I had done something foolish or stupid and told daughter Lise I was just being a goon and needed her as a keeper. We laughed. For the rest of her stay, I referred to myself as a goon, not knowing we began with a different definition of the word. It became obvious that we were talking past each other, so I looked it up. To me a goon was someone who was idiotic or silly. To her a goon had an American definition, a henchman carrying out the wishes of a mobster. Both were correct, so from then on I called myself Goofy Goon.
I couldn’t possibly remember all the instances where I said or did something silly, but attributing it to Goofy Goon sparked our laughter. It was obvious I needed help with all the details that had to be attended to. Lise could easily read and understand legal terms, organize John’s funeral, make phone calls to get a refund from a nasty propane company, find where to go to register John’s estate, deal with medical bills, and confront a bank that gave us conflicting information. The Goofy Goon wants to publicly thank Lise for keeping her focused on tying up loose ends and getting ready to live in the altered state of widowhood.