The room for dancing had doors on one side that led out to the patio and the swimming pool. By the pool, I could look up and see all the tall, dwarfing white towers of Miami Beach. I wonder what I felt. Something indescribable. A plastic pool, plastic towers, but, high up, real stars. And, past the pool, a sudden drop to the beach itself. A big golden orange moon hanging above the ocean. Fierce waves crashing.

My mother, cousin, aunts and uncles were all outside now. Sid Lotenberg, in shiny tuxedo, and my mother, in a long dress, danced around the pool. He sang an old Rodgers and Hart song, "Isn't it Romantic?," as they performed what seemed a fine imitatation of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.

"Isn't It Romantic? . . ." Well, it was. There was something here that was permanent, that would be permanent. My grandparents, my family, the whole crowd spoke to me of something I had misplaced during the course of a college education. Something I am willing to believe in, something I perhaps desperately want, something I don't quite yet have. My grandparents truly were people to celebrate about.

It was getting late. Sid and my mother stopped dancing. Aside from the family, few guests remained. My mother looked around and said, "Why don't we all go and walk on the beach?"

"Hell," said an uncle. "That's sickening. Just look what this town has done to the beach."

"No," said my mother, insisting. She kneeled down and glided her hand across the water in the pool. "When you get past all the crap, it's still there."