2622. Rhubarb jam

“It’s definitely food for thought,” declared Ava-Margaret. She had been entertaining a guest at her apartment in the retirement village and they had discussed how late December-early January seemed to be the time the Grim Reaper made an appearance. “It’s funny,” said Ava-Margaret, “we older people don’t seem to have the resilience against illnesses that we used to have in younger years.”

Because Ava-Margaret and her visitor were enjoying a lovely cup of tea didn’t mean that Ava-Margaret was doing nothing. She was busy chopping up rhubarb to make rhubarb jam. “I know I’m early,” said Ava-Margaret, “but I avoid the Christmas rush by preparing a few little gifts well in advance. Little jars of rhubarb jam are just what the doctor ordered.”

“You realize,” said the visitor, “that you are chopping up the rhubarb leaves as well as the stems. The leaves are poisonous.”

“Dear me, so they are!” laughed Ava-Margaret. “I’ll have to be careful as to who I give these little gifts to.”

Jim chortled. “It’s fun to be in on it,” he said.

1086. Justice is served

It wasn’t just depressing; it was downright infuriating. Nick had been stopped for speeding, and THE COP WAS YOUNGER THAN HE WAS.

You know you’re getting old when the cop who stops you for speeding is younger than you are. There was a time when Nick was always younger than the cop. He would always say, sorry officer, it must be youthful enthusiasm; I won’t do it again. The old cop would let him off with a warning. But now THE COP WAS YOUNGER THAN HE WAS. These days he was never let off with a warning.

Nick took the cop to court. Nick was a top class lawyer. He knew the law and how to manipulate it. He made sure that the upstart wasn’t going to be stopping him again. The cop’s looking for another job if you’ve got a vacancy.

691. Did I tell you about my grandkids?

Let’s face it, no one in my eighty-seven years has ever listened to me. And now I’m in an old people’s home and everyone talks and talks and talks like someone might be listening. Either that or they never talk at all; like they’ve been struck mute.

Maybe they don’t talk because they’ve got no grandkids or great-grandkids like most have. And those with grandkids talk and talk and talk about them like they’re the only ones that have them. Like their descendants are the most intelligent things born since some remote ancestor in Africa picked up a cracked stone to sharpen the point of a stick.

I don’t talk much about my eleven grandkids and their couple of kids because no one listens. I talk about them though if I’m sitting in the corner with Fred. Fred always listens. He appreciates it. I tell him everything about my grandkids and he never grows tired of it. He agrees with everything I say.

Poor Fred. He’s totally deaf and he’s got some muscular complaint that means he nods positively at everything I say.

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