Grandma and Grandpa’s,
Savannah, Georgia

It is five o’clock Sunday morning, the first Sunday in March. I drive up my Aunt Mabel’s driveway, stop the car, and before I can ring her doorbell like a nice Southern niece with manners, her front door swings open. Seventy-six-year-old Aunt Mabel emerges in her second skin: a purple velour jogging suit that reveals every nook and cranny of her well-ripened fruit. She is, of course, also wearing a leopard-print scarf, gold heels, and a flip-up wig. Aunt Mabel descends the stairs, balancing a gold bag in one hand, opens the car door, gets in, places her hand in her gold bag, grabs her dentures, puts them in, and says, “Lets roll!”

People on couch
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