It was Thanksgiving weekend of 1960.
Just like the mythical Dick, Jane and Sally would visit Grandmother and Grandfather on their farm, I was off for an overnight visit with mine, not on a farm like in the classic children’s primer, but in their apartment in Queens, NY.
But there was nothing bucolic about this NYC borough.
Having just spent Thanksgiving with my maternal grandmother in Manhattan, a place where every single thing seemed infused with energy and glittering with promise, Queens seemed, to my suburban sensibility, a borough in which everyone and everything looked as if it had long since passed its inspiration date.
Because my grandparents still lived in the same brick, Art-Deco-Moderne apartment…
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