Soup Spoons, get-well letters, and persiflage

Walking on pillows; dancing on the clouds

In December of last year we moved to San Jose, California (Merrill Gardens, Willow Glen (Assisted Living)) to live closer to one of our daughters and son-in-laws.

My wife is my caregiver; if something should happen to her I’d be in deep yogurt since I have idiopathic Parkinson’s disease, and PD only worsens over time. Hence, the move and change in lifestyle.

I've changed my voter registration to Libertarian, having completed the full political cycle with this move to Northern California.

I finally found a musician who can play Meditation in the spirit of the late Lenny Dee. There are a plethora of entertainers that grace the dining room of our retirement establishment. Alligator appears on April 15; I enjoy the Gator man.

My photo is affixed to the Wall of Honor, having served in the Air Force during the Korean War.

Whatever happened to the technological utopia that was to have been achieved through the use of nuclear fusion and desalinization, this technology symbolized by the Space Needle--which was built in 1962 for the Seattle World's Fair--and championed by John F. Kennedy in 1963?

Does Lockheed Martin have the answer?

How about San Diego, California?

I thought cold fusion was dead.

 Soup Spoons 

A short time ago, a woman asked me how I liked the soup I was eating.

 “What’s getting into my mouth is fine,” I replied.

Blame my sloppiness on Parkinson’s disease, which I’ve had for twelve years. Twelve years ago, I first noticed the thumb and index finger of my left hand in a “pill-rolling tremor” when the hand was at rest. At rest pill-rolling tremors are a classic symptom of PD, among others.

The aforementioned woman did me a favor, as a subsequent google search led me to the “Good Grips Weighted Soup Spoon.”

Now I “ladle out” my soup with this wonderful spoon rather than making a drip of myself.

One of our waiters bent the spoon portside for me since I am right-hander. I hold the spoon between the thumb and first three fingers of my right hand and eyeball the spoon on the way up, stopping upon an unwanted movement of my hand, then up again until the job is finished.

If nothing else, this five-star product will liven the conversation at the dinner table.

Get-well letter:

Hi Partner,

Since your injury, just a handful of men remain. We lie hunkered down in trenches taking grenades—surrounded by feminine forces—from early morning till late at night.

Mostly oblivious to their loquaciousness, we men remain stoic and laconic by our very nature.

But ‘tis an almost unbearable plight we suffer, being under constant verbal bombardment, persiflage, and  "organ" recitals.

As I perceive of the situation, we have one of two choices: 1. remain hunkered down until your return, or 2. make a run for it and risk going AWOL, which will likely lead to our capture and subsequent imprisonment in the “Guard - en - House.” (*)

Therefore, we request your immediate and healthy return. Your leadership is sorely needed.

Rich

(*) God bless those poor souls living in the Garden House who need assistance to maintain the regimen of daily living. Please forgive my well-intentioned pun. Love you all.

Persiflage: idle banter

"Organ" recitals: "About that last operation I had; boy was that a doozy. Now to make a short story long." Catch my drift.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Richard Linde can be reached at malamute@4malamute.com

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