Monthly Archives: July 2024

Jackie Wells-Fauth

It’s not a secret that I really enjoy television. I have the television on way more than I should on any given day and in particular do I like the new method of “streaming” so you can watch an entire series at once, with only breaks to use the toilet and re-fill your chips bowl.

I believe that Roy is not as excited about television binge watching as I am. I was trying to talk to him the other day about how much I am enjoying The Crown. He appeared to be listening to me, but he was also searching around in the bathroom cupboards, so I wasn’t sure.

“I love how on The Crown they show you the hard facts of being a royal,” I commented.

“You know that stuff isn’t really all just as it happened,” he replied, moving on to the next bathroom cupboard.

“Well, I for one would like to see them add to it, you know, after Queen Elizabeth dies,” I leaned over his shoulder—what was he looking for?

“Queen Elizabeth is dead.”

“What? No. Charles would have said something,” I was sure.

“He crowned himself king, wasn’t that a clue? You should watch the news if you’re going to watch so much television.”

“The news is too scary.”

“This from the woman who watches Ghost Series and sprinkles salt around all the doorways to keep out the evil spirits,” he chuckled, as he was pulling out drawers in the vanity.

“It worked. We haven’t had a single evil spirit since I saw that on television and followed the instructions,” I declared. “What ARE you looking for?”

“I’m looking for the new bottle of cough medicine I just got and my prescription for blood pressure. Have you seen them?”

“Of course I have,” I answered. “I threw them out.”

“You what? You threw them out?” He flung his hands in the air when I nodded. “May I ask why you would throw them out?”

“Because if the FBI were to search our house, they would arrest us for having drugs. You can make cocaine or something out of some of that stuff. Don’t you watch Breaking Bad or Cold Case Files? It’s all over them.”

“Does the FBI show up pretty regularly to search our house?” he asked.

“Well, not yet, but on those shows, they turn up without any advance notice. They have some really clever listening devices. Speaking of that, I want you to check out the garter snake in the garden. I think it might be a high-tech surveillance system.”

“What makes you think that? It looks just like a snake.”

“Yes,” I say with assurance, “It looks a little too much like a snake; according to the detective shows, that is your first clue.”

“I’m going for a walk,” he says, heading for the door. “Then I’m going to go buy some more cough syrup. I hope the snake has a camera.”

“Well, while you’re outside, watch it so you don’t touch any large stones. I’ve been binge watching Outlander and if you touch a big stone, you might end up 200 years in the past and married to a big old Scottish Highlander.”

“Does he have a television,” he asks. “if not, I might be in.”

You all don’t think I’m watching too much television, do you?

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I won’t be able to write my usual book this week because I am weathering a virus or bacteria which, each time I try to get up, says, “No, I think we’re going to keep lying flat on our back today; stretch out on the couch before I slap you with a dizzy spell.”

Perhaps the worst part about this little virus is that it has hit both my husband and me. You know what that means: there’s no one to wait on me and baby me and make being whacked out of action for a while at least worth the sick room service.

No, Roy and I are passed out in the two best recliners in the house, watching each other through bleary eyes. As soon as anybody twitches, the other responds, “Oh, you’re getting up? That’s great. Could you get me some more water and maybe a bowl of soup or something?”

It started out as a cold. We were both sure we had caught the sniffles from one of the grandchildren, which can happen. But no grandchild of mine would actively seek out this mean-spirited, deceitful, torturous bug. Within a very short time, we could tell we were in trouble.

“What’s wrong with your eye? It looks all funny and blurry,” I ask him as he staggers by.

“The same thing that’s wrong with your eye,” he mutters, “only I think yours is worse.”

It wasn’t long before we turned to each other, coughed and sneezed a few times while holding our heads and said, “You know what? I bet this is Covid.” Covid explains everything. It gives us an excuse to be sick. That is weirdly comforting.

Or it was until we used our home test kits. No sir, we did not have Covid. How wonderful. After all, who wants to have Covid? Except, if it wasn’t Covid and it wasn’t a regular cold (we could tell by the running noses for a week, the unbalanced walking and the major coughing fits) what in the world had invaded our bodies?

After a week of staggering around, we got up. This is enough. We are not going to be held prisoner by some bacteria which has invaded our systems. We are stronger than that!

No, we aren’t. Every morning, we get up, test the upright air and cough our way back down to our pillows. To entertain ourselves, we decided to name this disease.

“How about Fetid Fauth Feelings?” my husband suggested, sneezing out the last syllables.

“No way. I am not sharing a name with this crap,” I answered, wiping my nose and blinking the fuzz out of my eyes. “I have the perfect name for it. We’re going to call it the Devil’s Holiday.”

“That’s pretty good,” he responded. “Can you reach the cough drops from where you are?”

“They are too far away from my fingertips, but if you wait a few minutes, I will be forced to get up for the bathroom and I’ll fling them your way then.”

“Thanks. Maybe this being sick together isn’t so bad,” he said. “After all, the family that ails together…” Unfortunately for him, this disease has completely killed my sense of humor.

“Another crack like that and you’ll get a hammer to the head instead of the cough drops,” I snarl, staggering to my feet and heading for the bathroom.

I figure we’ll have to be going to the doctor if this doesn’t let up soon, because although I think that we are not in danger of dying, I’m not sure our family unity can survive much more of the Devil’s Holiday. Have a good week and for goodness’ sake, don’t come near us!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

For some people, they get nervous when their partner goes into a clothing or shoe store. Or, perhaps they worry about the joint checking account should their partner enter an antique shop, a hardware store or even a car dealership. My husband worries about none of those. He starts sweating when I enter a bookstore.

While both of us like to read, I am definitely the one who goes somewhat overboard with books. And I keep pointing out to him that an addiction to books is much better than if I were addicted to alcohol or cocaine. He has the nerve to suggest that the cost of my book habit isn’t much cheaper!

“Are you sure you need that many books?” he will enquire, watching me juggle my stack of books in the checkout line at Barnes and Noble. He refuses to encourage my book habit by helping me carry them.

“What, this?” I scoff. “This is only half of what I bought the last time I was here.”

“Yes, but have you gotten all of those books read?”

“Of course not! If I had all of those read, I’d naturally have to buy many more,” I respond in all seriousness.

“Naturally,” he says between gritted teeth, “I wouldn’t want the three bookshelves at home,  completely full of more books waiting to be read, to start looking empty.”

Some people just don’t understand the art of true literary appreciation. I once visited the home of Mark Twain and in the living room, a book sat beside the lamp table, as they had left things just as Twain left them when he died. I felt a little bad that he hadn’t been able to finish that book and then we went into the conservatory, and there was another half-finished book. Same was true of the table where he had done his writing. In all, he left seven partially read books at the time of his death. I felt a kindred spirit. I understood. There is just a different book you will read in the bedroom as opposed to the one you read in the bathroom, which is entirely different from the book you read in the living room.

“What do you think of that?” I asked my husband smugly.

“I think you and he should have drunk more whiskey and read books in more moderation,” he replied.

I feel it’s my responsibility to read these books. I read Gone With the Wind before I saw the movie, and I was disappointed at what they left out. I read the Bridgerton series some time ago and now, after watching the shows coming out based on them, I may have to go back and read them again to see if there is any resemblance between the two, besides the name Bridgerton.

My children are watching the other bookshelves, sagging even more under the books I have finished, with growing dismay. They appreciate reading, but mostly, they don’t want to have to be the ones who move all of those books someday. Honestly, though, I can’t be expected to get rid of books I have read—what if I wanted to read them again?

I finally decided that perhaps I should cut down on expenses and just check out books from the library. I was sure Roy would be happy about that. I came home with a whole armload of really good finds from the library.

“Look dear, I won’t have to buy these books; I’ll just read them from the library. What do you think?”

He looked at the stack of books in my hands and then he turned to look at the bookshelves nearly collapsing under the weight of the books I have bought that I still have to read.

“I think I’m going to buy you some booze for your birthday. Or, do you have any idea where I might get some recreational drugs legally? We have to get you a new hobby.”

Foolish fellow. That will never happen. I think Thomas Jefferson said it best when he declared, “I cannot live without books.” And I bet nobody tried to get him to switch from books to harmful substances!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Okay, I’ll admit that as the grandmother of a three-year-old, I am both slow and broken. I deal pretty well with the 11 year old and 13 year old, but the 3 and a half year old has been a revelation for me.

We had decided it was time for all of the boys to come and visit for a few days. We frequently have the older two in the summer for a week at a time, several times. When they were younger, I know they were as much work as the little one, but I’ve reached the conclusion that I was a great deal younger then and I’ve forgotten all the “tricks of the little guy” stage.

But, as I say, it was time to include the youngest in a visit, so we closed our eyes and had all three. And to say it was educational is an understatement. I learned so much in my old age about the talents of a three-year-old and it wasn’t long into the visit where I began to realize that I wasn’t managing him so much as he was managing me!

But to share what I learned. Because I don’t want him to grow up and be a lawyer and sue me for defamation of character, I will refer to him as I have in the past, as “Wildman”. The name is apt.

First, a three year old sleeps well…every other night. The first night he was here, he was still hollering for drinks and potty breaks at midnight. The next morning he was up at 5:30 am.  And this was after only a half-hour nap getting to our house. We staggered through the next day, with the adults and the three year old lacking sleep since we didn’t even suggest a nap to the Wildman the second day. At 7 pm that night, we were trying to shovel a little supper into him before he completely zonked out and we heard nothing from him until 7:30 am the next morning. Everyone refreshed, we braced ourselves for night number three and tried hard to enjoy the sleep roller coaster ride!

Three year olds eat a strategic diet. If you put a plate of meat and potatoes in front of them, they will eat countless slices of bread and butter. If you let him know where the cookie package is hidden, Wildman will have an eating orgy that will make the county pie-eating contest look sedate and moderate. Trends that will excite his taste buds at the dinner table are hard to follow: macaroni and cheese was a huge hit and hotdogs hit the skids. However, anything with sugar as the main ingredient got a big thumbs up from Wildman.

If your three year old loves Matchbox cars and has a collection, then all the world is a garage. You will find them in the refrigerator, in your shoes, in your sock drawer and perched cheerfully on your picture frames. The other night, I went to the bathroom and in the semi-gloom, I noticed a giant bug on the extra rolls of toilet paper. Inwardly screeching, I ran for the fly swatter. After several hits which seemed to leave the bug unmoved, I finally turned on the light only to discover that I had been trying to off a Matchbox police car! I wonder if I can get a ticket for that.

Entertainment is another sketchy thing for the Wildman. While “Monkey George” (Curious George for the rest of us) sometimes gets his attention, it is Paw Patrol that really hits the spot. We have watched so much Paw Patrol at my house this week that his older brothers have threatened to dismantle the television and even I sometimes find myself wishing that the ten-year-old star would drive one of his super-inventive vehicles over a cliff, along with his four-footed canine helpers. We are either watching Paw Patrol or asking to watch Paw Patrol and I have the theme song permanently stuck in my head.

By the time you are three-years-old, you have learned a lot about what you can get away with and what you can’t. Wildman is especially experimental in this regard, figuring that he can play with his older brother’s legos models if his brother doesn’t catch him and he can empty all the drawers in the kitchen looking for his favorite spoon, (it’s a souvenir spoon from Custer State Park) as long as his grandmother is not paying close attention. Once you are caught in your activities, your best bet is to smile endearingly. Wildman has a delightful cheesy grin and I will admit, it has gotten him out of a few scrapes!

Mostly what I have learned this week is that a 68-year-old is no match for the typical three-year-old and in particular is this grandmother no match for the Wildman. We have enjoyed the visit, however, and when he has returned to his more regular house (he has been referring to Grandma’s house all week as “my new house”) I am sure we will return to regular routine around here…but I may spend a week collapsed in a chair, not moving and watching copious amounts of television—and no, it won’t be Paw Patrol!