My sister Jeneane is collaborating with spambots to write her memoir. She’s covering what our family calls “the lost years“ from when she ran away in 1984 at age 13 with our dog Franks till her triumphant return thirty years later. She showed up unannounced at Thanksgiving dinner with a deviated septum, a tattoo of the constitution on her left thigh and a new husband, an insurance adjuster from Boca named Murray Morris, who spoke so quietly we all called him Mur-mor the Murmurer. I’ve learned a lot about my sister reading these excerpts. Apparently there were a lot of diet pills.
