a berth-filthy as it was-on a train. With the minstrel show you had to travel in wagons-and they didn't have paved roads at that time." He laughed at the memory. "That was a lot of travelling in those days . . . just like the kids who travel around now. . . . You know, history comes back."

History comes back. . . . Unlike my grandparents, I know nothing of front stoops and Stock Market Crashes and travelling around with a circus. And yet, the gulf does not seem so wide. The time that separates me from them is not oppressive. Is it clutching at straws to believe that some landscape in this universe is not eroding? I hope not.

My grandparents had to take their nap. I got up to leave, and, as I did, my grandfather expressed his hope that I would avail myself of the ample alcoholic refreshments there would be at the party. Before I could answer, my grandmother laughed, closed off the conversation with a wave of her hand, and said, "Listen, toots, if he belongs to my family, he drinks. "

II

AN EVEN cooler, Miami night. Cars slither up and down Collins Avenue, making those whoosh sounds that cars seem to make only when there is a beach nearby. Inside, big flower arrangements, place-cards, mounds of chicken liver, egg rolls, glasses clinking, uncles running around flashing Instamaties, loud laughter, embraces.

Endless drinking. Nat has to abstain-his stomach has been upset lately. My grandmother, almost jogging around in her long silver-white dress, helps herself. So do I. So do my mother, my three uncles (all of whom are named Sidney), my aunts (Bert and Dot and Frances), and my married cousin Andy. Drinks in hand, we admire a collage of black-and-white family pictures leaning against the wall. Someone says that one of the little babies is me. There is a snapshot of my grandparents; the thirties; they look like Bonnie and Clyde.

My uncle Sid Lotenberg-married to my grandmother's youngest sister-is red faced and wild. As my grandmother's friends arrive, he tells each one she is lovelier than the one before. They love it. During a lull, he leans his head my way and says, "I'm drunk as a coon."

Two old men come over and introduce themselves. One says, laughing hysterically, "Too many old people here. . . . Let's kill a few!" The other gestures towards my hair, which is long, and says, "If I could do it, I would. After all, it's the style-so what the hell?"

I am gassed. A woman grabs my hand and says, "Your grandparents are so happy you could come."