"Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths..." (Richard III)

I've written 95 posts since I started this All American Blog. That's a lot of posts. I must have a big mouth. Funny, though...well maybe not funny ha ha...but funny "odd" that in a social milieu, I prefer to listen. But let's go on to post #96. Tomorrow is Veterans' Day. I'm not sure what you are supposed to do on that day. No point in saying "Happy Veterans' Day". It used to be a day of remembrance for those who died in WWI. November 11 was Armistice Day while I was growing up. Since there are no veterans left from WWI...I'm guessing; if there is one, he can't be sexually active that's for certain. 1000 Mg's of Viagra would be of no use; but if by any chance it worked and he happened to have a partner, the aftermath would be enough to kill him. My father was a veteran of WWI and after a very long period of time and a drawn out and dragged out fight with the bureaucracy, I finally was able to get the Purple Heart that he deserved for the suffering he went through following his discharge. He died a triple amputee. Besides remembering my dad as a veteran, I have my own crew members to remember from WWII. I have written about my experiences in my book "Memoirs of a Tail Gunner", but there were things about the war that I simply could not write about. Anyway, I hope the American Legion or Jewish War Veterans will remember to put a flag at my father's grave in Long Branch, New Jersey. They won't be able to flag my grave because I'll be in a wall! Perhaps I'll live long enough to be one of the few veterans left from WWII, and I'll pass on the Viagra. I'd prefer swallowing a Mallomar.

I have a story about my Uncle Morris--my father's brother--whom I neglected to put in my book. (I could have written another 300 pages). Anyway, Uncle Morris married a Catholic lass named Celia (surname unknown). The offspring of that union were all brought up as Catholics with the name of Rosenberg; my name before I changed it legally to Ross. So there are many, many Rosenbergs spread around the country now. The only one I've been in touch with is my cousin Peter and his wife, Ginny. Peter Rosenberg is my dad's nephew of course and he still lives in the Atlantic Highlands in New Jersey where all of the little Catholic Rosenbergs were brought up. Peter's daughter and grandson live here in Florida, and when Peter comes to visit, we all go out to dinner and talk about family. My dad's name, therefore, may go on for decades, while mine may just "peter" out. (No pun intended!). My only hope for the name of Ross to continue is my grandson Adam, 25. Time is of the essence, here. The picture on the right is not of Rho and I...it's cousins Ginny and Peter Rosenberg, bless them. Au Revoir