Monthly Archives: June 2024

Jackie Wells-Fauth

First of all, my dear, if I spelled your name wrong, I apologize; I must have found ten different versions, but Sacagawea is the most common, according to Wikipedia.

Let me start by saying that I am a huge admirer of you. You took a bunch of explorers and led them through the wilderness without benefit of road maps, Google maps or Interstate and got them all the way to the homelands you left as a small child. Without so much as a road sign or a mile marker, you did all of this, when you were still a young teenager yourself with a baby on your back.

I admire this skill of yours greatly. This is coming from a woman who sometimes has trouble navigating from the bedroom to the bathroom in the middle of the night! I have no idea how you led that bunch of rough and ready men safely through the wilderness, but I am in awe of your accomplishments.

And that brings me to the favor I need. For the past 40 years or so, my husband has been traveling throughout the United States and several foreign countries and the only navigator he has is me…and even without a baby on my back, I have a lot of trouble getting us from place to place. So, what I want to ask is, could you come and show me how to navigate? Before you answer, you should know a few things.

1. I have trouble distinguishing my right from my left. So many a time, my husband has taken a wrong turn because I told him to turn left when the turn was actually right. I once navigated us to the edge of a lake in the middle of nowhere instead of getting us to downtown Denver just by saying, “Yeah, you turn right here.” My husband has learned to say, “Which right?” And I, offended that he doesn’t trust me, will point–“That way.” And his reply is invariably, “Yeah, that’s your other right, also known as left!”
2. I cannot properly read a map. In the first place, the older I get, the tinier that writing is. But it was never easy, even when my eyesight was better.  I just love to have the road map in my lap, carefully marked by Roy with where we are going, and I just follow along. However, if there is a question, or we miss a turn, I am about as useful as an ax in a furniture factory. Finally, on our most recent trip, Roy missed a turn, and I found an alternate way to get through Indianapolis, using the road map. We made it out of town, and I plan to live on that accomplishment for some time:

When he says furiously, “You told me to turn at that last mile marker and now we are completely lost!”

I will reply with, “Well, maybe, but I got us out of Indianapolis that one time, how about that?”

3. I tend to get a little flustered when we are lost. On the downtown interchanges in Pittsburgh this year, I had a little trouble with the GPS: “Okay, turn onto Frederick Avenue…no wait, it’s now saying we should go on the Allegheny Interchange…no, that’s not right, it says to take a right here and do a U-turn on the bridge…for the love of god, GPS, STOP RE-ROUTING!”

4. I am not very good at giving clear instructions. Once, in Passau, Germany, we stopped a lovely young lady to ask for directions to the river. She asked, “Which river; there are two?” I said, “We want the river with the boat!” Since most rivers have boats, this was not helpful. Another time, we were lost in the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia, so we called the cousin we were trying to find for directions. He asked, “Where are you?” I hollered, “We are in some trees…a lot of trees!” Turns out that silly man wanted a street name!

Okay, Sacagawea, I think you have got the picture. I am very poor at navigation, and it has caused some of the wilder events on our travels. So, if there is any way you could give me some hints or tips on how to get from place to place in a calm manner (I’ve never seen a painting of you, jumping up and down, tearing out your hair, because you took the wrong turn at that last fork in the road) I would be very grateful.

I’ve always felt I had the potential for greatness in the world, but unlike you, it will never be for my ability to navigate. Now, when you get ready to come to my house, you just turn left at the stop sign…or is that right? Anyway, it’s south about two miles, or no, I mean…well, you’re the navigator, I’m sure you can find me. And say hello to Mr. Lewis and Mr. Clark for me!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

One of the fun ways in which Roy and I test our marriage to see if it is strong and healthy is a little exercise we call the “vacation planning test.” This vastly resembles the grocery shopping test that I have already mentioned, but with a few differences. The main one is that unlike grocery shopping which can be solved by sending only one, the vacation planned by a couple must then be ENJOYED by the same couple. This can present some sticky moments.

I’ve always felt if Roy was going to throw me out for good, he would do it while we were planning vacation. Not only do we vastly differ in our desires for activities on vacation, we also differ on just how to plan it.

Take our most recent endeavor. We planned a vacation of about a week and a half driving. For me, it’s a matter of getting into the car, having a general direction and then, making it up as I go. This is not a terrible plan, either, because some of my best finds on vacation have come from me reading the map while he is driving down the highway or watching for the signs overhead.

Unfortunately, I live with a mate who not only wants everything planned, but requires that I sit down with him while he painstakingly puts together the trip “itinerary.”  For those of you intensely organized people out there who are nodding in agreement with this plan, may I suggest to you (as I frequently have to him) that you stuff it in your “estimated time of arrival.”

“Okay,” Roy will say, pulling up his already mapped out schedule in Excel, “let’s decide how this vacation is going to go.” I am already half asleep and half annoyed. “The first thing we must plan is to be at our destination for the Twins game in Pittsburg.” It has been his goal in life to see the Twins lose in as many different stadiums around the country as he can. They seldom let him down. My ambition is to find a good book to read while I am sitting in those stadiums. It fascinates the security people when all they have to search for me is the pages of whatever book I am ignoring the game with.

“I thought the idea was to go to Niagara Falls,” I question.

“Yes, but as you can see, that is scheduled for Sunday afternoon. Once we’ve ridden the Maid of the Mist out to the falls, what else is there to do?”

“Go over the edge in a barrel?” My suggestion does not make it onto the itinerary.

“I’m afraid in order to make the schedule work, we will not be able to fit in Millard Filmore’s museum,” he says, making some adjustments to the calendar.

“Poor Millard,” I sigh, “perhaps if we don’t stay too long at the fort (how long can you look at a cannon) we could fit him in. He gets so little respect, we should try to drop by.”

“No chance; if we do that, we have to move around this battlefield and we won’t be able to take the ferry out to this island. Millard’s out,” he decides.

At that point, we begin figuring out (okay, he begins figuring out) how long it takes to get from one event to the next. We will have time for the Wright Brothers—however Wyatt Earp might be in question. While I am thrilled that the itinerary just can’t squeeze in a 15 mile hike, I admit, I would be okay with hitting up the James Garfield museum.

“Well, we’ll have to see,” he says, checking his list. “If we do that, I’ll have to rearrange four other events on the schedule.”

“Don’t do that, it’ll take two hours more with this. Garfield was assassinated in office; he can probably bear the disappointment of our not being there.”

Finally, painstakingly, day by excruciating day, we get the itinerary settled up. We have every moment accounted for and every fun activity planned to within an inch of its life. Will this itinerary hold up? Will we make it to the Sherman museum, or will another ball game squeeze it out? Only time will tell and what I’ve learned over the years is, no matter how well-planned the itinerary, we pretty much end up making it up as we go.

May all of your marriages survive the planning of the annual vacation.

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I am about to confess something to you that probably my nearest family and friends already know: I am a certifiable Star Trek nerd. From the original series, through Next Generation, Deep Space 9, Voyager and on, I have adored every Star Fleet Mission, weird and hostile alien and Red Alert moment that any of the series has ever produced.

So, if you have never seen any of the episodes, the rest of this probably won’t make a whole lot of sense, and I apologize for digressing on one of my favorite fixations. And seriously, if you have not seen these shows, I have to tell you that you are missing one of the greatest fantasy adventures and social satires of all times.

One of the things I’ve enjoyed the most has been the unbelievable number of catch phrases that the program has produced. Spock, with his fingers raised in a weird victory signal as he bids you, “Live long and prosper” or Captain Picard with his precise mannerisms directing you to “Make it so,” add color and life to every episode.

All of the characters are engaging, but I in particular like some of the medical officers. I love the holographic doctor on Voyager, and the alien Dr. Phlox and his love of animal medicine on Enterprise. My favorite, though, has always been the original doctor, Leonard “Bones” McCoy who joined his great friend, Captain James T. Kirk on his space adventures, but never did quite adjust to the unique challenges of the great unknown.

He was quirky, talented, emotional and loyal to his friends and his profession. Growing up, I always thought how cool it would be to be Nurse Chapel, working alongside the great man. (At the time, it didn’t occur to me to want to be HIM instead, but I have evolved since then.) Best of all, I loved his standard response to any mammoth request that came from Captain Kirk: Dammit, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a magician, mind-reader, engineer, babysitter, etc. Whatever the situation, Dr. McCoy reminded his captain of his “limitations,” always prefacing it with, “Dammit, Jim, I’m a doctor…”

Because of this fixation, my children have bowed to the inevitable and started gifting me with Star Trek memorabilia. I have a Christmas tree ornament shaped like Voyager, a snow globe containing the original Enterprise, and a set of Pez dispensers for every character in The Next Generation. One of my favorites has to be my Dr. McCoy t-shirt. Emblazoned on the front are pictures of all the various professions he pointed out that he wasn’t (the engineer, the magician, the athlete, etc.) Each picture has a line drawn through it, indicating this is what he is not, while the picture of a doctor’s stethoscope is left unmarred, as he is a doctor. Emblazoned across the top are the words, “Dammit, Jim…”

Now, I think the shirt is hysterical, but it has caused its share of uncomfortable moments. For one thing, I have learned there are certain places you might not want to wear it—teaching school, to church, and so on. While it immediately picks out the Star Trek nerds of your world, it also presents a startled moment for those who don’t know why I would wear a shirt that says, “Dammit Jim” across the front, especially those who know my husband’s name is Roy, not Jim.

I keep on wearing the shirt, though, because it is kind of like a secret handshake, revealing all of the others out there who are a part of the Star Trek mystic. They laugh, and I know, we have made a connection.

And for the rest of them? Well, it can be awkward. I was wearing the shirt at a restaurant recently and the manager had come forward to seat us. Taking one look at the shirt which I had sincerely forgotten I was wearing he said, “Uh, about your shirt. My name is Jim?”

“Star Trek,” I replied, and he either got it or pretended that he did. Such are the hazards for us Star Trek fans.

For my next custom designed t-shirt, I’m going to have the words, “Dammit, Jim, I’m a writer, not a doctor!” printed on it and see how many Star Trek fans get that. In the meantime, all of you, Trek fans or not, live long and prosper.

Jackie Wells-Fauth

This morning while eating my breakfast in a small café in town, I happened to look up in time to see an extraordinary young lady come in, wearing a biking suit and helmet. I am aware of that stigma we small towners have where we tend to stare at anyone who is new, but I will admit to observing her from a distance.

She answered the questions of the friendly people who greeted her and she let them know where she’d been and where she was going. I will admit, I’m very jealous: the question is, am I jealous enough to get back on a bike myself? I tend to think no.

Now, I’m not crazy (at least, that’s my opinion); I would never attempt, as this young lady was, to ride a bike all through the United States, coast to coast. However, I have frequently thought in these last years that getting back on a bike for me holds some real benefits.

I learned to ride a bike late in life. While all of my other friends and relatives were wheeling along, I, at 8 years old, still hadn’t conquered two-wheel transportation. One of the neighbor boys became impatient with this situation and finally terrified me into riding the bike by running along beside me as I wobbled along, shouting, “Don’t you stop, don’t you dare put your feet down or else!” Later, he admitted that he didn’t know what the “or else” was going to be, but since I chose to believe the threat, I almost inadvertently, finally learned to ride the bike.

I kept it up sporadically through my young adulthood and my first years of motherhood. It was handy to put my non-napper child in the car seat and just keep riding until I could feel her sleep-heavy body slumped up against me. When my children became too old to use the bike as a mechanical sedative, I put it away.

Several times later, always in a fever-induced moment, I would decide it was in my best interest to ride a bike again. I needed the exercise and fresh air. Bike riding had always been fun; why not? After I had gotten the bike out, dusted it off, filled the tires with air (twice) and got a couple of feet down the road, I would remember why not. Bike riding is hard work!

I know I should be ashamed to say that, having encountered the young lady this morning who is riding across country, but honestly, I wouldn’t get from Miller to St. Lawrence (all of 1 mile) before I’d be praying for a five-star restaurant to appear before me—attached to a luxury hotel and casino.

I have never envied those biking enthusiasts who ride cross country on their cycles. We pass them frequently in the car, bent over their bikes in the rain, hot sun and high wind and when I see them trudging uphill, I want to volunteer to tie them to the bumper of my car—not that they would probably appreciate that! My youngest grandson (who learned it from his older brothers) thinks a good mountain bike ride is taking his little trike to the top of the driveway, shoving off with his feet and then holding them up to allow the downward curve of the drive to propel him to the bottom. I am with him in this regard!

So, while travel by bicycle may have its good points (I am at a loss for the moment about what  those are) I still think I will find some other way to be an active member of society and my knees and back concur with me on this decision.

Nonetheless, the young lady this morning did give me pause. In her cross-country trip, she said that there was no real plan, just wherever they wanted to go. I have always liked the spontaneity of that. In addition, and perhaps an even bigger draw, was that this biker was reed slim and sat down to the biggest and best breakfast I had ever seen.

While she was enjoying the meal and exchanging pleasant conversation with some of the other diners, I once again thought, “Perhaps I need to get the bike out and go for at least a short ride. What could it hurt?”

And my subconscious answered, “Your back, your knees, your ankles, your disposition and your relationship with those who have to deal with you after you have fallen off a few times. Besides, you sold that bike ten years ago.”

So, to all those bikers out there who are diligently on the road, getting exercise and experience, I say:  I’ll be watching you… from my deck…with a large glass of iced tea…and a great deal of admiration!