February 6, 2026 · 12:52 am

Blender Wars

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I’d like to say a few words about my blender. Unfortunately, none of the words I want to use would be printed in the paper. And to top it all off, I have once again declared war on an appliance…and I’m not winning!

I really blame it on the smoothies. I got the brilliant idea to start having smoothies for breakfast and everything since then has been downhill…on a very smooth track!

It sounds wonderful, right? A morning meal that is entirely fruit and protein powders combined into one delicious drink. I bought a small single blender, I piled all the fruit in: strawberries, bananas, peaches, protein powder and oh, a little bit of milk. I turned it on and waited for the magic. There was no magic. The blender hummed, but the fruit did not puree into a delicious liquid. It just sat in the blender laughing at me.

“This blender doesn’t work,” I grumbled.

“Did you do it right? What do the directions say?” Roy was being practical, which is so annoying.

“I don’t need directions to operate a blender, thank you very much,” I said with confidence. And waited until he was gone to dig the directions out of the garbage. Turns out, you have to put the liquid in FIRST, then soft fruit, then frozen fruit. Oh!!! Once I had properly stacked the smoothie, it worked beautifully. For a while.

“I don’t think this blender is working too well anymore,” I complained one day.

“What makes you say that?” Roy was not paying much attention; my complaints about appliances are somewhat repetitive and pointless.

“Because it started smoking this morning and there are chunks in it the size of frozen strawberries,” I said, spitting out a half-chopped specimen.

“Get a better blender, that one’s too small and cheap,” he advised.

Great idea. I went out and bought the fanciest one I could find. It was very powerful, but it took a distressing amount of time to chop everything up and make the smoothie. I didn’t understand it.

“Possibly, you shouldn’t put in a half a bag of strawberries. That might be overloading it,” Roy said, looking at the array of fruit I was trying to cram in the blender.

“Are you implying that I am a fruit pig?” I asked in a tone of voice which told Roy there was no safe way to answer.

“Oh, no, that looks like a reasonable amount,” he answered, his voice and face carefully blank. Fortunately for him, the blender was not functioning very well because of all the fruit I put in it, or I might have tried to puree his tongue!

That brings us to blender number three. All the past blenders have worked so slowly that it was never necessary to put on the lid. That way, I can add fruit and watch the progress. And occasionally flirt with disaster by pushing an errant piece of fruit down into the blades with a knife.

The new blender recommended a larger amount of milk than I have been using. Okay, do whatever they say; anything to get a smoothie. It started off well. The milk and the bananas and the protein powder had no problem. It slowed down and complained a little when I started adding frozen fruit, but it still continued to grind. It was as I was adding the honey and the final fruit that it happened. I looked down into the blender and with a sudden surge, it pasted my face with about half of the smoothie.

“Why in the world have you got smoothie on your face?” Roy asked, coming into the room.

“Because this blender and I are at war,” I answered, “and I have not yet begun to fight!”

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January 30, 2026 · 7:13 am

Queen of the Kingdom

Jackie Wells-Fauth

She was a rescue, I guess you’d call her, but Haruka, named for her people’s respect for the Japanese culture, never saw herself as being rescued. More like, she was the one doing the rescuing…of people who obviously needed her to come and take care of their home.

When I first met Haruka, or Haru, as I was permitted to call her because I didn’t master her full name very well, she was already comfortable in her new home. It never occurred to this cat, who had excitability issues, that there was anyone in charge at her house other than her.

She permitted people to visit with commendable patience and grace, but it was always clear that she was granting you a boon to visit “her people.” And her people were devoted, which gives you some idea of the personality that is this cat.

My favorite view of her is always of her sitting at the top of the room on her cat tree shelf, staring down her somewhat stubby, feline nose at the occupants of the room. Sometimes, she permitted petting, but it was always on her terms.

She claimed her share of the bed before anyone else climbed in and considered it a painful accommodation when company came. I still remember the morning I woke up; her owners having given me their bed. I opened one eye and I could see a funny-looking blur at the end of the bed. When I put my glasses on, it was Haru, sitting at the end of the bed with pointed patience and a twitching tale.

“I’m so sorry,” I found myself apologizing to a cat, “I will just get out of here and leave you to your morning nap.” She waited until I had smoothed the covers and then she very regally marched to the head of the bed, arranged herself, gave me the stink eye out of one feline peeper and promptly went to sleep. She had made her point.

She loved close, quiet places and nothing pleased her more than when she could get into the towel cupboard in the hall—so much so that her owners eventually made her a particular place there. They also turned the coffee table into a tent and she loved the sanctity the place provided.

She was a snuggler, with her owners; when she wished, but much of her time was spent patrolling the house or resting in a place where she could observe what was going on in her dominion.

She had some odd tastes. I remember the first time I saw her owners feeding her watermelon. I thought it was a terrible waste of a piece of watermelon to let her lick it, but she didn’t just lick it—she lapped it up. Turns out, she was a fruit junkie who loved watermelon best!

A little while ago this queen of the cats developed medical issues. She visited the vet, underwent all kinds of tests, but in the end it was clear that Haru was coming to the close of her reign. Her people gave her all the love and support they knew how and with grief in their hearts bid her goodbye. I don’t know if another cat will come into the house, but I do know that there is no way for Haru to be replaced. She was truly, “their girl.”

With all of the grief in Minnesota this week, it was too hard to write something lighthearted right now, but I did want to note the passing of Haru with respect. While this is probably not the greatest tragedy in a city in turmoil, to those who loved Haru best, it is a critical blow.

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January 23, 2026 · 4:26 am

Ruminations from Summer’s Child

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I read an article by someone the other day which began by stating, “I simply don’t do winter.” As a woman who was born at the height of June, I can identify. In fact, I think that perhaps “I don’t do winter” will be my rallying cry through the rest of January and February.

I was at the grocery store, standing in line watching the snow drizzling down outside, thinking how much I hate shoveling—or even sweeping snow—when I overheard the conversation of two women in front of me.

“They should just do it all at once and then be done with winter,” pronounced one.

This is brilliant. The longer I thought about this idea, the better I liked it. Imagine: a three—maybe five-day blizzard. Tons of snow, blowing, drifting and piling a winter’s worth of the white stuff. We would all stay at home (and of course, our power would stay on) and when the blizzard was over, we would sit in the house and watch the warming temperatures melt the snow (no shoveling, you understand) and when the roads and sidewalks were clear, we would spend the rest of the season snow free. Oh, and cold free too.

Now, of course, we would all be warned about the winter storm by our reliable weathermen, who never get it wrong. (I pause here for a cynical chuckle.) They would tell us precisely when the storm would come—somewhere between January 3 and March 1, I think. Then we would all crowd into the grocery store to stockpile food and the appliance stores to make sure we have generators and stove fuel. I know, I know, if the power doesn’t go out, we don’t need a wood-burning stove or fireplace but think how great it would be to sit in front of a roaring fire with the cocoa you were smart enough to buy and maybe some marshmallows! And let the one-shot blizzard do its best!

The rest of the “fourth season” as we shall call it, would consist of 40 degree temperatures, or as the teenagers refer to it, “shorts weather.” The roads would always be clear; there would be no snow dripping down day after day, making something for the wind to blow into all the places we don’t want it—which is everywhere!

Alas, instead of that idealistic fourth season outlook, we have snow, in varying amounts ranging from, “I’ll wait until it quits spitting before I sweep the deck,” all the way to, “Lord, shut the northern doors, I’m drowning in Canada’s snow hell.” Temperatures are terrible teases. If the weather is really cold, the wind always comes along to make it worse. Some days, however, it will warm up to 20 or 30 degrees, but that’s only to make us stick our heads out the door so it can hit us with another cold blast. “Just kidding, we’re going to keep hitting you with the cold until we freeze your nose off!” Welcome to the fourth season!

I’m convinced the vehicles in this family don’t appreciate the snow and cold any more than I do. When I go out to the garage and start the car, it always groans, “Oh, you have to be kidding, you want to drive somewhere in this weather? I’ll warn you now that in addition to sounding like I’m not going to start, when I finally do, I’m planning to slip all over the road. You really need to re-think this.”

Today, my campaign for “I don’t do winter” hit a new high. I was carrying in a gallon of filtered water from the garage, and I accidentally lost my grip. The plastic jug jumped gleefully to the ground, split wide open in the freezing temperatures and created a 50 cent skating rink in the middle of the driveway. And that was the last straw.

If someone needs to get ahold of this summer’s child, I will be back around the time of my birthday. In the meantime, you will find me spending the “fourth season” somewhere around the equator. Because you see, I simply don’t do winter!

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January 16, 2026 · 4:00 am

Big Brother is Watching

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I saw an interesting video on the Internet the other day that may forever stick in my mind. It was a group who were demonstrating a robot equipped with a head, arms and legs—all machine-like. They had a human working with the robot, getting the machine to mimic their movements. The human punched out with his left arm, then his right and moved on to kicks and the robot aped everything he was doing. Until, for a reason unclear from the video, the robot kicked the man in the spot where men least like to be kicked (I think) and doubled him over.

This video is a visual representation of what AI and the whole technology industry are doing to me metaphorically. Everyone knows I’ve never been a fan of technology (even though I acknowledge there is some help in it) and AI (standing for artificial intelligence; think about that for a minute) is not generating any love in me either!

I find those home information systems to be just a little scary. I will turn off my own lights and check with the thermometer outside for temperature myself, thank you. I think I decided against those systems after my niece described her experience. “I got up one morning and everyone else was already gone. I stood in the kitchen and said, ‘I wonder where everyone went?’ The machine answered—and it was right!”

AI is everywhere today, whether I like it or not, and I’m starting to think it is the “Big Brother” we have all heard about in George Orwell’s writings. I was complaining bitterly one morning about all of my aches and pains and how I can’t remember anything and getting old is hell. Within hours, Facebook was flooding my feed with advertisements for assisted living and nursing homes! Who was listening and drawing their own conclusions?

I’ve been blaming my computer for that and have started religiously turning it off, but it seems to make no difference. Someone told me, “Oh, your phone picks things up as well, and you have that with you all the time.” Just so you know, my phone and I are discussing divorce, and I presume that means a whole new flood of information on good divorce lawyers!

Even the simplest things are being turned over to AI. If I call a large company, an artificial intelligence decides whether I get to talk to a person or not. Ever been hung up on by a machine? It’s a daunting experience!

I was sitting in a doctor’s office the other day, when I was approached by a tall machine, lit with blue lights and humming away. As it approached me, it stopped suddenly, corrected its trajectory and moved around me. I am really hoping this is a gigantic version of a Roomba, because otherwise, if that is what is going to handle my examination, I think I’ll pass, thank you!

Even in writing this article today, I am plagued by AI. Programs are all over the computer, offering writing assistance. They will write whole letters on various topics, which I guess makes me superfluous. But what’s annoying is that when I am writing, it starts second guessing what word I want to use next. I’ve become very petty about that. “No, AI, I am not going to use the word green; I’ll just make it blue instead!” I’ve sunk to the level of arguing with a computer! Even as we speak, there is a little symbol at the side of my copy, moving up and down with me and offering every couple of minutes to take over. Very creepy.

The thing I least like to do, though, is talk to an AI entity. I am not a logical person, and I object to talking to something I can’t gossip with or share a secret. Although that’s probably out there too, I just don’t want to think about it. I still remember the first time I encountered talking AI. I was in a bathroom. I washed my hands and threw the towel in the garbage. The garbage can said, “Thank you!” I don’t want to talk to my garbage can, but that might just be me!

I love Facebook, because of the connection with other people, but Facebook, based on the articles it presents, apparently knows that I’m older, nervously contemplating knee surgery and I love history. So, after everything is said and done, George Orwell was right. Big Brother really is watching!

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January 10, 2026 · 9:12 am

Horror stories from the kitchen range

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

One of my oldest friends in the world (according to years together, not age) is also my cousin Melody. Now if you saw us together, some things might indicate that we are related, but in one very important respect, we are very different! She is a fantastic cook and I can barely boil the proverbial water.

We live rather far apart and that is a good thing from the point of view of my waistline. However, when I read about, hear about and even see the food she creates, I gain five or six pounds on the spot! I’m jealous of her ability and I’d also like to camp out at her dining room table!

I cannot, under any circumstances, understand how she could be such a fantastic cook, (and be related) and even worse, I think she really enjoys cooking. Speaking as a woman who met her husband because he was one of the firemen who showed up to put out her supper one night, I can’t say I have ever excelled at, or enjoyed cooking.

The biggest problem, however, is that I really like eating. In a recent post, Melody talked about the various things she has done in her creative kitchen, changing up recipes and even inventing her own cuisine. This is how I know that one of us was adopted, because it’s a big day at my house if I was able to follow the instructions on the back of the mac and cheese box! Any changing up in my recipes is unintentional and indigestible!

I am constantly reading about cooks, like Melody, who discover “accidentally” that something works brilliantly in their cooking routine, and they now use that procedure in everything they make. In my cooking endeavors, I accidentally discovered that if you throw water on a grease fire, it gets bigger. I won’t be using that procedure again anytime soon!

Some women don’t cook at all because their husbands enjoy it so much. Roy doesn’t enjoy cooking either, but he has started doing all the grilling because he discovered that it is possible to eat a steak that has not been charred beyond all identification, if you just do it right. And before you accuse me, I can assure you that I did not deliberately burn things on the grill to get Roy to take over. Before I met him, I didn’t realize there was a degree of cooking things on the grill that didn’t require a fire extinguisher nearby! Could that be one of those procedures that I “accidentally” discovered?

Even the simplest rules to cooking are beyond me. For instance, how do you get the meatloaf in the oven and the potatoes on top of the stove to get done at the same time? We are either eating meatloaf that is raw in the center or potatoes so crunchy they could chip a tooth!

Roy sat down to his evening meal the other night at 5:15. He dished out the potatoes and then looked around for the meat.

“What did you plan to have with these potatoes,” he asked.

“Roast,” I answered.

“Where is it?” he said, munching on potatoes, “By the way, scorched is my favorite way to have potatoes.”

“Okay, Mr. Smart Guy, I’ll tell you where the roast is,” I was irritated by then, “I forgot to thaw it out and so it’s still in the oven. I just got it in 20 minutes ago, so I figure it will be ready about midnight. But I didn’t want the potatoes to get cold.”

“If you ask me, letting them get cold might be the kindest thing you could do,” he said, abandoning his plate. “Wake me up when the roast is done.”

I’d tell him to go to Melody’s house if he doesn’t like my cooking, but I’m afraid he’d do it!

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January 1, 2026 · 9:04 am

History Humiliation Game

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I am reminded this week of that old saying, “Sometimes I think I am smart enough to conquer the world, and other days I try to get out of the car without unhooking my seatbelt.”

Most of us, me included, would like to believe that we are at least of average intelligence. I can’t calculate the subversion of PI in my head or anything, but on most days, I can read a label or follow the weather report on television.

However, years ago, I stopped playing the board game known as Trivial Pursuit because I always felt stupid not being able to answer sports or science questions and even some of the history questions, which should have been easy for a history major like me, tripped me up because they were just too…well, too trivial!  I don’t know when binoculars were invented, but I know it was before the Titanic; everyone knows the ship sank because they didn’t have theirs! That should count for partial points, right? It didn’t!

My confidence in my own intelligence isn’t so great that I could take the blows caused by not knowing which of the planets is the hottest (hint here: it’s NOT Mercury) or who owns the Miami Dolphins (No hint here.) So, I put the Trivial Pursuit at the back of the closet and felt better about myself—living in my little false world!

Then, this Christmas, along came Trivial Pursuit – History Channel version. Now I will admit that I only actually heard Trivial Pursuit “History” and all my old bias against Trivial Pursuit collapsed. I am a historian, let me show you how brilliant I am!

Except that Trivial Pursuit is Trivial Pursuit and after I nagged everyone to play, I discovered that it contained the history of Culture, People, Geography, Science and SPORTS. Oh lord, just shoot me now…into the rough…miles from the putting green. (See, I know sports!)

So, I heard questions like: ‘What play is West Side Story based on?’ or ‘Which famous painter founded Impressionism?” Easy questions for me…except these were the questions other people got. When my turn came around, I got questions like ‘What is the most common element in the earth’s atmosphere (kids, stay awake in science class, I beg you) or, ‘In what decade was the Rugby Football Union formed in London?’ (Hint, the answer is not ‘Who gives a damn?’)

I protested, I shouted, I cried, but the questions kept on coming. I got the Culture category right away because I knew that Anne Frank nicknamed her diary Kitty. From there on out, it was a sea of sports trivia and me figuratively trying to get out of the car without unhooking my seatbelt!

I am positive the game was rigged: my daughter and son-in-law are neither one a sports fan. What were their questions? ‘What is the center of a target called?’ (In frustration, I shouted out a suggestion, but it was rejected and I can’t print it here.)

‘What does the NBA stand for?’ (I could have answered that one, but my son-in-law beat me to it.)

Now it was my turn. The question? “What substance do sumo wrestlers spread in the ring during a match?” (It wasn’t baby oil, what do I know about sumo wrestling?) and the one I finally fell on the sword for? ‘In cricket, how many runs are scored if the ball is hit over the boundary without bouncing?’

“National Basketball Association!” I shrieked. They all looked so sorry for me. But not as sorry as I felt for me!

I have only three things to add: 1) If you really want to try Trivial Pursuit and you don’t mind dumpster diving; you can have my game. 2) I made up the subversion of PI thing—I don’t really think that’s real. And 3) When did crickets start playing ball????

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December 26, 2025 · 3:48 pm

A Matter of Time

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

My basement stairs were pretty dirty, so I finally hauled out the “big-guns” vacuum to take care of it. I was crawling down, hanging onto the railing with one hand and trying to manipulate the vacuum hose with the other.

Roy came along and watched me for a few minutes. We’re at the stage of our marriage where he doesn’t have to ask why I’m doing something—I’ll usually explain it. In fact, the more bizarre the thing I’m doing, the more likely that I will volunteer an explanation of why.

“I don’t want to fall on the basement steps,” I shouted over the noise. He nodded, that seemed reasonable.

“I could die, if I fell to the bottom, so I’m hanging on,” I continued. He nodded again.

“If I’m going to die, I don’t want to be vacuuming the basement stairs,” I concluded. This was as clear an explanation as possible, but now he looked puzzled.

I shut off the vacuum. This was an important point and I didn’t want him to miss it. “I read a book about ghosts. It said that if someone dies suddenly, they are likely to return as a ghost and keep doing whatever they were doing when they died.” He walked away shaking his head, but I am very serious.

It’s all a matter of timing. If I’m going suddenly, I want it to be from a massive systems failure while I’m stuffing myself with cookies and reading books. I could haunt a library or a sweets shop, but I’m not spending eternity sucking the cobwebs out of this stairwell!

I try to take the passage of time into consideration for a lot of things. I think it’s important to always be prepared. I love a smoothie in the morning. Therefore, I must always have a blender to make it. What if a morning dawned and my blender died? This would be unacceptable, so, in my closet, I have a brand new blender, still in the box, ready to go if my old one cashes it in mid-smoothie. It should be noted that along this line, I also have a brand-new microwave sitting on the shelves in the basement on the principle that someday, the microwave I have will cash it in. The “new” microwave is now officially four years old, but someday, it’s gonna come in handy! It’s just a matter of time.

Now, if you think my philosophy is a waste of time, you probably might have been joined by Roy in this thinking. It isn’t possible to plan for everything and sometimes, the timing is going to be off. However, I believe we might have made a believer out of Roy.

My morning is never complete without a cup of coffee. When I was teaching, the students knew that it was better to approach me with a problem after I’d had coffee. It’s all in the timing you see.

So, it was a bad moment for me when I managed to drop a cup (which didn’t  break) and shatter my coffee maker—the only one I have—on a late Saturday night. Where was my planning for time? Now, Sunday morning, I not only wouldn’t have a cup of coffee, but I’d have to wait until stores opened, to get a new coffee-maker. Why, oh why, did I not plan for this! What terrible timing!

I was in mid-meltdown over my loss of coffee time, when I looked up to see Roy standing in the doorway of the kitchen, with a sheepish grin and holding a brand new coffee maker. “Merry Christmas,” he said, handing it over to my astonishment.

Just like that, Roy understands my issues with timing. I don’t think he could have come up with a better moment to deliver my Christmas present than at the exact moment I needed a new coffee maker. Now that he understands that, I think I’ll go out and buy a new wash machine and dryer, just in case, and maybe I’ll get a new television as well…you never know!

And meanwhile, I am going to keep hanging out in tea shops and libraries, cause you know, it’s just a matter of time!

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December 19, 2025 · 7:19 am

Opulent Outlook

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I read a long list of hints or household tips for making my house look richer than it is. This was kind of a shock, since I don’t plan to have Elon Musk or anyone of the kind over for a visit and if I did, they could put up with the squalor that is my comfortable house.

The tips were, to say the least, rather amusing. I didn’t go through all of them because there were forty-five (it takes a lot to make your house look rich, apparently), but a few of them did catch my eye and some of them made me howl with laughter, the laughter of the poor, obviously.

The first tip I would like to address has to do with my cushions. The tip is to add matching cushion covers to all of my soft furniture. If I could find cushion covers that would match, I can’t imagine why I would want my house to look like the impersonal waiting room at a large business firm. My mix of blues and yellows, grays and oranges catches the eye as you walk into my house. If I want to feel rich about this conglomeration, I would tell you that my style is “eclectic.” That sounds very snobby and upper crust, right?

It suggested that to look wealthy, I should use trays to group décor. What décor? On the same note, it said to declutter open areas. So, I ask, what open areas?

“Hang curtains higher to elongate a room.” Does this really make me look richer or just too stupid to correctly hang curtains?

Then they got nasty. “Make your bed every day.” Let’s not get crazy here! And “Use two pillows each side for hotel vibes.” Am I really going for hotel vibes? And finally, “Tuck your throw at the foot of the bed.” This is not where I usually need a throw!

“Decant pantry items into matching jars.” Decant…what a nice, snobby word. And the bag the noodles come in will work just fine, thank you! “Use glass containers or baskets in the fridge.” Answer me one question: If I’m so rich, why am I giving tours of my refrigerator? “Wipe down cupboard fronts regularly.” I want to look rich, not obsessive!

“Keep cleaning products out of sight.” Because…rich people don’t have cleaning products? “Keep one candle, reed diffuser or eucalyptus in the shower.” There are several problems here, beginning with why would rich people invite others into the shower, how would you keep a candle lit in the shower and what the heck is a reed diffuser???

“Add a small hand towel on the basin, folded neatly.” I can’t tell you how this would make me look richer. Also, I can’t tell you how fast it would no longer be “folded neatly” at the side of the basin. I’m trying to imagine explaining to Roy, “Yes, this is a towel and no, you are not to use it; I want other people to see it, and think we are rich.”

“Move furniture slightly away from walls.” So…in the middle of the room? I like furniture placed as the good lord intended—plastered against the wall, scraping the paint.

“Keep entryways clear and welcoming.” If I do that, how will people know where to leave their shoes and coats without mine thrown right there in front of them, to give them the hint?

“Declutter one thing from every room.” This is the first really good idea I have read. And the first thing I’m going to declutter from the living room is the magazine containing the article about tips for looking richer!

I’ve given it a lot of consideration, and I’ve decided to stay with my lower middle-class house-with-a-lived-in-look-to-it status. I’m sorry if this means Elon Musk won’t consider my home grand enough to visit. I confess, however, that I would like to visit his house (or one of them). I want to look in his shower to find out what a reed diffuser is!

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December 14, 2025 · 10:07 am

An ill wind

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

Imagine me writing about wind! Wonder what gave me the idea. Maybe it was the random bit of cardboard box that slapped me in the teeth as I stepped out into the “gentle breezes” this week!

There’s an old saying that goes something like: It’s an ill wind that blows no good. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I’m here to tell you that this is, indeed, an ill wind!

I’m used to the struggles we all have with the “light zephyr” type winds that spread their teasing fingertips across our land. Okay, it’s more like a sonic boom that has the power to knock you flat! Knowing all this, however, doesn’t make me any fonder of the blast and if my wording above misleads you, I can assure you that I am taking refuge in sarcasm!

It’s not that I don’t hope. I was checking my phone for the weather (and that’s a new one for me) and all of the sudden, it flipped to a new screen which said, “sunny skies, 69 degrees.” How wonderful! I knew I was on the wrong forecast, however, when it continued, “calm winds, quiet night.” Okay, so with my great technological skills, I had found the forecast for San Diego, California. Disappointing for here, but from the sounds of it, maybe I should go there!

But back to South Dakota and the less than calm winds we are getting. I went out to get the mail the other day and this was not on the worst day. I get my mail from a community mailbox stand and when I got it out, I laid the letters on top so I could turn back and lock my box.

Immediately, the wind picked up the top letter and flipped it to the ground. I debated: did I really want to get down between those two boxes to try to retrieve it? It could just be a bill, but then again, maybe it was a Christmas card—it is the season.

Getting down on my knees in the snow is probably pretty amazing for me, but getting back up is a Christmas miracle. I had retrieved the letter, however, and it was definitely a Christmas card. Standing there, so proud of my achievement, I reached up to get the rest of the letters from where I had placed them on top of the boxes. Just as I did, the wind flipped them onto the ground beyond the mailboxes and in the neighbor’s back yard.

They were scattered around and again, I considered how bad did I want to retrieve them. With my brand new coat’s long skirts (the reason I bought it) twisting around my legs and my not waterproof shoes wading through snow, I chased down all of those letters. Every one was an advertisement!

Oh well, at least I had the Christmas card. I put my hand down to be certain I had placed it in my pocket. In so doing, I knocked it out and the wind took it for another playful little run, with me running behind!

By the time I got it, the paper was somewhat saturated and the Christmas letter inside a little hard to read. But never fear, every one of those ads was warm, dry and undamaged. They also quickly hit the garbage!

The only other thing I had gotten in that ill wind was a couple of large rolls of Christmas paper, which I stacked on the landing to my front door, just a little above my head when I’m on the ground. I was going to fetch something else (I’m not remembering what), so I turned away just in time for the wind to blow both of those rolls of paper off, hitting me neatly in the back of the head.

By the time I got in with soggy mail and damp but dangerous Christmas paper, I was a trifle grumpy. I scraped the hair out of my face with my very best Taylor Swift gesture and said to the dog staring innocently up at me: “What are you looking at? I’ve been out on this lovely day and it just blew my mind!”

It’s an ill wind, folks! How far is it to San Diego, anyway?

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December 5, 2025 · 10:51 am

Letting it Hang

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Right now, as I’m writing, I’m looking at the wall behind my computer and I am rather proud of it. There are two framed photos, a calendar (on the wrong month) two cardboard pieces with chalk drawings and the painting I made at a painting party many years ago.

I love looking at these things, but Roy avoids looking at this wall because it offends all of his sensibilities. It’s not that he minds the things I have on the wall (well, maybe he wishes the calendar was right), it’s the way I have hung them up. I like to say that my ability to decorate a wall with artwork or pictures is somewhat random, if you know what I mean.

Where Roy will measure and estimate and carefully string up a hanger on the back of the item, I prefer the thumbtack and sticky tape method. As for placement, well, I’m a little random there as well. It’s hurtful to the eye of a man who prefers precision in the hangings on his walls.

He came out of the bathroom after his morning shower one day rubbing his shoulder and holding a framed picture that I had just hung up the day before.

“Why did you take that picture down? I want it to hang over the shower,” I whined.

“Explain why we need a picture over the shower in the bathroom, where no one is likely to notice it?”

“It’s a beautiful picture of rain on flowers; perfect for the shower,” I said. “Now why did you take it down?”

“I didn’t take it down. Your perfect rainfall picture fell on me when I got out of the shower,” he explained, handing me the picture. “What did you hang it up with?”

“That little needle, right there,” I said, pointing to a tiny shard of metal on the wall above the shower.

He shook his head, walking away. “It’s too small to hold that picture and besides, it’s way off center.”

“Well, I’m hanging it back up, so just watch yourself when you come out of the shower,” I said, defiantly.

“Just the words a fella wants to hear concerning his own bathroom,” he was getting sarcastic. “Maybe none of my relatives will have to use the toilet when they are here.”

It’s always the same. What should we hang up and where should we hang it? It’s a question that can at least cause ripples in a marriage. While I am holding the picture up approximately where it should go on the wall, he is dragging out the tape measure and sorting through his supplies of nails to figure out which one goes.

After hanging a picture recently that required him to get up and down on a ladder, he said to me, “Is this hanging evenly?”

“Yes, it looks just fine,” I answered. “Don’t worry about it.”

It seems those are exactly the wrong words to say to him about pictures. He climbed down off the ladder, stepped back to look at the picture, got back on the ladder, adjusted it (he didn’t ask my opinion that time), got down, looked again and went up for one final tweak. I’m convinced the last one wasn’t necessary; he was just showing off.

I have several more things that I would like to hang up, but I am going to wait until this latest round of marital picture hanging has faded into memory. In other words, I’m just going to let it hang!

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