Busy women, bored women, restless women; some anxious to serve in any capacity, others phoning to excuse themselves whenever their personal lives interfered with their commitment; some so happy and satisfied that they had to share their joy; others so empty and sad that they came to give themselves away and found, in giving, they were filled to overflowing.
But all came with one purpose; to serve our children. Paul and I were humbled that summer as we viewed the work of their hands and noted the compassion on their faces.
I thought, The world is not all bad yet; there are some left ‘who have not bowed the knee….’
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One of the first was “Broochie.”
I dubbed her “Mother Melmark!” She was there, happily digging in almost before the first day! “Mother” —not because of her age, mind you, but simply because of the maternal proprietary interest she took in Melmark. ( It was her home, too!) She personally saw to it that I was diligently at my desk, where I belonged, and not leading the rhythm band for the toddlers in the playroom, where I wanted to be. She typed all the business letters that went out from Melmark those first months. Even though we were near of an age, she goaded me, prodded me relentlessly, but with such an honest good-hearted humor that I could never have taken offense. ( I might add, she used the same “police methods” this last year to get this book written.) It was at least a year before she took any wages for her secretarial duties. And now she has wooed her husband to serve as our comptroller.
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The largest group of volunteers was from a small Episcopal church in Newtown Square. All that summer long, they came two or three evenings a week, faithfully, doggedly to help paint Melmark. Paint-splotched jeans and outsize shirts only partially hid the attractive young mothers as they pushed their unwieldy paintbrushes and spouse into action. The mustardy-looking walls of the master bedroom became a soft moon glow; that charcoal dungeon across the hall was transformed by —-you guessed it, moonglow. The whole world seemed about to be drenched with moonglow paint!
This was one of the few things we did just right at the very onset. We have a friend, a highly talented interior designer, Blair, who visited Melmark early ( at our invitation). Before the first painters arrived on the scene, he went through the whole house and picked out every shade, tint and hue. So there never was a question or a discussion as to whether or not “pink” might be more appropriate for the nursery. It had been decreed; and whatever Blair said, we did. It was ever so much simpler that way. We still had our problems.
“No, that’s not supposed to be enamel! We use flat on all the walls and only use enamel on the woodwork.”
“Hey, don’t scrape that; I just painted it.”
“Oh, please! The color in the bathroom is supposed to be crystal green, not jade. That’s the way Blair wants it.”
And then it was refreshment time and someone had brought in cupcakes or doughnuts to go with the cold drinks and “please could they have some more ice cubes?”
But they were jolly and young and fun to have around and, strangely enough, the house was actually undergoing a transformation. It was beginning to come alive—-all with volunteer effort. And this in spite of the one volunteer who stormed off after enameling the freshly painted walls of the bathroom, and the other “painter” who left so many rivers to “puddle” on the floor that her efforts were redirected to the diaper-folding table in the basement. They just kept plugging away at it, night after night.
So we over looked the fact that they couldn’t resist going into the nursery where our children slept, and that Todd had now been awakened for the third time that evening, and “Please, no! Terry should not sit in there to watch you while you paint. We know she’s cute, but she’ll be somewhat less than that tomorrow.”
The rooms were large and never ending and we will ever marvel at their consistent effort. What would we have done without them?
The youthful rector of their parish, who often accompanied them in overalls (paintbrush in hand), confided, “this was the first project of this nature that we as a church have undertaken. It has done more for us to involve ourselves this way than you will ever know. We are the ones receiving the greater reward. We are more together now than at any time in our church history. It’s amazing—-simply amazing.”
And from that group there emerged another faithful one with loving heart toward our children.
Absolutely tireless, Nancy could often be found those early years in some part of the sleeping house tacking up curtains her sewing group had made, or getting ready for her occupational therapy class the next day. A graduate occupational therapist, she had married upon graduation. Raising a young family had occupied her time and talents—until Melmark. And now she presides over two hundred adult women who comprise the Melmark Service League.
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Whenever I am tempted to think that the whole younger generation has gone to the dogs, I remember all those junior volunteers who came that summer and every summer since to offer their services.
One high school girl seemed to be underfoot every time I turned around. Then I discovered the reason why. She was living with us, part time. I intelligently deduced that right after I spotted her with her suitcase on the stairs. This place is so big that it was somewhat difficult to tell who was sleeping her. She was perfectly frank about it.
“Oh, I thought you knew! I stay overnight with two of the Mennonite girls every once in a while so I can get up early enough to help with the changing and feeding in the morning.” That was Annie! And up until the time when Annie moved to Colorado, her young heart broken, we had a goodly exposure to all of Annie’s youthful energies.
And soon our volunteers attracted other volunteers. There was the bearded young college senior that we met in the front hall late one night. He was the boyfriend of one of our part-time nursing staff—-Alice. Choking down my immediate “generation-gap thought” that “he’s a hippie,” I found myself shaking his hand. He had a good grip, firm and enthusiastic.
“Gee, it’s tremendous,” he said, “what you’re doing here! Can I help in any way?”
They were the bluest eyes I had ever seen. Walter lived at Melmark the rest of the summer, painting the fifty-four-foot playroom. We set up a cot in the corner of the playroom, put a screen around it, a table to hold a lamp, and that was about it. Walter was a clear-thinking, straight talking psychology major, and we all like him. He often took the trouble to go out of his way and talk to my aged father who was hard of hearing and sometimes difficult to carry on a conversation with.
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Uncle Sam had been breathing hard down on our son Bob’s neck for the past year, so Bob bypassed his army bid and joined the United States Naval Air Reserve. He was away for a two-week stint of active duty at Willow Grove Naval Air station when Walter came.
Communications not being what they should be, Bob got a real “shocker” when he arrived home at one o’clock on Friday night for an unexpected weekend leave. He was without a key, so decided to climb in the playroom wind. (Any wind you picked provided an easy entry those days, for there was scarcely a lock that worked.)
He just had one foot through the playroom wind when he thought he detected someone strange in the darkened room. It appeared to be a bearded man sleeping on a cot.
Walter, still groggy from sleep, sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. “Why, hello!”
And Bob, not to be taken aback, returned his greeting equally as cheerfully and headed straight for his third-floor “home” to get the “scoop.” A son should know what’s going on in his own house, and he was not about to let this perfect stranger discover that he wasn’t “in” on everything.
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But there was so much going on that we frequently forgot to tell each other.
Always the hardest for me were Monday mornings when Paul drove off to Philadelphia, leaving me “in charge.”
“Know something?” he said, tipping my head back for his good-bye kiss, “it’s fun being partners with you!”
I looked befuddled, even more than I normally was.
“Meaning——-?”
“Simply that I love you and that it’s a gorgeous morning out and Melmark is coming along so great.”
“But, honey, it is only doing that because you are burning both ends of your candle! I get terribly frightened at the prospect of doing this all alone. If anything ever happened to you, why I ____” I shuddered at the thought.
“I know, he said, suddenly serious. “Melmark really is growing terrible fast.”
“And whether you know it or not, I am not doing such a swift job. I am not capable of doing this anymore! I need you here——all the time!”
“I know that too, and I’ve been doing some serious thinking and praying about that move. It is a big move for us, you know. Melmark will not be able to support us——-salary-wise—-like we used to live. Would that bother you?”
He waited until the full impact of his question swept over me. There was perhaps one split second that I hesitated.
“But we knew this when we started! Besides, I need you, and Melmark needs you, and I just don’t think we’re going to make it without you!”
“That’s the nicest thing you ever said! Well, hold your breath, Miggy, I think we’re ready for the final plunge.”
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And by the first of October Paul had resigned. There were no more commuter trains to catch, no briefcases to pack, just work, work, work sixteen hours a day, and then go to sleep right on top of the whole big bomb and wake up next morning roll out of bed and down to the office and there it is——all waiting for your, all over again.
There were adjustments!
Some were his—-when the telephone rang and people asked for Mrs. Krentel! Some were mine——-as he began to take over the reins and I began to hang loose. (It took me a while to find my true niche.) But Melmark was, oh, so much better off!
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Gibby was a seventy-three-year-old maiden-lady volunteer. She wrote a letter telling of her gratitude to God for her healthy nieces and nephews. Since she was actively employed as a registered nurse in the Harrisburg Polyclinic Hospital, it occurred to her that one way of saying thank you to God was by donating one month of her service——free of charge—to Melmark. Would we accept this gift?
It had been summer, fall and winter without a letup for either my husband or myself, so we grabbed at her offer. We didn’t feel that we could have left Fran alone to watch over Melmark and all the staff; but with someone experienced like Gibby to help her, why maybe Paul and I could sneak away for a week or so in Florida.
Gibby came, driving a bright red Plymouth Fury. She was small and full of all kinds of vigor which I couldn’t begin to match. She hopped along in front of me and behind me as we toured the house with Fran, stopping at each child’s bed to review case histories and individual prognoses. Finally, when I was just about worn to a frazzle, we arrived on the third floor at our apartment (which by this time was just that, a beautiful two-bedroom apartment, thanks largely to Butch and Jim and their carpentry skills).
I made some coffee and we sat there sipping, just Gibby and me. She had finally quieted down to the point where I could share with her some of the wonderful things—-“miracles, really, Gibby”—-that God had performed in founding Melmark, and then in keeping our new family all safe and healthy. But, sometime, I confessed I forgot that God was in control.
“You remember that big snow we had just last month, Gibby?
“We had it in Harrisburg too. It was awful.”
“Well, we were snowed in here for three whole days. Completely marooned! I kept thinking about what would happen if we ran out of oil, if someone got terrible sick;if the electricity were shut off, if our babies ran out of milk——Gibby, I almost panicked!” I said. “Until I stopped and thought. You know—-“ I pointed solemnly heavenward with one finger.
“Oh, of course!” she agreed happily, “Helicopters!”
On this note we left for Florida, leaving Fran and volunteer Gibby holding the reins of Melmark.
