Monthly Archives: March 2024

Jackie Wells-Fauth

The big day

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Roy came home from work on Monday and hesitated as he came in the house. I knew what he was seeing out there, but I decided to let him bring it up.

“Uh, I see the garbage is pretty full,” he began.

“Yup,” I wasn’t going to help.

“It had hardly anything in it yesterday,” he hinted.

Okay, time to let him have all the facts. “That’s because today was “The Day.”

“Ohhhhh, today was “The Day,” he replied in a knowing voice, adding, “Okay, what is “The Day?”

“The day I cleaned the refrigerator,” I answered, swinging the door open to display its now wide-open spaces.

“And you found a dead body in there and so you stuffed it in the garbage?” He was not suitably impressed.

“You’re the one who has been complaining that the refrigerator needed cleaning.” I was expecting more validation than I was getting.

“That’s because stuff in there was reaching out and grabbing me and it smelled funny,” he explained.

“Well, it’s clean now, so don’t complain about the extra garbage. There were several things in there that were unidentifiable and there were the usual leftovers that were really left over. Also, there were the bottles of a little bit of fermented orange juice and apple juice.”

“It looks like there might be something still in between the glass and lettuce holders,” he said, pointing to some marks.

“There is, but I couldn’t get the glass unstuck from the frame, so I left it,” I explained logically.

“Well, why couldn’t you get it loose?” He was incredulous and moved as though to knock it loose.

“Don’t do that!” I exclaimed. “Don’t you remember what happened the last time we tried to get glass loose from the plastic frame?”

A look of remembrance came over his face. “The glass shattered, and replacing it cost as much as a new refrigerator.”

“And when we had it replaced, the whole refrigerator died within the month. I think the shock of being cleaned did it, so I don’t have a lot of hope for this one surviving, but you have to live a little.”

By now, his interest in the refrigerator was over. “How did you cut your forehead?” he asked, noticing the bandage on my head.

“Oh, I was shaking the refrigerator, trying to get the glass loose and a package of the dog treats you keep on the top fell down and cut me,” I answered, trying to make that somehow his fault.

He didn’t take the bait. “Well, from the looks of things, you need to make “The Day” more frequent than an annual event,” he suggested.

“Perhaps, but you could be a bigger help, you know,” I had more to say. “In the contents of that garbage can there are no less than four bottles of expired dill pickles and a half used tube of caulking.”

“And your point?” he said, crossing his arms defensively.

“I never buy dill pickles and the last time I caulked anything I was still in high school. I may not be the only one making “The Day” necessary.” Then I walked away. I had made my point and he was the one who would have to carry the “body” in the garbage can to the street for removal! Another celebration of “The Day” completed!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I’m exceptionally happy to be talking to you today from my own office at my own desk. There was a brief time yesterday when I thought today, I would be wearing orange and consuming prison food; wondering if I could get one of my relatives to bail me out of airport prison. But, I should begin at the beginning.

I spent a wonderful weekend with my family and especially my aunt as we helped her to celebrate her 90th birthday. I had to fly to Denver and any flight always makes me nervous. Part of this anxiety comes from the airport security process. I know why this is necessary, but I never like to think they might be suspicious of me.

The Denver airport has a wonderful security system, and they endeavor to be as quick and efficient as possible. The first hurdle is to allow them to insert your driver’s license in a machine that immediately takes your picture for comparison. The machine decides whether the horrible driver’s license picture matches the horrible picture of you traveling that day. I felt somewhat judged by a piece of equipment that couldn’t even laugh at my picture.

However, this turned out to be the least of my worries. I was directed to the conveyor belt and instructed to put all my belongings, and any of my clothing that they perceived to be a possible weapon, in a large tray.  While they were thus X-raying my belongings, I was instructed to step into a large machine, hold my arms in an awkward way and be X-rayed myself. While I was in that line, I was having a small chuckle at the flustered fellow ahead of me who had been stopped for further inspection.

Imagine my chagrin then, when I looked for my belongings, and discovered that they were on the other side of a glass wall, and I had been selected for further search. I was astounded. What could they have found in the boring, innocuous things that I had put in that tray, that caused them to look further? When the gentleman indicated that I should step forward and he pulled up my tray, his first question was, “Madam, do you have any sharp objects or knives in your luggage?”

I was speechless, which is odd for me. The last knife I had seen had been one of those plastic ones at my aunt’s party. That wouldn’t even cut the cake!  Dumbfounded, I just shook my head.

“Well it looks here like you have some knives in your purse,” he said, looking at the x-ray.

Then I panicked. This man was going to search my purse! As he put on the blue gloves, all I could think was, “Oh, please don’t search my purse! I haven’t cleaned it myself in ten years, who knows what junk is in there!  I’m standing out here in front of God and everyone and you’re going to search it. Go through the pockets of my jacket, take my cane apart, inspect my shoes, but please don’t empty my purse here.”

Of course, you don’t lip off to a security officer, so I kept my mouth shut while he pulled out my packet of pandemic wipes that were long since dry, a dozen crumbled old receipts and a couple of used tissues. Soon, he had the whole thing laying out there and even I was a little astonished at what was found. No weapons, though. “Madam are there any other compartments?”

Now that he has emptied “the black hole” all over the counter right down to the $0.47 in loose change, two loose breath mints and a used cough drop? I pointed to the sleeve in the front of the bag, and made my first smart remark, “There’s a spot where my phone is, but I don’t think I could stab anyone with a cellular device.”

He was not amused. He pulled out the phone and then he pulled out a black and gold lanyard with a bunch of keys attached. Then he pulled out a bright green lanyard with a bunch of keys attached. Yeah, I should have left those home.  I felt the need to explain, “Oh, those are the keys to the two schools where I work. Please don’t take that fob, I just learned how to use it.”

By this time, I think he had gotten the idea that he wasn’t dealing with Bonnie Parker or the Unabomber, just a woman, carrying too many keys. He dropped the keys back into the pile, and said, “OK, clean your things out of the tray and move along.” It only took me ten minutes to pick it all up.

I know that it is important for airline security to maintain a safe environment. But while I was standing there, in my stocking feet, scraping everything from my purse back into it, I wasn’t sure that I was as appreciative of their diligence as I should have been!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

My grandsons came this week. The first thing the 11-year-old
did was empty one of my smaller cupboards and climb in and shut the door. The
13-year-old enclosed himself in a box which didn’t leave a lot of room for him.
This leads me to a sad but indisputable conclusion: these children are not
related to me.

I have suffered with a rather debilitating fear of close
places and crowded rooms for all of the life I can remember. I have accused my
two older sisters of locking me in a dark closet or a tight space in the house
attic, causing this horrible fear of small places. They deny any complicity in
this phobia of mine, but it had to come from somewhere; right?

I remember my grandmother asking me to squeeze into a small
corner in her attic to retrieve something. “I can’t,” I apologized, “I’m too
afraid of small spaces.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, adding, “I’ve got a little
bit of claustrophobia myself.”

Claustrophobia. Being afraid of being shut in a box with
someone sitting on the lid has a name! And a fancy one! From that point
forward, I was set. I can’t be in close places; I am claustrophobic! And what’s
more, it’s an inherited condition! I was so self-important with it, I figure
every time I came out with, “I’m claustrophobic, you know,” somebody would like
to have shoved me into a small space and walled me up!

But living day-to-day with claustrophobia can be a little
problematic. I was sitting in the living room of my house one extremely warm
day and my husband walked in. He looked at the curtains, blowing in the warm
air from the open windows and then he looked at me, sitting in the chair,
wearing less than a nudist at a clam bake and said, “Why don’t you turn on the
air conditioning?”

“Because I would have to shut up the house and it makes me
feel squeezed in. I’m claustrophobic, you know, just like my grandmother.”

“All I really know is that in November, you’re going to be a
mighty cold claustrophobic,” he said, shutting windows and flipping on the air.

I never shut the door when I use the bathroom at home and by
the time I have locked myself into one of those little stalls in a public
bathroom, I’m breathing so hard and whimpering so loud, I’m sure people in
other stalls are wondering if I’m giving birth in there or something!

The rug beside my shower is very damp all of the time
because there is no way I can shut myself completely in a little space that
resembles an upright coffin and allow water to pour on me. I at least have to
have a crack in the door so I can see the outside world.

Even my students knew about the claustrophobia. I always
left the classroom door open to the hall and with my loud voice, I’m sure the
teachers in neighboring rooms suffered more from my claustrophobia than I did.
On the rare occasions when I shut the door, I got so worked up and “itchy” as
the students called it, that they would, without permission or instruction, go
and open the door. Ah! That air, smelling of damp winter clothes and incomplete
hygiene, flowing in my room! What bliss!

I never go in caves. The one time I tried, I got as far as
the ladder that would take me down a small hole into the cave. Then, with my
shoulders touching either side of the opening, I suddenly remembered that I had
claustrophobia. I looked up at the lady about to start down the ladder on top
of me and said, “You have two choices: Let me back up out of here, or watch a
meltdown that will make Chernobyl look like child’s play.” I’m sure she
concluded she was dealing with a madwoman, because she mercifully chose the
first option and let me out.  My husband,
unsurprised by my defection, had only one question when he returned from his
completion of the whole cave tour: “Did you get a refund of your ticket?”  My reply: “I don’t think they reward cowardice with a refund.”

So, you can see why I believe those two boys purporting to
be my grandsons can’t actually be related to me. They can close themselves into
spaces which make coffins look big, and I’m claustrophobic. And it’s an
inherited trait, you know!

 

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I had a terrible night’s sleep last night and you have to believe me when I tell you that it was all Kitty Howard’s fault. But I may be getting ahead of myself. Before I can tell you more about my restless night, I am afraid I must digress a little. Everyone knows (I think) that I am addicted to history. It was my college major and I am unable to resist anything that pertains to it.

That’s why I was drawn to a book about Henry VIII. I have studied the life of the English Tudor King Henry VIII for many years. The man was an absolute monster, but he managed to completely renovate the religious structure of his world and at the same time, go through wives like they were toilet paper in the pandemic. He ended with no less than six and rumor has it he was looking around for number seven when he died.

This latest book on him that I couldn’t resist was the story of his fourth wife, Anne of Cleves—noteworthy because she actually survived the terrifying monster, his fifth wife, Katherine (known as Kitty) Howard—noteworthy because she didn’t make it out alive, and Jane Boleyn, the unfortunate lady-in-waiting who served them both.

If this is too much history, I apologize, but if you bear with me a little longer, I can prove that this history is directly related to my terrible night’s sleep.

Now, the book I was reading focused on Kitty, who was executed at the delicate age of 16 by her bombastic and dangerous husband who had reached the great age–of the time–of 50. She was beheaded, a dreadful way to go, along with Thomas Culpepper, her foolish lover and Jane Boleyn, the equally foolish lady who assisted them in their incredibly foolish love affair, while the ex-fourth wife, Anne of Cleves, contemplated her own narrow escape.

Now, for my night’s lack of sleep. The author of the story was an excellent, well-informed and highly graphic writer. Her account was detailed and riveting and I absolutely could not put it down. So, last night, I read to the last page and the final ax fall, and it was very late when I went to bed with this sad and horrible tale on my mind.

I was distraught over the description of Kitty, grasping at people with frantic hands as she was dragged to the Tower. There was also a description of the gruesome spectacle of Thomas Culpepper’s head on a pike on Tower Bridge. I was squeamish over the description of Jane Boleyn, forced to put her hands in pools of Kitty Howard’s blood as she followed her to the execution block. I was tensed up by the nerves of Anne of Cleves as she sweated buckets, afraid Henry would take her down too, just for spite.

Needless to say, I was not prepared for a restful night and for a long time, I just tossed and turned. At one point, I threw an arm across my body and over the edge of the bed. To my horror, there was Kitty’s pathetic hand, reaching up to grasp mine. Before I could leap, screaming from the bed, I realized that the hand grasping mine was just my own, other hand.

Feeling very foolish, I settled back down, but I couldn’t seem to get the ideas of that story out of my mind. I lay there, asking myself such soothing questions as, “What would it be like to be married to a man forty-five years older than you who had terrible hygiene and the ability to kill you on a whim?”

Surprisingly this was not soothing to go to sleep with and while I was thinking about it, I glanced over to the blinds on the windows and real horror! There was a roundish shadow on the outside of the blinds about the size of a human head! Thomas Culpepper! I reached over to turn on the lamp, and put my hands in a pool of Kitty Howard’s blood!

Too choked to even scream, I finally found the lamp switch and got the light on. The “pool of blood” I had put my hand in was water leaking from my water bottle. When I got the nerve to look out the window, the “head on a pike” was a shadow caused by the neighbor’s yard light. I shut off the light and lay back down, wishing devoutly that Henry VIII, nearly in his dotage, hadn’t married a child, or that Kitty Howard had given Thomas Culpepper a cold shoulder instead of a warm bed.

In the future, I’ve decided I am going to watch a little television to relax at night—a soothing movie like “Psycho” or “It”—something less scary than Tudor Henry and his tragic child bride!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I have lived my whole life knowing that one and one equals two. I even know the mathematical formula for that: 1 + 1 = 2. You have just experienced the sum total (forgive the pun) of my mathematical knowledge.

I went through 12 years of school and four years of college and I still have to take off my shoes to add up my grocery bill. I wasn’t in too bad a shape in elementary school. Back there, they usually left all numbers in math problems and the world was right with me. Then, I got into high school and they started substituting letters for numbers and writing these “formulas,” which looked something like this: r=2xf (6 squared +  10) to the fourth degree written over 9 pie (2×0). I would look at that formula and my best reaction would be: how the heck did “r” get from the alphabet to math hell????

A benevolent high school math teacher got me through high school and my math-savvy sister got me through simple college classes, but for both of them, they should get credit for leading the blind, because I stumbled through and retained none of it.

Worst of all was when logic problems came into college math. I am the least logical person I know and those logic problems were the equivalent of five days on a torture rack and then burning at the stake. If inability at logic were a capital offense, I’d be the first one led up to the guillotine! On a test, the question was: “State a problem and the logical conclusion.” My answer? “I am unable to understand logic. Therefore, logically, I cannot answer this question correctly.” The teacher’s response: “Nice try, 0 points.” I wasn’t too unhappy—he actually thought I was trying!

As a teacher (of English) my math inability has been somewhat of an embarrassment. Students in study hall will ask for help in math and my best reply is, “Uh…I wonder what the math teacher is doing right now. Here is a pass to go and see.”

Teachers are given the opportunity to take tickets at ball games and run concession stands. I volunteered enthusiastically for the ticket taking because I could bring my husband, the accountant, whose brain is a calculator, with me. Then came the night he wasn’t able to make it to the game and I took tickets alone. It doesn’t make the parents of your students very comfortable when you have to add up four tickets—two student and two adult—by writing it down on a piece of paper. Then, after you have come up with a reasonable price, they hand you a twenty-dollar bill and suddenly, in front of God and everyone, you have to make change! It was not a pretty sight–me, counting three different times to get the change correct and finally handing back the twenty and muttering, “Never mind, it’s free for you tonight.”

Concession stands were no better. If people would have just ordered a popcorn, I could handle collecting fifty cents. But, NO, people also wanted pop and nachos and candy bars and all kinds of other things. The night I decided concession stands weren’t for me was the night I kept telling the students working with me, “Stop talking to me! I’m trying to add up this food bill without paper, pencil or my toes, and I swear, if they pay for it with a twenty-dollar bill, my head will explode!”

The sad fact is that my math abilities are dismal and what’s even worse, I have come to accept it. If I see a math formula or a column of numbers, my eyes glaze over and there is a strange buzzing in my head. So for all of you out there, struggling with math, don’t be like me. Get a tutor, take an extra class or just practice numbers in your head. And whatever you do, if you see me in the concession stand, go to somebody else!