Some people worry about being put in the Old Folks Home. Not me. I’m ready to go.
I’ve asked my sons more than once to just go ahead and get good enough jobs that they can take me to the old folks home. I can do what those people do. I want to sit on the front porch in a rocking chair and not hear anything. I want to have someone fix all my meals and wash the dishes afterwards.
I like mischief (when I’m the one doing it) and I’ve already figured out how to organize a streaking party. We could all strip and run as fast as we could by the nurses’ station.
I’ve told one of my sons that I hope to live long enough to be as much trouble to him as he was to me all those days I spent in the principals’ offices defending whatever he had done NOW. I believe I can accomplish that goal in an old folks home. Yeah. He can be the one called in when I do whatever foolishness pops into my aged head.
And it will. It will pop in there, if they’ll just get their money together and drive me to the place. I’ve already told them the one who brings me salt will be my favorite. I mean really. Why don’t we let old people have whatever they want to have? Salt? I expect three containers of it each month. They all want to be the favorite. (Trouble is, they all already are.)