It's probably a good thing that my phone wouldn't publish my last blog post. Actually, it ate it. Anyway, it was for the best. Earlier, I got left listening to the radio and what I call wedding songs played for almost an hour! Anyway, it put me in a crappy mood feeling sorry for myself. Sometimes I'm thankful for crappy connections.
A 92-year-old, petite, well-poised and proud man, who is fully dressed each morning by eight o'clock, with his hair fashionably combed and shaved perfectly, even though he is legally blind, moved to a nursing home today.
His wife of 70 years recently passed away, making the move necessary. After many hours of waiting patiently in the lobby of the nursing home, he smiled sweetly when told his room was ready.
As he maneuvered his walker to the elevator, I provided a visual description of his tiny room, including the eyelet sheets that had been hung on his window. I love it,' he stated with the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old having just been presented with a new puppy.
Mr. Jones, you haven't seen the room; just wait.'
'That doesn't have anything to do with it,' he replied.
Happiness is something you decide on ahead of time.
Whether I like my room or not doesn't depend on how the furniture is arranged ... it's how I arrange my mind. I already decided to love it. 'It's a decision I make every morning when I wake up. I have a choice; I can spend the day in bed recounting the difficulty I have with the parts of my body that no longer work, or get out of bed and be thankful for the ones that do.
Each day is a gift, and as long as my eyes open, I'll focus on the new day and all the happy memories I've stored away.. Just for this time in my life.
Old age is like a bank account. You withdraw from what you've put in.
So, my advice to you would be to deposit a lot of happiness in the bank account of memories!
Thank you for your part in filling my Memory Bank. I am still depositing.
Normally I'd be angry. Normally, I'd make a point. But just after telling the boy how touching my stuff makes me feel royally disrespected; he grabs a bottle of cologne and sprays several sprays of it into the fan in my bedroom, choking me immediately. I can taste it; I smell it everywhere, my throat still burns with it. How do you teach respect to a kid that seems to have none for the one wanting to teach it?