April 11, 2026 · 3:51 am

The Beauty of Beauty

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

When I was much younger and stewing about whether or not to try applying makeup, I remember my grandmother saying, “Even if you put lipstick on a pig, underneath, it is still a pig.” I understood that she wasn’t trying to call me a pig, she was trying to say that my looks (be they perfection or the portrait of Dorian Grey) ultimately didn’t depend on what I wore for makeup.

I always thought that this clever saying was hers, but I have learned over the years that “putting lipstick on a pig,” is a popular saying, meaning you can’t hide things with some elaborate cover; the lipstick isn’t going to fool anyone.

This attitude, however, has stuck with me over the years. I will never be a raving beauty, and I’m good with that. I don’t know if I’ve always felt this way, or if I just started to develop this attitude the older I got and the more I looked at the worship of beauty in the world.

You are looking at a woman who personally flunked the “tissue test.” My teeth are not as white as a tissue, but then, I don’t hold tissues in my teeth, so it’s probably all right. I don’t have a skin regimen to perform for hours nightly. I splash a little soap and water on my face to remove the excess sweat and dirt, and I call that good.

I was never any good with makeup. I tried mascara when I was young and by the end of any given day, I resembled a raccoon with a snub nose. Lipstick (when I did try to decorate the pig) came off in splotchy patches the first time I drank anything and getting that greasy stuff off of my dishes dampened my enthusiasm for it. Besides, I always used the wrong colors and had a kind of “here comes Jackie’s lips,” motif going, so eventually, I chucked the lipstick tubes and the mascara brushes.

As for wrinkles—facial or otherwise—I have ‘em and I have no idea how to stop them, so I just tell everyone my face is full of character. I went to college with a girl who woke us all up in the middle of the night, crying because she had gotten hemorrhoid cream in her eye. As we were flushing her eyes with water, it occurred to me to wonder how she had gotten hemorrhoid cream there (it just seemed like a long way to miss the target.)

When I asked her, she stared at me in shock. “Well, it’s a well-known treatment to prevent wrinkles, didn’t you know?”

No, I really didn’t know. In fact, I still don’t know what the philosophy was for putting a medicated treatment intended for the lower regions of the body on your face. I didn’t ask any more questions and I have never learned the theory behind it (pardon the pun), but I have spent some hours awake in the night with my imagination working on the problem. I’m sure it couldn’t be as fantastic as I imagine!

Put that together with the question of why a girl that age was concerned about facial wrinkles and it seems like she might have gotten an overdose of worry about her beauty. I would say you’d make a fine start on the wrinkles scrubbing that cream off your face!

Then we come to “inner beauty”. Now, I’m a firm believer that some people look a lot prettier on the outside than they sometimes are on the inside. However, I also know that no matter what I look like on the outside, I am not always so pretty on the inside, either. Occasionally, I have the inner beauty of Belle, from Beauty and the Beast. Other times, however, I’m just the beast—everywhere!

I’m not really sure where I am wandering with this particular train of thought. It just always amazes me what we can do to enhance our appearance, but whenever I see a carefully and attractively put together woman, I always think of another saying my grandmother used to repeat to me, “It is not always necessary to gild the lily.” I like that—I’m a non-gilded lily!

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April 3, 2026 · 2:27 am

Except for the pain

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

Before I begin, I would like to state in no uncertain terms that I am grateful beyond words for the fine medical care available in Miller. Not only the doctors, but the long-suffering hospital nurses and aides who have to put up with me the most—especially when I am in pain! Thank you all!

And my pain is the topic of my column this week. Not that there’s anything funny about that, but sometimes my adventures with it bring their own comic relief. Without that, it would really be…well, a pain!

My medical woes come from an unpredictable, incapacitating pain in the joints. It’s never brought on by any trigger; just a random, happy notion that can hit anywhere from my jaw to my toes. Its favorite target, however, seems to be a knee or a hip—either one on either side will do. Just so my leg is immovable without a considerable amount of bad language and pain.

Now, these attacks appear to be random, but I don’t think it’s such a happy accident that they like to hit late—after medical office hours and especially long after Roy has gone to sleep.

I’ll wager some of his least enjoyable moments in married life are when I pull him from a sound sleep with the loving words, “Roy, wake up; I’m in terrible pain!”

“What shall I do?” comes the sleepy voice from the dark.

“Take me to the emergency room or shoot me; right now, I don’t really care which you choose!” I lied. I do care, but I always like to make sure he has options.

Then comes the whole procedure of getting me to the car…down the front steps and into a vehicle…hopefully without bending my leg too much. He has learned that there is no possible way to do this gently, so he assists the best he can and when necessary, bends the leg for me. I’m always glad when he does that. “Oh! My Lord! D**m it! Thank you so much, dear!”

Now one of the first things I ever noticed about Roy was that he is always very dapper in his appearance. He’s always dressed appropriately and neatly for whatever errand he is on. That’s why it has to be so hard for him to take me to the hospital in the middle of the night, because my nightwear is not exactly designer and I am not inclined at those moments to get changed.

Mind you, at that point, I don’t care if I walk in dressed like Lady Godiva; I just want to get there. But Roy does care and he knows I will care later, so he tries to drape my pajama rags around me as best he can and away we go.

Once we get to the emergency room, his job kind of slows down. He knows from vast experience that the medical people are going to take good care of me and that once I stop screaming that “somebody please for the love of heaven do something about the pain or hit me in the head,” (I wonder how often that appeals to them) he can relax.

The problem, of course, is now, he’s up in the middle of the night, with a day’s work ahead tomorrow and he has to sit around and wait for me to finally decide that I’m going to live yet another day because the aforementioned fine medical care takes care of the problems.

A lot of times he’s a little out of what has happened. This last time, they asked if I had vomited. At the same time, I said, “Yes,” and he said, “No.”

I turned to him showing him my gown and its suspicious stains and said, “Stay away from the small wastebasket in the living room. You won’t like it.”

He cares so much. He is so diligent about getting me there, but he is also in need of his sleep. However, I don’t worry about him so much anymore. The first time I was in, he sat in a very comfortable chair near me and just as I was really freaking out about the pain and keeping him up, I distinctly heard a snore come from directly behind me! I was getting what I needed, and he was getting what he needed. That’s fair.

Every time I have one of these midnight adventures, I pray it’s the last one. I’ve learned enough about the problem, though, to know it might not be; and that’s okay, I guess. After all, I have the best ambulance driver in the world and the best care for the problem. I think I’ll live to fight another day!

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March 21, 2026 · 4:21 am

Eating My Way to Health

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

Before I begin today, I should probably mention that I understand and appreciate the benefits of good health. I also know that human health depends on several things: 1) genetics, and mine are pretty good; 2) attitude, which can sometimes not be as beneficial as it should be; and 3) eating habits.

I’m well aware that many of my health issues come from what I put in my mouth and also, how much of it I put in there. It isn’t that I don’t try. It’s true, there are times when more Hostess Twinkies are consumed in this house than any fresh fruit. But then, there are times when I really try and I really want my health to be good.

In that frame of mind, I did some research. Now, I did this research on the internet, so everything I tell you here should be taken with a grain of salt (which I understand is also bad for you). The internet does not have a degree in nutrition, so proceed with caution. I did find some of the ideas interesting, however.

For instance, it is apparently a myth that you must cut out certain foods in order to lose weight. What a relief! I have heard of the keto diet, the Mediterranean diet and the lo-carb diet. All of them are rejected by me because of one word: diet. I haven’t been able to remain on an eating diet for more than the time it takes me to discover that there is a stray Tootsie Roll stuck in the couch cushions. Diets do not work for me, so I’m glad to hear someone agrees with me—even if it is the internet. The only food I have ever successfully cut out of my diet is liver—and that is an action I do not regret!

Apparently, in the healthy eating world, you should not snack between meals. I am here to tell you that the only reason I get up every morning is in anticipation of whatever snacks I have lined up for the day. Meals, fine, but what have you got for those long hours in between?

When they get into types of food, it always upsets me, because they usually attack my favorites to begin with. I switched from regular soda to diet, only to discover that what diet lacks in calories, it makes up for in other undesirable things. So, I switched to fruit juice. Nothing wrong with that, right? Wrong. Fruit juice is apparently, in many ways, worse than soda. They suggest sparkling water as a lovely alternative. I have tasted sparkling water, and I would just as soon dip my glass in the toilet, which is also probably not very healthy!

It is important not to eat too much processed food. I did some looking to see what counted as processed food. My biggest heartbreak there was peanut butter! Who knew that the most delicious bread spread in the world is considered a processed food! I just can’t believe they got that right. Another processed food they warned against was frozen pizzas and TV dinners. When I read that, I felt terrible, because I love those and they are so easy. Thank heavens they didn’t mention pot pies; I guess I can still have those, huh?

There were a couple of pieces of good news. They debunked the idea that sushi is diet food. For me, sushi definitely IS a diet food because I’d rather go without food than eat it!

The other piece of good news had to do with lettuce salad. Now, I eat lettuce salad when I am trying to be good, but I can never say I enjoy it. Imagine my surprise, then, to hear that the dressings that are put on lettuce salad have more calories than a doughnut! You know what this means, of course. If I’m eating the same calories anyway, I’m definitely eating the doughnut! I just didn’t know that it would be considered healthier than lettuce salad! Yay!

I was excited to see that late night snacks are permitted because that is my favorite. I was not so excited to see their suggestions for a late-night snack: yogurt or pistachios. That’s a hard no on yogurt and as for pistachios, they aren’t bad, but they aren’t going to hold me over until morning! I need a hearty late-night snack, like a bologna sandwich—or wait, I know! Peanut butter! No, that’s not right…maybe a diet soda or…

I put the computer away and got up to leave the room. “Where are you going?” Roy asked.

“Downstairs to find my Twinkie stash. This healthy eating is gonna kill me.”

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March 13, 2026 · 12:22 am

Saving Daylight–Bah Humbug!

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I’m sorry if I am a little grumpy this week, but I am definitely missing sleep and it’s all the fault of whoever decided to save daylight – or steal it, as the case may be!

Now before some well-meaning soul attempts to justify the theft of this time by explaining why daylights savings time is important, let me tell you that I know all about the reasoning behind it and I still continue to insist: my body doesn’t buy it.

You wouldn’t think the theft of one hour would be such a big deal, but it throws everything else off: instead of going to bed at 11 pm, I’m now trying to go at 10 pm—or is it12 midnight? I am so tired, I can’t work it out. In any case, when I get up in the morning after this yearly raid of time takes place, I know that my morning light is gone and my body is grabbing for the covers, lobbying for one more hour in bed!

The first evening of the switch is also disconcerting: “I want to remember to watch my favorite Sunday night show. It will be on at 7:00,” I tell my husband.

“It WAS on at 7:00, that was an hour ago,” he replies.

“What? It can’t be! The sun is still up! Darn it! There’s nothing good on at 8:00,” I whine.

“I’m glad you feel that way, because it’s already 8:30.”

“I do NOT like this sudden evening light,” I proclaim. “There’s evil in it. God wouldn’t want me to miss my favorite shows.”

“Well, don’t worry, it will be black as pitch when you get up in the morning, so there’s your darkness,” he really means to be comforting.

“First, they keep it light so long in the evening, that I miss my television show and now you’re telling me that I’ve lost my morning sun (isn’t there a song about that?). There is just no end to the bad news. And it’s all because of the nefarious one-hour theft of time.”

Roy goes back to his reading—without the aid of a lamp. He’s heard all of this whining and complaining and drama before, so he recognizes the futility of continuing the conversation.

It does offer one benefit: I can say to anyone who asks: “Yes, I was going to get that room painted, put in some time at the gym, finally clean that closet that is spilling out into the hall, get my life together, etc., but someone stole the hour I was going to use for that, so, those things will just have to wait.”

It’s a sure thing that for the next week, I will be dragging and tired and grumpy as my body struggles to add one more brick to the wall of reasons why I don’t get a good night sleep. By the end of the week (which is Friday the 13th by the way) I will have adjusted somewhat, and I may even start to like that extra light time in the evenings, but the abrupt theft of time is still traumatizing.

There really ought to be some sort of compensation for having to go through this. They should set up stations throughout the country containing soothing aid for those going through the daylight savings change. Maybe they could have coffee and cookies and dare I suggest—extra naps for the first few weeks? Just something to acknowledge how hard this is on the citizenry. Maybe I would be more receptive to the change if I was holding a glamour cup of coffee and a few sugar cookies—and some chocolate chip cookies—oh, and maybe a brownie or two! Yes, I very much like this idea; perhaps someone could suggest it to the legislature?

I know this column has been very bizarre, but living through the daylights savings time change is also just a little bit bizarre. Isn’t this sort of like time traveling? People like my husband just don’t understand it—they adjust so seamlessly, but not me. And the worst thing Roy should have done right now is try and cheer me up about it.

“You know, you get this hour back when the fall comes and we go back to regular standard time,” he observed during the worst of my ravings.

“What! They can’t! By then, I’ll be used to a lot of light in the evenings, and I won’t be able to adjust! Why are they doing this to me????!!!!!”

Happy Daylights Savings Time everyone. By this time next week, I might even mean it!

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March 6, 2026 · 10:35 pm

In the year 2525…

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I will admit that I have always looked on home communication systems (AI systems) as a challenge: What can I possibly do to mess them up?

“Hey Siri, what was my nickname in the seventh grade?”

“I am sorry, I do not have enough information to answer that question.”

“Uh huh, not as smart as you thought, are you, Siri?”

“I am sorry, I do not have enough information to answer that question, Red Top.” I will admit that one was a little unnerving! I’m glad I didn’t ask it how much I weigh or what the nuclear launch codes are—a couple of things, I wouldn’t want it to go looking for!

Climbing on my usual soapbox, I profoundly object to the fact that we are working on machines to not only dry our hair and cook our food, but to anticipate our every wish and answer questions that we did not necessarily intend for them to even hear.

I have been in homes in which the Alexa or Siri or whatever AI systems, have been installed. Okay, it’s nice to be able to tell it to turn off the lights, because I am getting too old and arthritic to want to do the “clap on, clap off” thing any more. But when I step in something unidentifiable and shout, “What the heck was that?” I am not really looking for Alexa to give me a list of vivid possibilities, “Milk, mashed potato, cat pee, feces….”

I’m uncomfortable with any device that can engage in conversation with me, but now I’m told they can actually drive me to the store and then comment on which dress looks nicest on me; that is a little too far. That is when I start singing that old 60s song, “In the Year 2525.” We’re getting there!

This week, I saw an advertisement for an AI system that will literally insult you if you ask it to. Truly! That is the limit. We have rampant hunger, disease and war in the world and you think the biggest problem is that I need help with being insulted! As my husband said, “Then what am I good for?”

It’s probably jealousy on my part, but I hold the hand phone responsible for a lot. You can pay for anything with it, order movies with it, start your car with it, make lists and calendars on it, check your mail deliveries and know just when packages and food will arrive at your door. Considering I spend half my time looking for mine, this could be a problem!

My favorite of all the recent innovations, however, is the camera that is in the doorbell. Now, for the past 30 years, I have struggled to find a way to make a doorbell work in my house. We have tried system after system and we still find ourselves telling people, “You may want to knock—that’s where you rap your knuckles on the wood—our doorbell is taking the week off.”

BUT if your doorbell works properly, you can attach a camera that, with the proper set-up, will show you your own front step! I suppose this is intended so that we are able to watch what’s happening around our property when we are miles away. We will know about but can’t help it if the outdoor cat gets sprayed by a skunk or it rains on the shoes we accidentally left outside. I think it would be most useful, however, for telling you if someone (or something) undesirable is outside when you are at home.  It could sound some sort of alarm telling you to stay away from the door!

For myself, I don’t need the camera, since when I’m away, I don’t want to worry about the house, and when I’m home, I have few enough callers that I never contemplate not answering the door…except for the time the guy was standing outside my door with an ax. I admit, I didn’t answer that call, but then again, I didn’t need a doorbell camera to tell me that!

I know, I know, these things are the wave of the future, but I will admit, I’m not all that impressed. I went shopping for a new stove recently. I saw stoves that adjusted their heat, could be set to turn on at a specific time, and had burners for boiling and burners for melting and burners for frying. There were stoves that told you when the bread is done and how many minutes they suggest for a good casserole. But me? I went looking until I found one with four burners, four knobs to turn them on and without the ability to utter a word when I’m cooking! It would be wrong for an appliance to swear!

How do you like them apples, Siri?

“I am sorry, I do not have enough information to answer that question, Red Top.”

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February 27, 2026 · 7:18 pm

Not Making It

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

Don’t worry, this isn’t some comment on my mental health. That remains as it always was—a little crazy. No, “Not Making It” is my official declaration on the state of the beds in my house.

Somewhere, far back in time, I imagine some uptight prehistoric woman. She was tidying her cave one morning, when she decided, “The furs in our sleeping nook need to be laid out straight.” So every morning after that, she spent ten minutes tugging and pulling and smoothing to make the furs look neat. And that was ten minutes less she had to spend on skinning whatever was for dinner.

A few millennia later, the lady of the castle looked at the bulging, billowing feather and straw mattresses and said, “You know what, the maids don’t have enough to do. In addition to the covers on those beds, let’s add some smooth undergarments that we can shove the mattresses into to make them look neater.” And so sheets were born.

And if I could touch a stone and travel in time like they do in Outlander, I would go back to both of those eras with one simple question: Why?

Also, where in our country’s Constitution does it say, “We the People (Women) in order to form a more perfect bedroom, must each day “make” the bed.” And I’m not perfect on the Bible, but I don’t remember it being in there either that while Moses was parting the Red Sea, some woman would be back in the tent, making up the bed so the Pharoah wouldn’t think they were slobs!

If you come to my house on any day where people have spent the night, you may not want to look in the bedrooms if the sight of rumpled bedding upsets you. I’m willing to bet most people in charge of the family’s housework won’t mind a bit! And while we’re being candid, the beds are more than rumpled. You’d be lucky if all the blankets and sheets were still on the mattress!

When I am truly distressed, I will have nightmares. The most traumatic dream is one in which I have been locked in a 20-story hotel and I can’t leave until I’ve made all the beds! The worst part is that when I wake up in a cold sweat from this nightmare, I realize I’m going to have to change the bedding. More trauma!

Perhaps the most heinous crime of all was the invention of the “fitted sheet.” Now, when it comes to putting them on the bed, I get it. It makes it easier to keep it in place. But when it has to be untwisted from the dryer and folded, it’s a little like hanging curtains in a high wind—there aren’t enough hands to do it! Everyone has their own method; mine consists of starting to fold, getting frustrated and wadding up the sheet and cramming it in the closet. This works for me!

And then, there are those people who think I really want to do these things; I just need some instruction on how to do it. They are wrong. I once read an article that said making the bed was easy if you just woke up in the morning, and before you got up, you used your toes to straighten the bedding. I tried that once; I put out both hips and got cramps in every toe. The beds stay unmade.

The day I read that it is actually healthier to leave the bed unmade for a time to let it air out, I celebrated for a week—the approximate time I left the bed open to “air.” Think about it: this is a great out. If someone comes and your bed is unmade, you just tell them, “Oh, I’m thinking of my health and letting the bed air out.”

I have decided that it is time for me to write some instructive articles on bed making myself. “Leave it open to air in the morning. Remove all lumpy objects: coffee cups, cracker crumbs, books, etc. That night, wrap yourself in the quilt and fall into the bed, it will have aired enough by then—it’s safe.”

And so I say to the overly enthusiastic cave girl and the ambitious lady of the manor—handling beds is very simple: I’m not making it!

I’ll sleep so much better tonight—and the blankets won’t be smooth!

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February 21, 2026 · 4:34 am

We gotta have a plan!

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I have often told my husband that if I go before him, I already know what his last words to me will be. He will lean tenderly over my bed and whisper in my ear, “What did you have planned for supper?”

It was his misfortune to marry a woman who not only hates to cook, but hates the effort it takes to plan meals as well. I have never been one of those organized people who puts down a menu for the following week and then shops at the grocery store accordingly.

When it comes to imagination in meal planning and cooking, it’s even worse. Once, in the era when my children were still at home, my daughter said to me, “I will be home late after practice tonight, so don’t start the meatloaf too soon.”

I was so impressed, “How did you know I was planning meatloaf for supper?”

“It’s Tuesday,” came the jaded reply, “we always have meatloaf on Tuesday.”

I try—I really do. Not so long ago, instead of having our usual ‘mashed potatoes and chicken Friday’, I researched new ways to fix the potatoes. They had a recipe for potato pancakes, so I thought I’d try it.

It didn’t go well. One of the few things Roy looks forward to is good mashed potatoes and those pancakes looked like unstable marshmallows drowning in grease. He ate them without comment, because, as I’ve mentioned before, he doesn’t want the job of cooking, and I am one good complaint away from resigning the head chef job around here. The pay is lousy anyway.

When it comes to planning meals, he’s not very helpful either. “I have no idea what to fix for supper tonight,” I complained the other day. “Give me some thoughts.” Now, I should mention that when I ask for help with menu planning, I’m usually hoping for a suggestion that we eat out.

“Well, tonight is Monday,” he answered. “Don’t we usually have stir fry on Mondays?”

“But that’s a lot of work,” I hinted. “Can’t you think of anything else?”

“Then do what you always do when you don’t want to cook, open a can of something,” he suggested.

In the end, he got tuna and some bread that wasn’t too dry. My first choice had been a can of pumpkin mixed with some canned dog food, so really, he came out better in the long run.

But truly, the worst job in cooking is trying to figure out a meal. I read somewhere the approximate average number of meals planned and cooked in the American home over a span of 20 years. I don’t remember the exact number because when I read it, I blacked out and lost my memories for that moment, but I can honestly say that this is a figure I never want to learn or think about!

It makes me think of that commercial where a woman is walking down the street, going about her daily business and everything and everyone is asking her, “What’s for dinner?” In the end, she concludes by making some culinary delight with a can of mushroom soup and a half of a left-over pork chop (or something like that), so the talking garden gnome asking for her dinner plans is not the only fantasy in the commercial. I do have a bit of sympathy for the question, however.

When Roy and I meet at the end of the day, my question to him is usually, “How was your day?” His question for me is always, “What did you have in mind for supper?”

I can see that this rumination is not really solving my problem because I will never learn to like planning meals any better than I like to cook them. However, if, on my deathbed, Roy chooses to ask me what I was planning for supper, I may leave this world with words on my lips that will not get me into heaven!

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February 15, 2026 · 12:59 pm

A very cold shoulder

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

It has been a tough winter in a lot of ways. But then, I never like winter. I whine about the cold, feel trapped indoors, whine about the cold, do everything but “mainline” my vitamins and oh, did I mention, I whine about the cold!

In the winter, all of my bad habits magnify: I eat too much, move too little and watch television, even in my sleep! An episode of Midsommer Murders came on the other day and as the opening credits were scrolling, I said, “This is the one about the witch murders. The killer is the priest.” I need an outdoor hobby.

With all of this fun and weather setting new cold records, I woke up one morning, in a particularly foul mood. The weather forecasters were gleefully predicting the lowest temperatures of the year that night and I was already cold. In fact, I was even cold while I was still in bed.

I got up, drank a lot of coffee and wrapped my feet in a heavy towel. The day kept getting colder. I built a small fire in the wood-burning stove downstairs, but I couldn’t sit by the stove because then I couldn’t watch the Midsommer Murders episode where the local nobility was having affairs with local women and then killing them off. So, I sat upstairs wrapped in blankets and growled about the weather.

Roy came home a little after five on that fine Friday and immediately said, “It’s cold in here!” My answer was muffled in all the blankets, so he went over to the temperature control on the wall, checked it, and announced, “The furnace isn’t running!”

Now, to fully understand the situation, you have to know that the furnace has been pretty much on life-support for the last three years. Every year, during the worst of the winter, we usually have to reset it or worse, call a repairman. And every year, the thought goes through our minds that we should replace it, but oh, it got through the winter, we’ll hang on a little longer.

Until this year, on the coldest night of the year, when the furnace finally called it quits. The repairman, bless his soul, came out on a Saturday morning in sub-zero weather to pronounce that although he got it running, it was now officially in hospice. A new furnace was needed. But then the repairman stood in my laundry/storage room and announced, “All the shelves and stuff are going to need to be moved.” That’s cold, man!

I tried to keep it cheerful. I cleaned everything on the shelves and helped Roy remove the planks that make up our storage shelves. “We work so well together, we should open our own construction business,” I chirped, as we were maneuvering the planks out the door and around the corner.

“No we shouldn’t,” he grumbled. “Watch it, don’t hit that wall!”

We cleaned out the room, the furnace people installed a new furnace and I was able to retire the electric blanket I’d been wearing as socks. I even did a good job putting the storage items back on the shelves.

“Where is everything?” Roy asked when he came down and looked at the half-empty shelves.

“Everything’s here that’s supposed to be,” I answered, “just don’t look in the garbage can.”

Our new furnace is working well and you can all thank us for the warm weather we’ve been having since we got it. It’s working so well, in fact, that we decided on some more improvements in the laundry room.

“Well, what did you find out?” Roy came home from work and asked about my meeting with the repairman.

“Oh, it’s going to work well and it won’t cost too much,” I answered. “All we have to do to prepare is…clear out all the shelving in the laundry room.”

Now I’m getting a cold shoulder from a different source!

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February 6, 2026 · 12:52 am

Blender Wars

Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com

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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