This story is a real gas!

I found this very entertaining. Get ready to smile and maybe laugh a little. http://humbledpie.wordpress.com

Humbled Pie

Like most southern women my mother took primary responsibility for our religious training.  That’s not to say that southern fathers aren’t as concerned with the parochial status of progeny souls, but Dad’s idea of moral education bent more to the ‘do what the hell I tell you and your ass won’t end up in a sling’ book of prophesy.  Getting four young children clean, dressed in Sunday’s best, herded into the family Oldsmobile and actually delivered across the theological threshold on time should be enough to qualify for some unfettered length of time in paradise.  It apparently was not enough for Mother.  One day she announced she was joining the choir.

Singing in the Sunday choir allowed her the additional emotional stimulus and requisite soulful refreshment that even Wednesday night rehearsal could provide someone running a household with constant unselfish attention to everyone else’s wants and needs.  It did, however…

View original post 1,206 more words

Abe

The man who spit food

There was a gentle old man (I will call him Abe) who resided at a nursing home where I was employed. Abe had Alzheimer’s disease. His face would light up with a broad smile when a child walked into the room. Abe loved to hold a kitten close to his cheek, allowing its fur to brush against his whiskers. He enjoyed the small things in life.

However, Abe had one disturbing behavior. When Abe was in the dining room, he would wander about taking food off of other’s plates. He would chew it up and put it back on the plates. The other resident, understandably,would become enraged and picked on him, and some would try to slap him. Abe could not understand why everyone would be upset with him. I could not understand why he would do such a thing. It became my task to try to figure it out. I began talking with Abe’s family.

Through much investigation, I found that Abe had been a prisoner in a Nazi war camp. His wife and daughter were whisked away. His father was attacked by guard dogs before his very eyes. Abe became close friends with a man named Ben. Ben, too had lost his wife and daughter. His brother was killed in the gas chamber. Abe and Ben would talk for hours about their families, their home and the good times they used to have. They would sometimes laugh together. Often, they would cry together.

Ben’s health started declining. The roof leaked, making their clothing and bedding damp. Their living quarters were rat and lice-infested. Ben became very weak. Abe would help him to dress. He would do many of Ben’s chores to keep Ben from getting thrashed. He did not even have the strength to chew his own food. Abe would reach out and take Ben’s food. He would chew it up in his own mouth, then he would put it back on Ben’s plate. This was the only way Ben could survive.

Abe’s behavior was out of love and concern for a friend. By understanding the reason behind this behavior, I could better understand how to help Abe. Abe began taking his meals in his room. I no longer had to worry about his bothering the other residents. Also, I did not feel I was triggering a horrible memory for him.

By understanding the behavior of someone with dementia or Alzheimer’s, it is much easier to try to find a cure for that behavior. Don’t just assume that someone is disgusting or vulgar. Take time to try to problem solve; you might be in for a surprise.

by Renee Robinson

Wile E Hillybilly, by Renee Robinson

Wile E Hillbilly

The Path of Life I have been traveling never fails to twist into some unexpected surprises. One major obstacle I stumble upon frequently on this path is upon the feet of a friend of mine.  For the purpose of my story, I will call him “WiIe E”.

Now ole Wile E is a unique individual who keeps the neighborhood interesting. I have often thought Hollywood could make a block busting comedy, if not even a series about the comings and goings on my street. Of course, I am “slightly” embellishing, but believe me when I say this is based upon a true story.

Wile E always creates a new path for me to follow. I can’t help but stop, watch, and listen when led in his direction. He is a tall lanky fellow with a full white beard, but still has his own set of teeth. He enjoys cigars, beer and football. He also has a talented ability to imitate just about everyone he encounters with such accuracy, you would swear the person he was impersonating was in his pocket.

He loves fire and guns which, by the way, is the basis of this particular story. Wile E is having a problem with ground moles. He will sit and watch the little buggers digging mounds of tunnels throughout his yard. Steam boils and rolls out of Wile E’s ears with every inch of tunnel the mole creates.

Soon he decided he had enough. One day, he hunkered down with his neck stuck out like a turtle and with narrowed eyes scanned the perimeter of his property and mine. I swear his ears work like radar, turning in the direction of every move the mole would make.

When the earth would start to move his heart would skip a few beats. He would slowly stand up and get the pitchfork ready. With great care and aim, he pounced,drilling the pitchfork down into the very path of the mole.

Gleefully he would look to see his reward. There it was, a beheaded mole. Laughing and jumping uncontrollably, Wile E would stab the mole, picking him up and burying him in the woods next to Cookie, my beloved dog.  Soon, a small graveyard emerged.

It wasn’t long before Wile E decided it would be much more productive to use a shotgun instead of a pitchfork. So, he began to hunker down with his turtle neck and narrow eyes scanning the perimeter and ears rotating and wait.

Once again, he would spot the earth moving and giddy with anticipation, we would creep up into the mole’s path. With sweat pouring off his brow, eyes narrowed, and shotgun raised, he would hold his breath and aim.

Pow!

The shotgun would crack. He’d run around, chasing the mole’s path.

Pow!

He’d run some more yipping and yowling like a drunken hillbilly. He’d whoop and holler,

“I got you, you lowdown scurvy varmint!” “Your ass is mine!”

Pow! Pow! Pow!

“Yeehaw! I gotcha!”

Laughing so hard he could barely walk, he’d fetch the pitchfork.

“Heeheehee!” “Take this, you son of a broomstick!”

He’d hook his prize and half walking half skipping, go up to the woods to place the mole with his ancestors in the graveyard.

Wile E enjoys coming over to show off his empty shotgun casing, proudly telling what he had done. It is much like the way a cat drags in a dead bird, strutting and showing his family he has earned his keep.

It doesn’t take much to keep Wile E entertained and I must admit he does a fine job entertaining me as well.