Monthly Archives: November 2024

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Right now, everyone’s celebrating the holiday. That one we squeeze in between trick-or-treating and Christmas. This is the one where we give ourselves permission to stuff ourselves and then sit around afterward discussing key issues like, what’s for sale already for Black Friday and whether it’s okay to have the Christmas tree up while the Pilgrim statues are still decorating the mantle.

People may not realize it, but Thanksgiving is actually a very divisive holiday. It’s divided between those who can cook and those who believe that God invented TV dinners for a reason. It is on Thanksgiving that we separate the chefs from those of us who made a last-minute dash to the store for two-day old buns and a can of black olives to take to the annual event.

The day will come, I know, when I will not be able to accept someone’s generous invitation to Thanksgiving dinner, but I am not looking forward to that day because that is when I will sink irrevocably into that world where you “microwave on high for four minutes, stopping halfway through to stir the potatoes and turkey—separately.”

It’s not that no one tried to teach me to cook. But you have to have two things to learn to cook: a certain amount of aptitude and a great deal of willingness to do it—itude. I believe that from the start, I did not possess either. I would be content with a piece of toast and a fried egg for every meal…if only I could fry an egg. It’s sad, but when Roy wants a fried egg, he makes it himself, knowing that’s the only way it will not come out burned and slightly scrambled.

But back to Thanksgiving. You may think, as some do who have tried to encourage me, that I just don’t apply myself. But the truth is, I am highly intimidated by some of the cooks around me. And…yes, I don’t apply myself, either.

“Try some of the cranberry-apple resole, I made with fresh cranberries,” someone will say.

Fresh cranberries? I get my cranberries jellied in a can as nature intended. And I’m not trying anything whose name doesn’t appear in Webster’s standard dictionary. So, I missed out on the cranberry-apple thingy, but at least I kept my dignity, right?

As for stuffing, aside from the fact that I object to that much bread in one single sitting, I have a great deal of trouble with how it’s prepared. No, I do not wish to sample your great aunt Bessie’s stuffing, when it has to be shoveled out of a turkey’s butt to be served! And that is not just me being bitter because I can’t make a stuffing that anyone will eat, regardless of where it reposed during baking!

Obviously, the fact that I have failed this Thanksgiving test a great many times, causes people who do invite me for a meal to be less than enthusiastic for me to bring anything.

“I could bring a pumpkin pie,” I will offer, half-heartedly.

“Oh my, no,” the hostess will stammer, “I’d hate to have you go to that bother.”

“Are you sure? I think they are on sale at Kessler’s. Would be no trouble to go pick one up.”

Even if I’m bringing it from the store, most hostesses will turn it down. That’s fine, it saves me the trouble of shopping and it saves them the worry that I’ll take some wild notion in my head and make it myself. I have nightmares about making dinner rolls that turn out to be rocks or a macaroni salad loaded with mayonnaise-covered mystery lumps, and usually that’s enough to get me out of the notion of actually cooking.

So, I will continue to view Thanksgiving as the ultimate cooking test that I have failed and I will count myself on the side of those who are always asked to bring some paper cups or napkins but never Grandma’s homemade fudge! While it is a divisive thing, I think we will all survive it, especially after a good meal. And rest assured that my lack of cooking skills will continue to horrify others and be perfectly okay with me!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I’m the first one to admit that my household is a little disorganized. I have often thought it would be better if I hired someone to clean and organize it regularly, but I’m afraid a professional would take one look at the blankets and throws all over the living room and yarn scraps from sewing projects throughout the house and run screaming into the night.

And so, I go on, year after year, wallowing in my disorganization and losing things right and left because of it. Or at least, that’s what I always believed. I figured that some higher power just liked messing with my mind, and rearranged things throughout the house. That explains the loss of things like scissors and ink pens.

I have a project that needs gold-colored yarn and I cannot find any in the house. So, I buy some and then, of course, the higher power places the missing yarn someplace quite ordinary, like the plate cupboard, or the freezer.

I have tolerated this circumstance because everyone assures me they have the same problems. Needles go missing, socks constantly lose their mates and finding a hairbrush is frequently so difficult, I have learned to comb my hair with my fingers and I have convinced myself that it looks just as good!

Everything was fine until the knives. Now, I have lost many pairs of scissors. It seems when I need a pair of scissors, there is never any around. I end up using a small knife or just as often my teeth. I can accept that scissors pack up and move out of the house, but now my knives have gotten into the act.

I bought a couple of knives a while ago that were really quite expensive because I was tired of the knives that cut so poorly I could chew it better and  more smoothly. Those two knives were great and I used them for everything. Then, one by one, they silently disappeared into the night. Frustrated by bread that got mashed and meat that wouldn’t slice, I got a couple more knives, not so expensive, but at least temporarily sharp. They, too, disappeared into knife oblivion.

All the dull knives have remained and they are only good for causing cuts on my fingers as I sort through the drawer, looking for knives which can do anything besides cut me! I was debating about whether I should be shopping once again, for knives that can do kitchen work, when I happened to overhear a program on television that made me stop and think.

It was while I was in the living room, digging carefully through the furniture looking for both my scissors and my missing needles, that I overheard a man describing his experience with what he termed to be ghosts.

“My knives slowly started disappearing. No one seemed to know where they went,” he drawled. He had my attention.

“Before I knew it, all the sharp knives in the house and some scissors and a bunch of large needles had mysteriously vanished. I looked everywhere, I asked every one and no one could answer the question of where they went.”

By now, I was sitting in a chair, hanging on his every word. What happened? “Did you ever solve the mystery?” the interviewer asked.

“One night, I woke up in the middle of the night and I was pinned to the bed with my sheet, which had every sharp utensil that had disappeared in the last year holding the sheet to the bed all around me. Those ghosts were sending me a message and I left that house quickly.”

What? Ghosts were collecting all the sharp objects? Did that mean I was going wake up some night looking like the knife act in a circus show? I told my husband the whole story.

“Well, it seems more likely to me that he should check out his wife,” was his reply. “Besides, I have problems of my own. I can’t find my hatchet anywhere.”

Okay, that’s it. I’m packing up and moving out until that ax reappears…someplace other than in my bed!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Things have apparently become desperate for the deer population. This week, a member of that species checked into the city drug store by way of an unscheduled dash through a plate glass window. Didn’t do the window or the store a lot of good and I don’t think the deer really enjoyed itself either.

I don’t think the deer said why he was there, but one can draw the conclusion that, with all the hunters in town, he was probably after some tranquilizers for his nerves. In any case, by the time he had crashed in through one window, checked out the merchandize in the store (maybe he was Christmas shopping?) and crashed out through a second window, he was probably in need of medication of some kind!

Deer infiltration is a pretty common occurrence for those of us who live in South Dakota, and once in a while, they will take a stroll down city streets where they almost always come to grief or cause it, anyway. Whether it’s a foray through someone’s garden, hoofprints through the flower beds or a walk on the wild side of a road, they are always with us.

I don’t need to tell any of you, either, about the rigors of driving down a road in the gloaming, searching for a deer, well-blended with the scenery and unwise enough to play “chicken” (if you’ll forgive the term) with the motorized monsters on the road.

Imagine, if you will, a gathering of deer in the ditch, observing the lights of oncoming traffic. Merwyn, the lead deer, is gauging speed and distance before he decides on a plan of action.

“Now, I’d watch it, there, Merwyn, that car is coming fast. Don’t get cocky,” says his brother.

“Yes, Merwyn,” his wife chimes in. “You be careful on that road; you’re not as young as you used to be, you know.” She screws up her face unhappily as she sees him standing, debating. “Remember, if you try it, the children will all think they should too,”

“I have been dodging these things for years, Mildred,” he counters. “There’s an art to it. I know just when to…”

And away goes Merwyn and the next thing anyone knows, Mildred is holding a roadside memorial over the moldering remains of the unwise Merwyn. Meanwhile, the driver of the car is being told it’ll cost $6,000 to remove the Merwyn-shaped dent from his vehicle.

In South Dakota, a deer dead on the side of the road because it lost a game of Russian Roulette is almost cliché. No one mourns the death, just the damage. But, in some of my travels, I have encountered places where they treat the deer like a precious, endangered species. A sign in Florida said, “Have a care for our deer friends.” That is not a problem—I don’t have any deer friends, and I only care for my property!

They might not think they are so precious if they have my experience. Their “deer friends” have caused two of my car doors to spring when they ran into them, one hood to need replacing after a deer did a handspring roll over it and a few side mirrors have disappeared because deer paused to check their hair as my car passed.

While cars are the biggest target, this week’s shopping spree on Main Street is proof that nothing is sacred. Deer tend to make themselves at home, no matter the inconvenience to us and the danger to them.

Still, it might be that we don’t have it as tough as we might have. My aunt still wins first prize in the wild times with wild life as she tells the story of living in the mountains and opening the patio curtains, thinking the dog was outside. Instead, a full-sized bear stood on its hind legs and pounded a rhythm on the glass.

She wins the wildlife stories, but a deer through a plate glass window is a close second. Nice going, Merwyn’s brother, I hope you didn’t cut yourself—or maybe I do!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

It’s been a rough couple of weeks. I was feeling pretty miserable with an ugly cold and then Roy made it so much worse.

“I want to check myself for Covid,” he said, holding his head and laying back in the chair. That got my attention. When Roy feels so bad, he wants to undergo actual tests, that’s quite a thing. I wasn’t worried, though. After all, Covid is long past—right?

I kept hoping he would test negative—but he didn’t. And so, that meant that I had to test and of course, I also had Covid. Talk about regressing immediately into the past a few years! (Where DID I put those masks????)

The worst part for me is calling the people I have been in contact with to let them know I exposed them. It’s always an awkward conversation. It’s not like we’re used to giving people heads up on our health issues. “Yeah, I just thought I’d call and tell you I have the diarrhea and an uncomfortable rash right where I can’t scratch it.” But with Covid, we feel an obligation to let them know what’s coming.

Luckily, we were not greatly inconvenienced or made too ill by this round of the disease, but it was a subtle (or not-so-subtle) reminder that the pandemic, much as we want it to be, isn’t quite over. We were forced to confront the harsh truth that life will probably never go back to pre-pandemic proportions.

Before Covid, I never really noticed if someone was coughing. They could cough up a lung and I would not react. Now, if someone clears their throat, I want to put on a full haz-mat suit and drench myself in Purell.

We have stopped regarding the handshake as a form of greeting and begun to see it as a hostile attack. Before Covid, we laughed at the germophobic detective Monk, seeing his exaggerated fear of human contact as something ridiculous. Since the pandemic, it’s difficult not to look upon him as the prophetic poster child for fighting disease!

As a student of history (and long before the pandemic hit) I read with fascination the accounts of the Spanish flu epidemic which hit in the early 20^th century. I sneered a little at these people who couldn’t find a way to control the spread of a simple disease.

 After Covid entered our lives, I began to understand the problem. I listened with great interest to the lady who got on television and read a list of “suggestions” for how to avoid the spread. One of the suggestions was to avoid putting your hands near your eyes, nose or mouth. Then, she promptly licked her finger to turn to the next page of her notes! Okay, maybe I understand better now.

Before the pandemic struck, it would not have occurred to me to get up in the morning and go to work by staying in my house. Terms like lockdown referred to prison riots or airport security. Since Covid rolled over us, most people got the opportunity to scramble through their homes, eating breakfast at a dining room table that was turned into a glorified office. Before Covid, I would have thought “working at home” meant stuffing envelopes or doing hand sewing. But now, people are still frequently working at home offices, using a computer to do business and the joke about holding a meeting in your suit jacket and Santa pajama pants has become old.

I’m not really sure where I’m going with this…just a line of thoughts on how one single but deadly infection could so change our lives and outlooks. We live in a world where infection from colds and flu was carelessly spread for all of my youth and adult life. When I went to college, they didn’t cover the complexities of teaching a classroom full of students with all of us masked like we’re robbing a bank. “You gave the right answer. Which one of you said it?” Likewise, I never took a health class where they taught you a song by the singer Lizzo to help you wash your hands long enough to get them germ free…My hands are cleaner, but I discovered that I’ll never be much of a singer!

I learned so much about the difference between pre-Covid times and the post-pandemic world, but what I apparently didn’t learn well enough was that despite all the wonderful things the medical community and everyone else have done, Covid is still out there—maybe not as predominant as before, but definitely still visiting me when I let down my guard. Cough carefully everyone, and make sure you wash those hands for 20 seconds!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

“If you know the extension of the person you wish to speak to, dial that now,” came the automated voice over the phone.

“I don’t know who I need to speak to, I just need a person,” I replied, still not getting that I was talking to a phone robot and one who didn’t really care about my problems.

“In a few words, state what you need from our facility,” was the next instruction.

“I NEED TO TALK TO A PERSON,” I don’t know why I was shouting; it was not so much because I was angry; just because somehow I thought the robo voice would respond better. I was nervous; give me a break.

“Please state, in a few words, what you wish to speak to our people about,” was the repeated instruction, and because even a robo voice knew they were dealing with the simple-minded, they went on, “For example, do you want to update an account, open a new account, have billing questions…”

“I want to talk to a person about my account,” I shouted; by now I was convinced that I was not going to be talking to a human being anytime soon.

“We apologize for any inconvenience, but there is no one who can assist you at this time,” the robo voice intoned without a hint of apology. “We recommend that you visit our website or call our 1-800 number.” The next thing I heard was dial tone.

This is not a new event. The advantage to living in a small town has always been that I could walk in the front door of the business and talk to real, live people who give every indication of being willing to help me with whatever the problem is. So I guess I’ve been spoiled.

Any business that must be done long distance—and that happens a lot—leaves us at the mercy of an automated phone system which doesn’t care if their bad attitude and limited responses make us mad.

As an older American, I am less than comfortable with the technological advances that spring up almost hourly around us. I have already stated that my children are much better at figuring out technology than I am, but this is of no concern to the companies who rely more and more on the robo voiced phone receptions which handle the high volume of calls. The older the American, the more likely that these phone experiences don’t go well.

The website visit for me is always just as useless as my conversation with the automated voice. “Click on the box at the left side of the screen for a list of options.” I followed these instructions. None of the options took me to a place where I could get information for my account.

“We have a different address than the one you gave,” is the message which comes up when I try to identify myself. This is a problem: I’ve only had one address for the last 30 years. That might explain everything—I’ve been living under a false identity at a false address, no wonder I can’t get a response to my problems!

In the end, I called the 1-800 number. After answering a long series of questions and responding to a special code that they sent and I repeated back to them, I finally got to speak to an ACTUAL PERSON! Judging by her voice, she was somewhere in the south, but when we finally got down to my problems, she was able to help me fix it. I was so thankful, I couldn’t tell her enough how grateful I was.

“Oh ma’am, you are so welcome,” she drawled with her honey voice. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“Yes, tell me how I can get a hold of someone at the branch of the office that is in my area. They keep hanging up on me,” I whined.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s the new automated phone system,” she explained. That much I already knew.

“When they ask what you want, just say, ‘Branch manager,’ and you will get a person in the most local office to you,” she went on to instruct me. We parted on very good terms.

Several days later, when another issue appeared, I was confident of myself. I now knew what to do. I called the most local number and waited while the robo voice greeted me and asked me to state in a few words what I wanted.

“Branch manager,” I enunciated proudly.

“We apologize for any inconvenience, but there is no one who can assist you at this time,” intoned the robo voice. My reply was highly emotional and slightly profane. But by then I was speaking to dial tone.