When we are doubtful about something, sure enough, most of us turn to the Internet to seek answers.
When a mom named Kelli Tarin spotted strange droppings at her daughter’s bedroom, she was left puzzled. As she had no idea what those droppings that kept appearing over and over again might be, she turned to the Facebook group Homemaking Tips and asked if anyone has ever seen anything similar.
She explained that she and her family moved into a new home in Texas and both she and her landlord turned to every pest control business they could think of, but no one was able to identify the droppings.
“Anyone know what this could be? I have found two piles of these. Only in my daughters room. I clean it almost every day. This Is something that happened QUICK,” she wrote alongside a photo of a pile of what she described as looking like “coffee grounds.”
Many were quick to share their theories. “I can’t really tell but I’m being so honest if there little ‘flying ants’ their a type of termites. I had them in my first house as an ‘adult’ and they would pop up and I’d vacuum them, and then they’d pop right back up,” someone wrote.
Another person suggested it could be “rat poop,” and a third suggested placing a camera in order to see where those droppings were coming from.
Kelli explained that she had revised all of the Internet users’ suggestions, and it wasn’t any of the potential pests as she went through the list, which included mice, roaches, and bats.
“We called TWO pest control companies yesterday. Literally BOTH of them said they have never seen anything like this. Ever,” she wrote. “If it were terminates, they said the droppings or whatever they leave behind is completely different. What’s left behind is literally crunchy. Almost seed like. It’s very strange.”
The mystery was finally solved when a comment under Kelli’s post caught her attention.
“I red [sic] a comment from someone that said their kids lavender bear busted opened and this was inside. Sure enough, when I picked up toys from here, there was a lavender blush [sic] bear in the pile.”
She was curious to take a peek inside her daughter’s bear through a hole she noticed. “I poured out the contents and these beads were inside!!!😂😂I have laughed for 30 mins. Imagine my relief.”
We are glad she has finally figured it all out and got rid of the strange droppings.
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Listening to the Echoes of Time: One Woman’s Mission to Preserve the Stories of the Elderly
The sterile scent of antiseptic hung heavy in the air as I navigated the maze-like corridors of the nursing home. I clutched a stack of donated blankets, a small gesture of comfort for the residents. As I rounded a corner, I came upon a heartwarming scene. A group of elderly residents, their faces a tapestry of wrinkles and age spots, sat in a circle, their eyes fixed on a young woman. She sat on a low stool, a small journal resting on her lap, her pen moving swiftly across the page.
“She comes every week,” a nurse whispered to me, her voice hushed. “None of them are her family.”
Intrigued, I watched from a distance. The residents, their voices frail and reedy, recounted stories of long-ago loves, childhood adventures, and wartime experiences. The young woman listened intently, her eyes filled with a gentle curiosity. She would occasionally pause, asking a clarifying question, her voice soft and soothing. As she listened, she meticulously recorded their words, capturing their memories in ink.
Later, I approached the young woman, thanking her for her kindness. “Many of them get no visitors,” she explained, her smile warm and genuine. “Their memories are fading, and I worry that their stories will be lost forever. So, I come here every week and listen. I write down their names, their life stories, the names of their loved ones, the places they’ve been, the things they’ve done. It’s a small thing, but I hope it helps them feel seen and heard.”
Her words struck a chord within me. In a world that often prioritizes the new and the shiny, it was easy to forget the importance of the past, the stories that shaped us. These elderly residents, with their fading memories, were a living archive of history, their lives a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. And this young woman, with her simple act of kindness, was ensuring that their stories would not be forgotten.
As I walked away, I couldn’t shake off the image of the young woman, her pen dancing across the page, capturing the essence of a life lived. Her actions were a powerful reminder that true compassion lies in the small, everyday gestures of kindness, in the act of simply listening and acknowledging the humanity of others.
The experience left me pondering the fleeting nature of time and the importance of preserving our memories. It made me realize that everyone has a story to tell, a legacy to leave behind. And sometimes, all it takes is a listening ear and a pen to ensure that those stories are not lost to the sands of time.
Later that day, I found myself reflecting on my own life, on the stories I wanted to tell, the memories I wanted to preserve. I started a journal of my own, a place to record my thoughts, my experiences, the joys and sorrows, the triumphs and failures. I wanted to make sure that my own story, however ordinary, would not be forgotten.
The young woman at the nursing home had shown me the power of empathy, the importance of connecting with others, and the enduring value of human connection. Her simple act of kindness had not only brought comfort to the elderly residents but had also inspired me to live a more meaningful life, one that valued the stories of others and cherished the memories that shaped us.
As I drifted off to sleep that night, I imagined the residents at the nursing home, their faces lit up with a sense of purpose as they recounted their lives to the young woman. I imagined their stories, their laughter, their tears, all preserved on the pages of her journal, a testament to their lives, a legacy for future generations. And I knew that in a small way, I too was contributing to the preservation of those stories, by sharing my own and by reminding myself of the importance of listening, of connecting, and of cherishing the memories that make us who we are.
The world, I realized, is filled with stories waiting to be told, with lives waiting to be remembered. And in the quiet moments, in the simple acts of kindness, we can all play a part in ensuring that those stories live on.
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