Hey, Bob Fox, where are you?

.....Just finished speaking on the phone with my "kids", all four of whom are in their 50s. I suppose they're all grown up now and can make their own way in the world. But to realize that they are in their 50s is very annoying to me. I prefer to think of them in their 20s, actually. The truth is that the 40s used to be considered "middle aged", but nowadays I believe it's been moved up a decade. People are living a lot longer, especially in Florida, flooded with doctors and without the debilitating biting cold. I am not acquainted with any Jewish Eskimos; it's ridiculous to think of a synagogue in an Igloo. My grandchildren are all in their 20s and single; I don't know who is going to carry on the Ross name and/or present me with a great-grandchild. I am resigned to the fact that I will probably never see one, though I know that would be a fun and thrilling event.

.....The lack of great-grandchildren would defeat one of the purposes of writing and publishing this blog in books called "Paternoster in Condoland". You all know, of course, that "paternoster" is Latin for "our father"; ergo, Our father in Condoland. But if that were the title of these journals, one would normally be obligated to say afterwards, "Blessed be thy name." Paternoster defeats that necessity. The primary purpose of writing this blog/journal is so that my offspring will know what life is like each day down here for their father and Rhoda, making it unnecessary to frequently phone or e-mail them, which I normally find unrewarding. Then the secondary purpose is that way down the line, my descendants will be able to know what their ancestors in the family were like. But who knows if I will have any of those descendants if the current descendants don't get to the altar--and very soon!

.....Here at Huntington Lakes we have--among many--a club call "The New Generation". Rho and I became members but I have no clue as to why the title since we're mostly old generationists. However, perhaps the meaning has to do with the new life in retirement; nothing else seems to make sense. The other night we went to one of their meetings. There were about twenty round tables with seats for ten people. The tables contained a vase with fake flowers, potato chips, candy, cans of soda, a big ice bucket, and paper cups for cold and hot drinks. A brief "meeting" of the club was held, administered by the president, after which we were entertained by a female chanteuse who sang songs mostly from the Mesozoic period. Perhaps that is why I couldn't understand a word even though I turned up the volume of my hearing aids.

.....Wednesday I'm going to the surgeon who operated on my melanoma; hopefully, after looking at my leg he'll say that he never wants to see me again, which will be OK with me. The wound is almost completely healed, but still Rho redresses it every day. I believe that will not have to be done anymore after seeing the doctor. That will be the end of the ordeal in the summer from Hell--just in time for the winter season. And time for us to have some fun. At the end of the month we are going in three busloads on a City of Hope jaunt to the Hard Rock Casino, which is run by the Seminoles. We've been there a few times and donated some our money to their cause. We are slowly paying them back for the land we stole from them. The best thing about Hard Rock, besides the interesting slot machines, is that in the Deli Restaurant there, good old fashioned checkerboard cake may be had along with an egg cream to wash it down. Can't wait.