Club Fred

This year, for Spring Break, I did what I usually do.  That is, I made my annual pilgrimage to the Jewish Homeland, a.k.a. South Florida.  Apparently I was not the only one with this idea.  The traffic on I-75 South was impressive, often coming to a complete stop.  Judging from the license plates on the cars that surrounded me, if you're in a mood to go a-looting, I would suggest the states of Michigan or Indiana.  Those states have completely emptied out and all the residents are in Florida. I enjoy visiting my parents.  I am very lucky in that my parents are both still a) alive and b) married to each other.  (Marriage ends in one of two ways, my father says, divorce or death.  Your mother and I have chosen death.)  They live in a  community called Pelican Preserve, which is a real place you can see pictures of by clicking here: http://www.wcicommunities.com/pelican-preserve/?utm_campaign=wwcomm&utm_medium=domain&vid=13_3   Do Not  call it a retirement community, or you are likely to get it in the head with a four iron from one of the feistier residents.  These are not folks who retired south to Florida to die in the heat.  These are folks who came to south Florida to do all the things they couldn't do when they had children and jobs and had to shovel snow three months a year. Assuming I am ever able to retire, I want to do it the way my parents did.  My father, whose name is Fred (and why oh why do the good folks at Fred's Discount Retailers not make promotional t-shirts?) calls the place they live "Club Fred", and for good cause.  It operates more or less like an all-inclusive resort, with classes, parties, clubs, sports, and movies.  The only thing it is missing is a swim-up bar at the pool. My mother, Helen, is the kind of outspoken, eccentric person I hope to turn into once I am old enough to quit caring what other people think about what i do and say.  My favorite example:  when my mother turned 62, she threw herself a toga party to celebrate her first social security check.  The invitations featured a picture of her on the cover, wearing a laurel wreath and a gold lame toga, with the caption, "All Hail Helen of Sevilla!"  (Sevilla is the name of the street they live on.)  Tell me that isn't the kind of 62 year old you want to be, and I will know we can't be friends.  Unless you are in a job interview or on trial, fun is much more important than dignity. My father is no fuddy-duddy himself, though he is much quieter.  He was given all kinds of public reprimands from the men's golf club, and even put on super double secret probation for a while.  This is because at the annual meeting he presented a friend of his with a golf trophy he had fashioned himself out of an 8 inch 2x2 piece of wood and two golf balls glued on either side of the monument.  What?  He said, pretending to be innocent.  It's a golf trophy.  Those are golf balls.  What did you think it was? My parents will not be around forever.  No one will be.  So I'll collect all the memories and good times while I can.  I'm just glad that my children are old enough to remember grandparents that are so much fun as to be embarrassing.  I hope to continue my parents' tradition of excellence and humiliate my own grandchildren while doing whatever the 2033 equivalent of the Harlem Shake is in the Town Centre.  In the meantime, I will continue to practice my Gangnam Style dance just in case the opportunity comes up.