tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45261805261422267302024-03-12T21:57:33.907-04:00A Miggy Momentmiggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-85724733390974479652011-04-22T21:03:00.001-04:002011-04-26T15:00:39.122-04:00Focus!You remember Melissa, our Down's syndrome daughter - - - I am sure. Well, this was her weekend with us. But this visit was super important for her as she was to see my new living arrangement. Same old stuff - - - squashed into new spaces. <br />
No sooner had she arrived than we were invited to an Easter music concert in the same building. That would be fun, so we accepted. It was happy, bees-in-your-honey music and we grinned at one another. One moment later I turned to whisper something to Melissa, but her chair was empty. My blood drained down to my heels. Edging up to a real panic, I looked down one hall and then another. <br />
The halls were empty. Fifteen - - twenty - - thirty minutes passed.I am sure my fears were contagious for everyone seemed to be looking for her.<br />
<br />
I went back up to our new apartment and waited. I was frightfully aware of what could happen to someone as vulnerable as Melisssa. There was the huge shopping mall parking lot, the shops along the strip, the super Genuardi's store, the strangers, the cars zooming along on Boot Road, the fact that she was non-verbal - - I shivered.<br />
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Dear God, surely You will watch over her. Please send an angel to show her how to get home. Surely she will remember. Finally splitting the silence in two, the telephone rang. It was Howard our security guard from the front desk.<br />
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"Melissa Jane just walked in the front door with a big smile on her face. Looks like she has been on a shopping spree." <br />
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"Shopping?" I tried to keep my voice low. "Oh thank you, Howard, please keep her there. I'll be right down."<br />
Grabbing my walker I took off at breakneck speed. There she squatted on the floor in the middle of the spacious lobby in the main building, unconcerned as a naked jaybird at midnight, removing the cellophane from four decks of playing cards. Melissa sat on any cards that spilled out of her arms. She was not about to share her loot with anyone, let alone her mother.<br />
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I quickly deduced we were not at the arbitration stage so I suggested that we go upstairs to our new home. So, pockets bulging and hands full, we left the lobby for a more familiar battleground.<br />
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Melissa is non verbal so hunting for the facts of the matter was useless. Upstairs, in a calm tone of voice I reminded her of the evils of stealing.<br />
She assured me she would never do that and we cried together and hugged and then I thought that as sure as the day ends she would. <br />
<br />
But she had no money with her. She must have taken them. So Melissa went back to Melmark soundly scolded, and I went to bed a mother raising her daughter to steal. Horrors!<br />
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BUT, the next day, when the manager of the store was contacted to repay him for the stolen goods, the truth came out. One checker remembered her waiting in line and how she dumped all her change on the counter only to discover she did not have enough.I will not attempt to imagine the hue and cry that might have emerged. I was not there. I did not ask.<br />
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However, another checker three aisles over, offered to make up the dollar difference which ennabled Melissa to go home with her trophies and a Pepsi to boot.<br />
A one-in-a-million young man. Kudoes! And to you, our Melissa, what can I say? Happy Easter.miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-83699086146281642862010-12-20T20:28:00.001-05:002010-12-20T20:28:42.530-05:00Merry Christmas, Melissa!Christmas to me means God loves me enough to come to my house, to get me ready for His home in Heaven whenever it's my turn to die, because - - - now get this, because HE LOVES ME!<br />
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Doesn't that blow your mind? So do you really understand? He loves YOU! And me! Both of us. And even more important He knows us inside out and still He came. Think about it.<br />
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And while you are thinking about it, let me tell you about Melissa's Christmases. Melissa was born in 1963, our sixth child, with Down's Syndrome. But Melissa is a happy 46-year old child. (Just ask Mary Parris.) Melissa may not hear you when you call her name, but walk in with a package bedecked in ribbons and bows and she KNOWS!<br />
<br />
It's Christmas!<br />
SO it has long been a friendly family competition of sorts to see who can please Melissa the most at Christmas and send her off into cascades of laughter. <br />
A few years ago when we all were gathered together, the usual competitions sprang to life when Melissa was opening her presents. David gave her a huge circular carryall with zippers galore and Melissa emoted happily all over the place.Julie and Steve gave her a raspberry sweater which she barely acknowledged and promptly stuffed in David's bag. They they pounced on their mother with a "Thanks Mom, that's the last time we'll listen to your suggestions."<br />
Then Brian and Jolie presented her with a black bag that looked like a deluxe computer bag. Melissa went into overdrive. She held it up and showed everyone with volumes of never-to-be translated words. Then she took David's bag and crammed it into Brian's bag. At this point she was beyond reach.<br />
But Diane and Ron's present had yet to be opened. It was a red zippered carryall which registered high on the squeal scale and was a hilarious addition to her haul for the day.<br />
The rest of our time there, Melissa strutted around the house with the black bag on one shoulder, the red bag in her hand, her raspberry sweater on and a Christmas muffler aound her throat.<br />
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She can't remember what I gave her and neither can I. Such is the stuff of Christmas with Melissa.<br />
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But this Christmas, as we strut atound with our latest acquisition, are we missing the best Christmas present of all? The gift of baby Jesus, God's Son. Think about it!miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-32922434198063525942010-12-07T20:00:00.000-05:002010-12-07T20:00:13.970-05:00A "heads up" for those caring for their spouses with Alzheimer'sPerhaps I should tell you that when Alzheimer’s entered our world my husband Paul was almost seventy years old. Along with that radical change, we found activities of daily living changed. Oh how they changed. <br />
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<br />
Arguments multiplied, bad feelings festered when my saint-like contributions to caring for his life were misunderstood. I tried. I questioned. WHY would a good God do this to His child? Did he not realize how much He had permitted in my life already? My six-month old baby dying in her crib - - and then the disappointment of the birth of my Down’s syndrome little girl two years later when I had just blown out 42 birthday candles. This seemed like a nightmare.<br />
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Then along came a dream of a different color. Kind of like a vision. We felt commissioned somehow, holding our bright-eyed little pathfinder in our arms; commissioned to help other children like Melissa. We knew we could do this with God as our pilot. So we founded Melmark, a residential school for the mentally challenged. We started long ago in the year 1963.<br />
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But back to Alzheimer’s and Paul. He died after doing battle with Alz in 1996. And since I am a six-month blog enthusiast, I have been hopping here and there and reading comments by caregivers. But you know what I have discovered? I find myself wondering as I read what seems to be the consuming distress of the caregiver as they witness the disintegration of the personality of their loved one. <br />
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Now, understand please, I did not like it one small bit either,<strong> BUT it is what it is</strong>. <br />
<br />
All his life Paul had been Vice President, Chairman of the Board, President, Founder, father of six GREAT kids, always a leader as well as my pal and lover since college days. <br />
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But know something? When he was stricken with this dreaded disease, he suddenly became none of these. However he carried a huge slice of his loving personality WITH HIM into the disease. He had Parkinson’s disease as well as Alzheimer’s, and I remember sitting on the arm of his chair planting kisses in his neck until he giggled almost non-stop and said “I think I’m going to have to tell my wife about you.” And I agreed.<br />
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<strong>Hey, he loved me</strong>. Oh, there is so much more to tell. He needed me and while his body was still here with me, I was going to show him I loved him, coming or going. <br />
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So, my advice for caregivers would be <strong>“Don’t cry for the man you loved for so long, love the man you have right there breaking your heart and making you weep when the sun goes do</strong>wn. But stop long enough to look up unto the hills and trust God. He knows what He is doing. Hang tough! It’s not the end of the world. It’s life.” <br />
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Now, you will probably never listen to what I have to say about living with Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s and Down's syndrome. But to deny reality and weep day after day about your portion in life - - - there simply is no future in that. God knows you can handle it. Call upon Him.<br />
To will what God wills produces peace.miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-18307306965564927462010-11-28T18:35:00.001-05:002010-11-29T19:16:33.704-05:00Happy Thanksgiving<span xmlns=''><p><span style='font-size:12pt'>Last night was a night from the book of Job. (Job – in the Bible)<strong><br /> </strong></span></p><p><span style='font-size:12pt'>The only difference was with Job's resume. I was neither "blameless nor upright" but I did "fear God and tried to shun evil". But that was it. It was Thanksgiving weekend and Melissa who is my Down's syndrome daughter was home for her visit and inoculated with Christmas madness over the visit of her sister Diane and family. <strong><br /> </strong></span></p><p><span style='font-size:12pt'>It was hard to keep her spirits in tow; she threw hugs and kisses all over the place. All afternoon. But neither Santa nor Christmas presents appeared. And when her sister and family left for home, Melissa was clearly upset; her timetable must be off kilter.<strong> What had happened to Christmas? </strong>Even the turkey dinner transported by Diane and Ron was refused. <strong><br /> </strong></span></p><p><span style='font-size:12pt'>Melissa then decided to pack and unpack her suitcase as she marched around the house wheeling her precious cargo of noisy plastic hangers in the bottom. She would not let me near either of these. I bit my lip and we made it until eight o'clock. At that point I decided to put an end to our cold war by announcing cheerfully, "BED TIME!" It was dark outside but there was no rest in sight, so I firmly announced that I was going to sleep with Melissa. I tried to make it sound like fun but that announcement was greeted with disdain. She allowed me little room in her bed; however I managed to get both legs up in time to grab a pillow. <strong><br /> </strong></span></p><p><span style='font-size:12pt'><strong>It</strong> was like Times Square in her bedroom and I begged her (I did) to unplug the twinkly lights so we could sleep. For some unknown reason she obliged and got up. Into her suitcase they were carefully squashed on the bottom next to the plastic hangers. That little maneuver took about 45 minutes for then her night lights had to be found and plugged in. We again approached Morpheus. But I knew the truth that <strong>no sleep was available that night on her turf</strong>. Now was the time for Mommy's room.<strong><br /> </strong></span></p><p><span style='font-size:12pt'>I grabbed her American Girl doll and her dog-eared playing cards and stalked out of her room saying,"<strong>They're in my bed</strong>, Melissa. Hurry up now."<strong><br /> </strong></span></p><p><span style='font-size:12pt'>Well, she did not hurry but made it eventually into my king-sized bed. Well I dropped off immediately. But almost one hour later, I awoke in horror to discover she was not there. I found her seated on the floor in her bedroom packing again the things that she had somehow left behind. It's a virtue to know when to surrender. "C'mon Melissa, let's you and I have a party." We broke open the cookies and chips, set my computer on the edge of my desk and watched The Fox and The Hound on Net Flix until 3:30 am and Rudolph and some other Santa silliness until we were both bleary- eyed. It was now 4:30 am when we finally retreated to our beds again.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-size:12pt'> I decided then and there not to try to sleep but just in case she roamed I parked my walker outside her bedroom door. All seemed to be quiet as I crept into the living room with a glass of grape juice and the latest catalogs.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-size:12pt'> Moments later, I had overturned the entire glass all over the window sill and grey-white carpet. I sat there watching the red stain drip down the wall as I tried to tell myself it was only grape juice. I prayed," God I know what is happening here, and I know You will not let me be tempted beyond my ability to go through it with You victoriously. Help me not to lose it God."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-size:12pt'> I think I fell asleep praying. </span></p></span>miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-61179878975389866712010-11-21T17:19:00.001-05:002010-11-28T11:19:43.743-05:00When Grandma goes to the doctor<span xmlns=''><p>I get so lonesome for Heaven that I am afraid God is testing my patience and I will have to wait until I am 100 or some such foolish number. This has been my week for doctors, the cardiologist, the neurologist and my primary doctor. I saw my primary yesterday and this is what I said. "Look, please do me a favor, don't ask me a bunch of questions, let me tell you what <em>my</em> problems are first." <br /></p><p> He listened to my puny complaints and then I said, "Now I know you are a good doctor and I have told you what is going on with me, and I know full well your predilection for extensive excursions in your chosen field but I do not want to do one thing further about any of them. You have let me unload my gripes, now I will not have to tell my peers. I do not want to see any specialist or have any sophisticated battery of tests, so let's you and I agree that they go with my eighty-nine year old turf. They are the physiological decay that goes with my age group. So we shall not question them, simply acknowledge them and then wish me a Happy Birthday, okay?"<br /></p><p> He smiled, albeit grimly, and said, "Happy Birthday!" and we shook hands before I opened the door. Oh yes, he did ask me one question before I escaped, "Why is it you want to get to Heaven so badly?" So I told him before I left his office. <br /></p><p> </p></span>miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-29617103152621371952010-11-19T22:04:00.050-05:002010-11-21T11:49:41.390-05:00Wrinkled Wings - - (continued) <br />
It was an innocent sounding answer to my neighbors question of <strong>what do I do all day?</strong><br />
<ul><li>"I write." But it came out kind of blunt, and a bit prideful. </li>
<li> "And what do you write?" he persisted. I gave an "Anne-of-Green-Gables" answer.</li>
<li>"Books!"</li>
<li>"About what?" my questioner was not quite satisfied.</li>
<li>"Old folks living in communal facilities for retirement living."</li>
<li>"Oh. they are really great institutions, aren't they?"</li>
<li>"Right. But, you know, there are other viewpoints."</li>
<li>"Well, I guess you only find that out by living there." </li>
<li> "The last ten years in two such facilities kind of makes me an expert, right"? </li>
</ul> <em>Where does Grandma go now that she can no longer live alone? At this juncture a healthy respect is required. We simply must talk about it together. Young folks and us old geezers. Thus, the reason for my book. For although I am fairly familiar with all the unsung blessings of retirement homes, there remains a dearth of honest, gut-level information about what it is life really like, little tips that can grease the skids for grandma and grandpa who are ready to settle in for the long haul</em>.<br />
<br />
Most of all complete honesty is needed. So present all the facts; what you do know and what you don't. Be forthcoming,<br />
"You know Mom, I don't really have all the answers but we can go over to visit again, how about that?" <br />
Mom will be disarmed by your obvious "I'll settle for nothing less than the truth." attitude. This is a big step for her at the end of her life. It takes guts and a good sense of humor to avoid the shallows.<br />
"But," Mom is sure to say, " now that Tommy is in the Navy, his room seems awfully empty." So again the obvious must be re-examined.<br />
"Don't forget, Mom, Tom needs to have his own room waiting for him when he is discharged, and you know how he drives us all a little nuts when he has the remote control in his hand."<br />
And slowly the bare naked facts stand there shivering. Mother should not live alone anymore for she might fall down and break her hip. Breaking your hip seems to be the one thing in life you must never do, for it marks the beginning of the end. So it follows that Mother must go to a place where someone can watch her.<br />
Here it is that Mother's horrible "nursing home" must do a Jekyll and Hyde transformation into a turn-of-the-century retirement facility for independent seniors. And here it is that I jot down the fun and the fury of what life is for some grandmas and grandpas as they hit their eighties.miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-77715883793031928852010-10-11T16:47:00.000-04:002010-10-11T16:47:46.959-04:00Confession of an old saint with wrinkled wings<strong>Psalm 71:18 “ Even when I am old and gray, do not forsake me O God, till I declare your power to the next generation.”</strong><br />
And there it is. Old age! It’s not a contagious disease but sure as sin, you’re going to get it. No cure known to man, yet millions of dollars are spent on artificial knees and hips that often accompany this period. You can’t talk about it, nobody hears you; you can’t see it for you can’t believe it is happening. You just witness day after day the erosion of previous life skills as time relentlessly marches on.<br />
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With this verse as a diving board, I humbly offer you one more blog. In it you will find a bit of humor and snatches of thinly disguised wisdom. Perhaps your loved ones might never expose the rawness of their feeling that time has passed them by, leaving them washed up or shelved, squashed into some self-assigned cubby hole. Some senior citizens are too scared to voice their objections; they are not even sure they have a right to say how they feel. <br />
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As an author, I have taken the liberty to mix and mask both the facts and fiction that surround my life experiences at this stage of my life. These “Golden year” observations are written from the wrinkled pages of my life. I have chosen to call them “wings” (as in angel). I have also included the insights of others. They are presented to you in no particular pattern or sequence. There is no personal beginning or ending to this saga. The only starting point for this book is found in my Bible.<br />
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I ask you to withhold final judgment of this blog until you realize first hand that time changes and caught you off guard too! I hope you can drop your defenses and any “Hallmark” prejudices and allow my musings to expose you to another viewpoint . <br />
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My insights are only mine and are neither right nor wrong, black nor white; they just are how I see my world. I guess what I say is something like a parting legacy to those pilgrims that follow. My only HOPE and the only truth you can trust is found in the Bible.<br />
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<strong>Romans 8: 37 “No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus Our Lord.”</strong><br />
(to be continued)miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-39699966784808235482010-09-25T21:02:00.001-04:002010-09-26T07:48:16.024-04:00What are you doing the rest of your life?I don't know about you but I have huge twinges of conscience about how I use the time God gives me every day. Do you bound out of bed with a "Hey, good morning God!" ? Do you then rush toward your Bible to have your Quiet Time? Or is it easy to put it aside until you make that hot pot of coffee and postpone devotions until you are more awake?<br />
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Let's not even talk about the evenings. You're tired, so am I. You've worked hard, so did I. You did not take that "power nap" nor watched Dr. Oz and you honestly feel as if you owe yourself a little bit of me-time. And the remote is sitting right there and tonight is Dancing with the Stars and you don't watch that much TV anyway so curling up on the couch seems to be just what the good doctor ordered. So, go ahead, do it.<br />
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You remember I am sure, in Camus' novel, the old man who sits on his bed every day and counts peas from one pan to another cheerfully, as though he were accomplishing something. He divides his life this way "every 15 pans, it's feeding time." This is the way he ocupies himself until he shall die. Life holds no meaning for him, so he has created a ritual activity of nothingness to while away the time.<br />
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Perhaps in God's economy all He really wants is for us to fall in love with Him. And when you fall in love, you want to be with your lover, right? Not to waste the time doing some monotonous repeat of time gobbling entertainment that blots Him out of our daily living. Until at last, there are no leftover minutes, our drive to be near Him has disappeared and we are physically exhausted. <br />
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I am growing tired, aren't you? Goodnight to God and to anyone who might chance to drop in tonight.miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-64637655057349299652010-09-19T12:09:00.001-04:002010-09-19T12:14:47.659-04:00To visit the widows and fatherless - -It was a new venture for our group at the Wellington.<br />
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For five years, we met every Wednesday night at 7:15. We called ourselves the Fellowship. Speakers that were inspirational or educational were enticed to speak and we shared in their joy and outreach. It was a huge responsibility. But. although our name boasted of our fellowship, in actuality there was none. <br />
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Things changed however in this year's planning commitee. It was decided to use that time for visiting folks that were lonely or ailing here in our assisted living or skilled nursing unit. Those in charge would suggest names to visit. And we would arrive with huge smiles to cheer them, to play a game, read to them or just to sitt and hold their hand. Well and good. Made us feel good just talking about it. Wasn't that what Jesus did and surely He wanted us to follow Him, right? <br />
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So the following week names were distributed and off we went. Each on his own mission.<br />
<br />
Knocking timidly on the door of some lady I did not know, I waited and heard nothing. I knocked again with more vigor and this time a strong voice with a fair amount of irritation in it said, "I'm on the bathroom." Just that, no more. "Okay, I'll just wait out here." I offered.<br />
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In due time, the door was opened and I was welcomed into her lovely apartment. We sat and exchanged the facts and figures of our lives. Married twice, four children all in West Chester, her girlfriend and many local acquaintances were almost crowding her out of her apartment. She was delightful, but . . . why would they put her name on some list?<br />
<br />
I surely did not know. I left soon afterwards for we both decided that my friendship was not needed. It was strange. It had never ocurred to me that someone would not like me. Oh dear, this was not going well. I decided I would drop by my good friend Stefi. At least I would get a great welcome there.<br />
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But Stefi was not buying either. I mentioned something in passing about maybe using Wednesdays for visiting and laughingly asked her a rhetorical question about how would she like to have me come and see her every Wednesday. "Every Wednesday?" she asked, pure horror widening her eyes. "No-no-no" I protested. We laughed together and soon I left as night-time meds were being passed out.<br />
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I don't know about the other visits that were taking place at the same time. Things were not going as planned for me. But that is simply the first impression. Never discontinue good efforts until all the votes are counted. I am sure there are many who would welcome a visit and we shall uncover them soon enough.<br />
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<strong>"Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look arter orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world." James 1:27)</strong>miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-68624135973355730252010-09-14T17:34:00.001-04:002010-09-14T18:30:40.784-04:00He's Got the Whole World in His HandsDid I ever think that I would be living to this age? I want to travel . . . but where and with whom and will there be enough money? Is that a foolish idea for a ninety-year-old lady? I wonder. I expect that I will have to choose another lady to travel with now that my husband has gone and she will surely snore in the middle of the night, I know. Probably pick her teeth and blow her nose and open her hankie to sneak a peek. Will she also balance peas on her knife?<br />
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Deep down inside me, I have a crying room where I yearn for long-gone "sit-and-rock-with-me" friendships. Here it is that I weep for those who were Heaven-bound and have hurried on by without a glance at that cup of coffee waiting on my front porch. Choice souls they --who have passed the finish line ahead of me.<br />
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This morning I think of what I should be doing, not caring that I sit here at my desk in night clothes, hair unwashed, last night's makeup fading, knowing that if someone should stop and knock at my front door, I should have to run and hide under my bed.<br />
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I have nothing to say today. Yet, I have written much. I have written much but said nothing. However, now I must deal with another day that must be shaken down into a meaningful something. A measure needs to be taken to examine the depth of my soul's melancholy.<br />
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But, honestly, in times like these I think a song is needed. There's got to be a melody around here somewhere. The sun is shining and the breeze is warm. No, not Yankee Doodle nor Three Blind Mice but He's Got the Whole World in His Hands.<br />
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And actually now, what greater assurance do we need?miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-38472813649380538922010-09-07T22:16:00.000-04:002010-09-07T22:16:59.325-04:00Yoo Hoo - - -The doorbell rings and I climb into the shower stall and pull the curtain closed.<br />
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My daughter Melissa has arrived for the weekend with me. Melissa lives in Melmark, a residential school for the mentally challenged about ten miles away. But now the weekend is here and Melissa is coming home to visit. She now is outside my apartment door, but not for long. She flings the door open with a flourish and carols loudly - - "Yoo Hoo, Mommy, where are you?"<br />
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But Mommy is ready and now waits in the shower stall for the hide and seek game that follows. Through each and every room Melissa sings the same message over and over demanding with giggles to know where I am. Every once in a while, I call back with the same greeting, "Yoo Hoo, Melissa, come find me." But she can never tell where my voice comes from and frequently goes off in the other direction. But that only adds to the fun.<br />
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Finally I am discovered and she dissolves in fits of hilarity in my arms. Oh the joy of childhood. For Melissa will be a child even as she adds to her forty-seven years. And I, soon to be ninety, relax in the bliss of being a child again. <br />
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"Yoo Hoo, God, do You know where I am?"<br />
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Can you ever find a hiding place where our God can not find you? <br />
Aren't you glad He knows? But, aren't you sad that He sees that you have made little change in your life, your habits, your choices? Maybe the reason He finds us so speedily is that we have not made any progress since last we met, we still are marching up-down, up-down standing in place. No ground gained. Our eyes are everywhere but on Him. It's hard to follow God that way.<br />
<br />
Remember that song -<em> "Turn your eyes upon Jesus, look full in His wonderful face,</em><br />
<em> and the things of earth will grow strangely dim</em><br />
<em> in the light of His glory and grace."</em>miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-16168205883013612542010-08-08T20:22:00.000-04:002010-08-08T20:22:38.964-04:00God in the ditch Sometimes it seems I can't find God. I feel naked, completely deserted, out of touch with anyone. I have to keep reminding myself that I am not alone. Neither are you! God is in this with me! He is in this for you. We can cry out to Him and He will listen. I try not to sputter or fume about the happenings of the day. After all, He is God. He is in control.<br />
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Sometimes I scream at God, “I cannot handle this, God, help me. Stop the world! I want to get out of here!”<br />
But my God simply pops in wherever I am and says, “Hang on, old girl, I am with you.” He does not remove me from the daily-ness of living. He drops in the ditch alongside me, and quietly whispers in my ear.<br />
“Shh, my child, now really, is this what you were crying out to me about? Quiet now, for I am here with you. Can you stand up? There! Now, take my hand and let’s climb out of here.” <br />
So He pulls and I hang on for dear life. Then we talk. Oh true, I mumble and grumble, but I have concluded that God will never let me go. He hushes my whining and listens to what I have to say. It isn't pretty sometime but He knows all about me anyway so there's no surprise there. <br />
Have you put your hand into His hand lately?miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-46257319203601600352010-08-03T20:36:00.001-04:002010-08-04T14:33:03.381-04:00Thou shalt not steal Melissa Jane is a 46-year old lady with Down's syndrome. Melissa Jane functions on a 3-year old level. Melissa is my daughter.<br />
On Saturday last we were shopping at the Acme when she spotted a display case stacked shoulder high with playing cards. Melissa's eyes nearly popped out of her head for playing cards has become her turn-on, her 24/7 occupation.<br />
Everywhere she goes sitting or standing you can find her tirelessly shuffling a huge handful of these cards with the dedicated focus of a LasVegas shill. She never stops to deal for there are no imaginery players. There is no card game. There is only Melissa. <br />
So, when Melissa came upon this hidden treasure, she started to undress the display case. She stuffed every deck she could grab in her pockets, in her shirt, in her jacket when I put an end to her feverish actions with some machine-gun commands - - "Melissa, don't take those cards. They are not ours. We must not take what does not belong to us. God says "Do Not Steal."<br />
Melissa's eyes only grew wider. I almost knew what she was thinking <em>Why not steal? She was infinitely better off, just look at all her cards now, what a stash she had. She plainly couldn't understand this rule about not taking stuff.</em><br />
But one look at me and she knew I meant business. <em> S</em>o Melissa did the only thing she did well. She fled. Down the aisle, past the checkout stations and out the front door.<br />
Once outside the Acme, she planted both feet firmly on the sidewalk with both hands in her pockets. I think she must have wondered if God needed her cards for some game He had going.<br />
When I got to her, her eyes were terrified. A kind of "here comes the judge" fright. God had trusted me with a retarded child but He sure had not given me the wisdom I needed to bring her up. I needed more time with Him.<img border="0" bx="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pTVdrb-GyYI/TFixi3A6YcI/AAAAAAAAAAw/uikRHUSHUmo/s320/IMG_0331.JPG" /><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">from whence cometh my help;</div> my help cometh from the Lord." <br />
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.miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-41501903385606023822010-07-28T23:12:00.001-04:002010-07-28T23:12:16.002-04:00Things are not as they seem It was lunchtime, and I crossed at the intersection to window shop along 16th Street in Philadelphia. I noticed a simple painting in a store window displayed on an ornate easel. And something made me hesitate and then stop - - full stop. For the lone figure swathed in salmon-colored shades portrayed a well-seasoned lady of the evening leaning against the doorway of a burnt-orange one-story adobe house.<br />
She was gazing at the far-stretching desert which was giving way to the first rays of the pale morning sun. But the lady was not interrupted by beauty; she was weary. Her sun-bleached hair cascaded down her back and over her diaphanous gown which was loosely fastened, if at all. Her face was not seen but her body told the story. It was titled. "Tomorrow, tomorrow and . . . tomorrow." The utter despair of it swept over me as I stood there.<br />
And what made me think of another lady in a famous painting I will not know. But my mind flew to that masterpiece by Whistler of another lady. Sitting in a simple rocker, just a white-haired older lady. Her wrinkled flesh hangs from her disinterested bones. She is staring straight ahead, her watery eyes not focused on anyhing we can see, her ears long since given up waiting for the interruption that never comes. The open book on her lap slides to the floor but she does not move, she is painfully alone. There is nothing but a vast emptiness crushing her. Her very soul despairs as she lifts her broken heart to God.<br />
But the onlooker walks by and says, "Now, isn't that dear lady lucky? There she sits in her rocking chair, warm and well fed with nothing to worry about and no job that tires her out. What a deal. I wonder if she ever counts her blessings."<br />
But that "dear lucky soul" torments herself wondering where her daughter is and why her sons have not called her. She wishes someone would touch her, give her a hug and tell her not to cry. But her inside tears are for the persistent pain she suffers day in and day out and her worry is for the operation she faces and the lack of money to buy the prescriptions she needs. But nobody knows this except for the dispassionate nurse in the doctors's office.<br />
And the dispassionate nurse simply does not care. <br />
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miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-68808538392480004932010-07-21T22:23:00.000-04:002010-07-21T22:23:32.868-04:00Time to visit Grandma in the nursing home. Sundays are important, not only for church or the big Sunday dinner; but they seem set apart for visitation. As one of the inmates of a congregate living facility, let me set the scene for you from my point of view. <br />
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I have just finished dinner with three other residents. Conversation looked animated but in truth was somewhat predictable. We all knew the pattern.<br />
"Oh, you've been here almost two months?"<br />
"Where are you from?"<br />
Nobody listens to the answers because we know without a doubt that we will forget the details and have to ask the same questions all over again. The next two questions follow hard on the heels of the first two.<br />
"Are your children living around here?"<br />
"How long have you been a widow?"<br />
And there, in a nutshell, lies the kernel of hope that this dialogue might produce more than meaningless chatter while waiting for dinner to be served. On a rare occasion it does do exactly that. But this is Sunday. So there is more digging to be done.<br />
"Are your children coming to see you today?" And the flicker of expectancy across the dining table dies slowly as the smile fades. For visits can be life-giving or plunge the one visited into deep depression for the rest of the day. <br />
But I am just finishing out my tenth year in a retirement living facility for independent seniors. And here it is that I would like to grab the mike and broadcast a few suggestions for our visitors and those residents lucky enough to have cornered a visitor. For the visitor: <br />
<strong>Try to eliminate the "How are you really, Mom?" quiz.</strong> <em>She already knows exactly how she is and is well informed about the health of most every other resident, so she would like to change the subject and get on with it.</em><br />
<em> </em> <strong>Stretch her horizons by telling her something about your life.</strong> <em> Perhaps she'd like to know if the office crybaby has found more shoulders to weep upon. Spice up her life with a little office gossip. Make her laugh with a water-cooler joke.</em><br />
<strong> Don't show her that your parking meter is running </strong>Sure, there is always a time limit for any visit, but if you can't wait until the timer dings, don't bother visiting. Give her the respect she deserves after all those years of mothering you. Don't leave your coat on or jiggle your car keys nervously. She has ears and eyes and really gets the picture. You've invested the time, now put a little talent into the visit and make it magic for at least one of you.<br />
<strong>Bring her a little something A Hershey bar can be just as big a winner as a box of Godiva chocolates. </strong><br />
What would she say if she dared upset you?<br />
<em> Dear, I know this is somewhat awkward for both of us, but you know what I would like the most in the world? I would like to sit down with you, my grownup child and ask you simply to listen to me while I wind myself down. Oh, I know you say you are listening, but this is what I need to say to you. I need you to open up your world to me. For sometimes my walls seem to be closing in on me. So I ask you to unwrap just a little bit of yourself for me. Tell me what books you are reading, the good movies you have seen, are there any good programs on TV? </em><br />
<em> I can't watch Laurence Welk forever you know.</em><br />
<em> And here is something else real important that I wanted to say. </em><br />
<em> I know you can't be here all the time and we never know when the end draws near. But hey, that is okay with me. I am not fearful of dying. That is one of my rites of passage. So you must not worry or break your neck trying to get here in time. This is something I have to do by myself anyway. So stop fretting. God will be at my side every minute. This probably is not easy for you to hear. but it is good to talk about it once in a while. </em><br />
<em> I thought it might make you feel better if you knew how I felt about it. I love you to pieces but honest now can you blame me for wanting to go to Heaven where I will see your father again and our Heavenly Father? </em><br />
<em> Now that will be the time to throw a real party. You must not sorrow too long, for I love each one of you enough to last the rest of your lives. </em><br />
<em> Just you mind that.</em>miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-38889378817695881622010-07-17T21:45:00.000-04:002010-07-17T21:45:16.296-04:00The Nursing Home Dilemma Most folks can't stand truth straight up. It strips them clean and there is no place left to pretend. But, all I ask is that someone please listen, just this once. Perhaps there might be one old lady just a bit closer to your heart because she risked total honesty and now you understand. <br />
One of the things I remember promising my mother seemed so simple. She would beg, "Please don't put me in a nursing home, will you?" And I laughingly promised. Then one day I broke my word when the situation became more than I could handle. We tried, oh my we tried. Since my husband and I worked, we made elaborate plans for her well being during our work hours, reading light on, radio tuned to favorite station, lunch ready to heat or stashed in fridge, and phone number for my office practiced. <br />
But it never worked; the pan was scorched, the house was dark, the dog was wailing, the radio hissed wildly and dear Mom was off in her chair fast asleep, tear stains on her cheeks. It pulled at our hearts for we knew it was a dead-end street. <br />
When she reluctantly agreed to try the Presbyterian Nursing Home,we were certain it would fail but to our everlasting surprise it was a rousing success. For five months she shone, out pacing the angels themselves then, without any argument she left us all for her Heavenly home. We had a hollow feeling in side.<br />
And then we discovered that we were the top layer and our children were deciding what was best for us in our latter years. And now, some ten years later, we know. And this is a little bit of what we know.<br />
There is NO right answer for anybody's mother or father. Life is only and always exactly what you make it, no more no less. And grownup children must make wise decisions facing facts squarely. What I share is my opinion only and for the oldster with all senses operating, my little hints for survival are meant for those souls determined to live out those end days with a glorious flourish.<br />
So, in a sense, I want to help unravel the modus operandi of aging; God's timetable, side effects and fringe benefits. Little things like when to laugh, where to cry and how to keep the peace. How to blow up our own balloon and then let it go to soar in the sunshine. Then, sons and daughters shall learn to climb inside our senior citizen world and encourage us through the goal posts. God has left us here on earth; He makes no mistake.<br />
There is a God-given purpose for everyone inhaling and exhaling. God wants us to know He adores us and will always stand by us no matter how unfinished or over- baked we are. We are His. He loves us.miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-46763910985383555352010-07-16T17:04:00.000-04:002010-07-16T17:04:30.499-04:00Huh Wee! The title seems contrived. It is not. It is what happens every day in my life. Kind of like the eleventh commandment. For I must hurry to finish the work God has planned for me to do. I shall speak for those who cannot or will not speak for themselves. Old ladies and old men! I am completely at liberty to speak for them for I am eighty-nine years old. <br />
Now please do not get your feathers ruffled or project my opening statement into a terrorist threat. I just want you to listen to me for what I say is direct, not sugar-coated but bottom-line honest. And it just might help us both as we continue to go foot sloggin' on this incredible journey we call Life. <br />
Now, not often do you find someone writing from within the very compound on which they live, but I derive all of my material from living with 180 other widows or widowers. It is called a retirement living facility for adults and although we do not have to pay an entrance fee nor scrape together funds to secure our admission we simply pay a monthly rental. Which includes well-thought out extras designed to keep us oldsters relatively contented.<br />
The community rooms strain to portray a homey welcome and the staff act as though we are the best thing since sliced bread. Everybody smiles a lot. Why? There is simply nothing more of merit to do. And that seems like a very unhappy statement. Perhaps that is why they ask us the same question over and over.<br />
"How do you like it here?"<br />
"It's okay, I guess."<br />
The answer is hesitant for we do not want to send our children to plum the depths of despair over why Mother seems eternally dissatisfied with life. <em>They must wonder. Good Heavens! She has electricity paid for, her sidewalks plowed, one lovely dinner every day, cleaning services every other week, what indeed does she want? </em><br />
<em> Could it be that some of us find the living a bit artificial within the confines of a facility such as this? Could it be that we long to see a face unwrinkled by all the years of living? Is it possible that we are becoming anesthetized by the artificial environment? Perhaps one of the reasons </em><em>that we can no longer separate fact from fiction is that there is little we can call reality anymore in our lives. </em><br />
<em> Many of us are ready and waiting to go and meet our loved ones in Heaven. I, too, want to ask God how much longer, but I don't think He would like it if I even hinted that once in a while I get tired of living. It's like sitting at the dinner table trustingly waiting to be served and the hostess dumps a double helping of mashed potatoes on your dinner table. And you don't even like potatoes.</em><br />
<em> </em>But, doesn't matter someone's got to eat them.<br />
miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-11560796488464313972010-07-14T21:27:00.000-04:002010-07-14T21:27:10.393-04:00Introduction to Parkinson's disease The visit to the neurologist in Graduate Hospital had been scheduled for a week, so my husband Paul and I were not unduly apprehensive. His symptoms were simply puzzling to us. But then we were not doctors nor medically curious; we always took the physicians at their word. Period. So carefully we rehearsed the little oddities we had noticed and waited for our doctor's professional opinion.<br />
<em> Paul's voice had lost its timbre.</em> Try as he might, no longer could he project his voice and staff meetings had become an embarrassment. Even the mike was not much help. Our young staff all working side by side with us in fleshing out our dream of Melmark were enthusiastic and direct.<br />
"We can't hear you, Mr. Krentel." "Speak up, Mr. K." but he was doing his best and somehow his volume button wasn't working any more. But did this mean anything?<br />
<em>And his handwriting. Started out big and got smaller and smaller.</em> By the time he finished signing his name, it was hard to put it all together. Little things. But indicative. No tremor, not then, not ever. That nearly threw me, It kind of gave me false hope. Paul had a few other early signs of Parkinson's disease. Kind of a litmus test. A shiver went down my spine. What I knew about this disease was precious little. Paul looked as bewildered as I felt. We finally went home with two presciptions in our pockets and a sample of Sinemet in my pocketbook. <em>The year was 1988</em>.<br />
Then all those little things began to snowball. It became increasingly hard for Paul to fit the key in the lock or to pick the right floor on the elevator. No matter what it was, Paul had one explanation, it was the fault of some piece of "inferior equipment". Always a mysterious someone had messed with things so they were no longer functional. Along with the insidious ravages of Parkinson's, Paul's impatience with life in general grew steadily, and I, riding at his side in the front seat of our car, saw his abilities decrease at <br />
an alarming rate. <br />
Soon Paul needed help dressing, shaving and showering. His aphasia continued to greatly distress him. He could not find the correct names for the most simple everyday objects. I found myself living with a man who looked like Paul and sounded like Paul but my real Paul was no longer present. It was like having a death in the family without benefit of a funeral.<br />
Only Paul's body was here.<br />
Nobody had to tell me the name or the symptoms of what was coming. I knew its name for I could almost see Paul's mind crumbling. Every day another chunk of it crashed to the earth. I shrank from acknowledging its presence. <br />
<em> Alzheimer's is a cruel disorder</em>. The death of the mind is the worst death imaginable and to witness the disintegration of someone you love right before your very eyes is frightening. I have heard the phrase that God goes before you. I believe it. <br />
I did not even know I needed help and I had not even dared to pray for someone to relieve me. But God decided I needed help. And He went before me. Her name was Diane and she was a graduate of Philadelphia Biblical University with the disposition of a saint. She not only moved in with us, but she stayed for two years before she left for Russia as a missionary.<br />
God is good.<br />
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miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-12639556486569365552010-07-12T08:57:00.000-04:002010-07-12T08:57:36.472-04:00The Gentle Silence There was an air of expectancy this morning. Not a leaf was stirring and the day had not declared itself yet. The wind was sitting up in bed watching, but all was quiet. My thoughts flew Heavenward and I prayed one of those rapid-fire thanksgivings for my night of sleep. God is good. He knows us and He loves us and you know something, that's all we need all day today. <br />
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But somebody's heart is disconsolate. Their dearest loved one has left this earth and even though they knew where that dear one was destined, there is a clammy desolation that shrouds this morning. It is hard to pray in complete sentences. But God knows. He is there.<br />
I will not soon forget when our six-month old baby Martha died in her carriage that long-ago May morning. It was so total. My insides just screamed for something to make the pain go away. Friends tried, oh that they did. But Bible verses were not what I needed that morning. I wanted them to leave me alone - - kind of like that old Scottish lady who just wanted to sit there and throw her apron over head so she could be alone in her tabernacle with her God. <br />
Grief is a private matter and sometimes for some people two words best convey how your heart echoes their grief. <br />
"I'm bruised"<br />
Then a gentle silence and often two hearts touch base as they share the heartbreak.<br />
"God, it's okay. You know what is best for them and for me. But, without them, life is not quite as okay, a certain something is missing and a part of me is gone. "<br />
And God smiles down at us from Heaven for He understands. He made us - - remember? <br />
In the Book of John, in the eleventh chapter and the 33rd verse, read;<br />
"When Jesus saw her weeping and the Jews who had come along with her, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled - - " and then two verses later the Bible records two words;<br />
"Jesus wept."miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-29581017892266634802010-07-11T19:48:00.000-04:002010-07-11T19:48:03.889-04:00All's well that ends . . .(S.T.F. series) . <br />
Now you'd think that after failing a driving test three times, I would be deleriously happy now just to clutch my hard won, shiny new Driver's license in my hands. I must admit to a season of thoughtless bragging. So, what happened next? It rained for three out of the next four weekends. The windshield wipers didn't have a fighting chance.<br />
At my next appointment with my neurologist, I discovered my aching knees and swollen legs and numb prickly feet had a name. Neuropathy. And that calm educated assessment had an ominous price tag. Driving privileges shall again be assessed. The State shall be notified. It looked like a command performance. Turned out it was.<br />
When I contacted my kids that indeed my privileges behind the wheel were again in jeopardy , they gallantly restrained themselves. And I tried to keep the "Why me" attitude from souring what little positive outlook I had left. Oh sure, I griped and despised any failulre of my well-worn body to keep up with the rest of me, but it is what it is. So I still had my license but it didn't hold any magic for me, anymore. <br />
Just as well, for the little pocket in my wallet where I had proudly slipped my driver's license had sunk to its lowest depths; it had glued itself shut. And I must be the good sport and admit-<br />
"You just can't fight City Hall." For honestly, by the time I stash my awkward walker in the trunk, throw my purse on the back seat, fold up my slicker and find the car keys, I tend to leave my pocketbook in the middle of the driveway. Besides, Im all tuckered out. The responsibility!<br />
Then it is that I'd like nothing better than to see a chauffeur driven car appear with a hand-lettered M I G G Y sign on the front. <br />
All is well however regardless of how it ends.<br />
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miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-65995381496856754522010-07-10T18:41:00.000-04:002010-07-10T18:41:26.125-04:00The Driver's LicenseIt wasn't the way I planned it.<br />
Driving was the last thing I'd ever give up. Driving all those years, never an accident, never a traffic ticket nor a crumpled fender. But here I was waiting in line in a borrowed car at the Pennsylvania Vehicle Testing Station. All I had to do was pass the eye exam and the physical driving exam. I smiled in the rear view mirror at myself.<br />
"Wonder how many grannies are here?" I patted the Volvo steering wheel. And then he was at the door. The tester!<br />
"Alright, alright!" and he settled his ample size next to mine. I had decided not to be fatuous, just to listen to the directions. Besides I wanted to concentrate. Everything was going swimmingly until the first question. The emergency signals. Where were they? I had no idea. That he did was to his everlasting credit. But he was the test<em>-er</em> and I was the testee! <br />
Then we ascended a small hill to the parallel parking torture chamber. Orange barrels parked where regular cars should be. My assignment, park behind the first two. I thought I did okay, but out of nowhere he gave a mighty voice.<br />
"Now, go down the hill and return to the starting lineup." <em>Aha, an accelerated line.</em> Obediently, I pulled to the curb and waited for him to speak. "You'll be hearing soon." And he jumped out of the car. I did report back in a few weeks and made application for another driving test. Same test, same station and same lump inthe middle of my stomch. <br />
Driving up the incline where the Orange County orange barrels stood, i thought to myself, "Orange-bellied sapsuckers!" This time I did it faster, but I was never sure whether or not that was a plus. When I went to straighten up in reverse, he yelled at me full bore.<br />
"Stop! STOP!"<br />
" WHY?"<br />
"You've already had your three reverses."<br />
"I didn't know anyone was counting." I mumbled.So another FAILED on the famous test.<br />
One more to go. How had this seemingly simple requirement produced such anxiety? This time we went to a different part of the city and watched each tester walk to each nervous driver, Now it was my time and I babbled like the old lady that I am. But he neither smiled nor did he laugh. But when we had successfully navigated our way around those barrels,he did say one word rather disdainfully.<br />
"You passed!" But that clearly was not the END.<br />
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miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-37592646302576089232010-07-09T12:36:00.000-04:002010-07-09T12:36:44.168-04:00An ordinary dayMost of mine are just that. Ordinary! Often I don't expect them to be any different. I guess I've had too many. <br />
Guess what? I think I've been caught in that same trap with complicated rules and tantalizing promises of exciting results as you have. Do you know what I am talking about? Blogs! You've got to have a place to do it or you wouldn't be keeping pace with all your peers. But someone tell me, once you have one, what do you do with it? Who can find you? Did you come looking for me? And now I have a counter to tabulate all those who stumble on mine. I looked at a few that I found and then I stopped reading, for I thought to myself I don't know you. And I stopped full stop. I must think this thing through. I am not trying to be cute or contrived I just really want to know why I did it Maybe if I knew what you wanted to talk about, we could dialogue. Well, I'm only one day smart an I have a bunch to learn.miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526180526142226730.post-29332687133507838932010-07-08T13:05:00.000-04:002010-07-08T13:05:41.713-04:00the coloring bookThe stranger approached me cautiously. Maybe because I was grinning lopsidedly.<br />
"What's going on here? What's happening?"<br />
"Nothing really, I'm just happy because I'm getting ready to go home."<br />
"Oh! How long has it been since you left there?"<br />
"Eighty-nine years." I said. He whistled softly.<br />
"Must be tough to be alone, mate gone, what do you do all day?"<br />
"I just keep coloring inside the lines!"<br />
"Really!" Clearly he was a bit curious. "How long do you plan to do this?"<br />
"That's the thing. I haven't the foggiest idea. He never even gives me a hint, just gives me a clean page every morning. I don't always agree with His choice of colors, but I keep what He gives me."<br />
"Why? Can't you swap them in?"<br />
"Yeah! I tried that once or twice, but the results were pitiful. He's the Master Artist, you see. But even when I scribble outside the lines, He just smiles at me and gives me another page."<br />
"Strange!" he muttered, pulling at his beard as he slowly walked away.<br />
W. Wangerin (adapted)miggy krentelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01860775056781695752noreply@blogger.com4