Monthly Archives: June 2025

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I’ve been doing the research, and I can see the signs, you know. I think, based on my findings, that my marriage is about over. I have been a student of history all my life and the examples of good women doing what they can for their husbands is daunting, to say the least. And I really don’t think I would measure up to their standards.

For example, look at the women who were at the Alamo. They were given chances to get out before things got so grim with Santa Ana moving in. The majority of them stood by their men. I’d have had ten suitcases tied to one mule and made my grandsons walk on their knees so they wouldn’t look old enough to fight, as I fled the premises like the craven coward I am. Should Roy have wanted to stay, I’d have left him with a fond farewell and a package of bandaids. Doesn’t sound quite like a devoted wife, does it?

Then, there’s Dolly Madison, who, fleeing the British during their 1812 invasion of Washington, D.C., stayed long enough to rescue items out of the White House…for her husband and her country. Don’t tell the really civic-minded people, but there’s another case where I would have thrown my clothes and shoes in a convenient pillowcase and hit the road for my husband’s fancy plantation, and if the British chose to burn George Washington’s portrait, I’d have felt bad, but I would have left them to it. If my husband wanted to save the artwork, he’d have needed to oversee that himself. There’s a reason I wouldn’t be a good look for Roy if he chose to run for President!

Roy is well-aware of my narcissistic approach to marriage. Recently, he had a bad cold—so bad, that in the end, I made him go to the doctor for antibiotics. However, I also wore a mask anytime I was near him and spent most of my time yelling, “Don’t touch that! I have to use it and I don’t want your germs!”

“If we’d been on the Titanic, you’d have left me to drown, wouldn’t you?” he said, coughing and wheezing as he made his own breakfast, while I hid in the living room, holding a towel over my masked face and trying not to breathe.

“Of course I would have!” I exclaimed in disbelief. How could he think otherwise?

“You know, there was a rich guy on that ship—Strauss, I think his name was—whose wife chose to stay on board with him when he would not get on a lifeboat. What about that?” He reached for the silverware drawer to get a spoon.

“Don’t touch that handle! Can’t you just drink your cereal? And then be sure to throw the bowl away. And as for Mrs. Strauss, she missed a real opportunity there. Not only could she have lived to marry again, if she wanted, but she would have had plenty of cash, too.”

“The magic is really gone, isn’t it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I read just the other day about a siege that took place in what is now Germany during the 13^th century. They permitted the women to leave the fortress with whatever they could carry. They chose to carry their husbands out. That’s devotion.”

“So, you’re saying you would have carried me out?” he asked skeptically.

“Well, no, but I’d have wanted to. I’d have felt bad leaving without you.”

Eyeing me up and down, he remarked, “Of course, those women were probably younger and a lot more fit than you are.”

Yup, it’s not moonlight and roses around here anymore. But as for the marriage being over, well, I don’t think I’ll let him off that easily!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

“Grandma, my brother ate all the toaster strudels, and he didn’t even ask if anyone else wanted any,” was a familiar tune at my house last week, letting me know it was grandson week at the Fauths.

It has been a visiting tradition of such long standing that I can’t remember the first time I had grandsons out in the summer for a week, but I’m pretty sure they were still in diapers to start with. It is important to me that they come and that they want to come, but when they do, I am always reminded of a friend who once said, “I love it when my grandchildren visit; and I love it when they go home!”

My boys are good men, and the week is always filled with little projects, or computer games or kite and plane flying. They are full of exciting conversations, adventurous stories about their previous school year, and the best games of War go down during boys week.

This time, we hit the river for swimming (they like it, but always feel Splash Central is better), had several meals out at my favorite places and made it to the traditional supper and a movie. We also played non-stop Minecraft, worked non-stop with Legos and watched Trash Truck until I didn’t even mind that the garbage truck (the star of the show) donned a tutu and did ballet with his little human friend. I will admit I’m still having disturbing dreams about it, though.

Because there are three boys now and one of them is four and a half, interactions were sometimes tense.

“Emmett, you are an idiotbutt,” one would say.

“I am not an idiotbutt,” protested the youngest.

“Aha! You said idiotbutt, I’m telling Mom,” exclaimed the last one.

By the time I had called for silence to point out that everyone had said…the forbidden word…the irritation level was high.

On the ride home, the four-year-old discovered that he could irritate his older brothers by tooting like a train. This went on for about 50 miles before the two older ones finally cracked under the strain and eased their shattered nerves in a name-calling contest with each other. That’s when I made my mistake.

“Okay, you two are going to say something nice about each other or not talk,” I declared, raising my voice over the tooting.

“You are nice,” snarled one of them.

“You are awesome,” spit out the other.

“No way, you are going to say something specifically nice about each other,” I declared piously.

The 12-year-old snapped his jaws together and looked out the window.

“Well?” I said to the older one.

Through his teeth he growled, “Give me a minute, I’m trying to think of something!”

It was at this point the car began swaying dangerously. I looked over and their grandfather, at the wheel, was convulsed with silent laughter.

It was then I wondered how many years I’d get if I smothered them all with a pillow or shoved them out of a moving car. I would accept whatever sentence the judge wanted to impose…as long as he/she sat in a car and listened to a four-year-old toot like a train for 50 miles first. I would want to establish state of mind!

The boys have gone home and my house is so silent and non-fun. It really was a wonderful week and I’m looking forward to the next visit. I decided that in honor of them, I would eat the last two toaster strudels.

“Hey, you ate the last of the toaster strudels and didn’t even ask if I wanted some,” I said to Roy while staring at the empty box.

Boys week is always better if we have learned something new to fight over!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

All right, you will have to endure one more comment (or article) about my recent excursion and then I promise to be done. I would be remiss if I did not mention that as big an adventure as eating is on a vacation, motels and airports can be just as exciting.

First, a word to the airline design people: Perhaps, as you design upcoming airplane seats, you might try not to make them the consistency of the wooden benches in the park. All that’s missing is the slats!  It wouldn’t be so bad, but while I am taxiing out on the runway, squashed in between two other people, sitting on a hard plastic bleacher, the last thing I want to hear is, “We will be delayed for one half hour due to weather.” When they said that, I wanted to holler, “Let’s go now anyway! Take the chance! Anything to get me off of this ceramic tile I’m sitting on!”

Beyond that is always the issue of baggage. Can you take a roller bag, or must it be a back-pack only? In order to fit everything in a backpack, I would have to go without clothes. There are two things wrong with this: 1) The world isn’t ready for that and 2) The amount of sunscreen I would need would bankrupt me.

In addition to all the other issues surrounding baggage on a trip, I seem to be a bit of a security risk. On the last two trips where we have taken baggage through the passenger check-in, we have been flagged. Both times, it was because we had a tube of toothpaste that exceeded limitations. You’d think we’d learn, but no, we would rather become the Bonnie and Clyde of the Colgate Smugglers’ Club. In addition, I have been tagged for having too many keys (they thought it was knives) and having too many souvenir magnets. The security clerk dug them out of the bag and stood there, holding a whole wad of refrigerator magnets for places like St. Augustine’s Pirate Cove and Savannah’s Dolphin Watch. He looked at me, I giggled nervously and said, “I like magnets.” He had just dug through used tissues and dirty underwear to find them. He was not impressed.

I especially like the musical chairs that airlines play with passengers. I suppose they figure, “Hey, we got them here at 4:30 am, made them strip down and go through an x-ray machine, let’s see what else we can get them to do.”

On our return trip this time, we were up and on the way to the airport at 5:30. By 7:05, when the plane was supposed to depart, we had been informed that we would be delayed for an hour and a half for what they termed “a security and maintenance sweep of the plane.” This rather unnerving situation lasted for about an hour and then they changed our gate number…it was a big airport; we went a long way, complete with train rides. When we were not quite at the new gate number, they sent us another message: Just kidding; you are to return to the first gate and a different plane. By the time we took off, four hours late, we were tired, sweaty and in a bad mood to endure the 8-hour layover we had in Denver. By the time we finally landed in Minneapolis, even the rats had given up and gone home.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention our hotel rooms. We had some very good ones and others where a good spray of disinfectant wall-to-wall would have been a good idea. My favorite, however, was in Atlanta itself. After realizing that we had been put in a handicapped room when we had not requested one, we set ourselves to enjoy the very fine atmosphere.

That is, until we saw the READ THESE INSTRUCTIONS notice on the back of the door. It gave specific, explicit instructions on what you should do if the hotel was on fire. Included were instructions for feeling the door and for putting wet towels around the cracks to alleviate smoke and of course, the standard—Do not use the elevators. (We were on the fourth floor.) Two things were written in capitals and bolded: DO NOT GIVE UP; WE WILL GET YOU OUT and ABOVE ALL THINGS, DO NOT JUMP.

I know most hotels have these instructions because they must. However, after reading this unsettling notice, I lay down for the night. About 12:30 am, the smoke alarm went off and because we were in a handicapped room, we were also treated to wild, flashing red and white lights.

The alarm was in error, but I did not sleep the rest of that night. I kept smelling smoke and if I drifted off to sleep, I dreamed that General Sherman was marching back to Atlanta, but this time, he was only going to burn down the hotel where I was staying!

Time to leave “the land of cotton!”

Jackie Wells-Fauth

One of the most interesting things that happens on any vacation is the many adventures that take place in restaurants. If you want the true experience, you have to avoid the McDonalds and Denny’s restaurants that you can see anytime, anywhere. However, this also means there is some risk involved in feeding yourself.

On our recent vacation, we had a number of interesting dining experiences. Some of them were absolutely wonderful and others had to be written off as “taking a risky eating dive.” This includes not just the food, but the atmosphere as well.

For instance, our first meal on our trip was in a major US airport. We were late arriving and none of us wanted to wait until we had found our luggage, rental car, directions to our hotel, etc., to eat. So, we took advantage of some of the eating establishments we found along the concourse hallway.

“There’s a Panda Express,” Roy said at about the same time as his sister said, “There’s a Popeye’s.” The beauty of this situation is that everyone was able to select the food they wanted. The problem? These places did not provide seating. So, we had our Panda Express/Popeye’s at the “Gate D84 with service to Charlottesville, VA, Restaurant.” While we felt a little funny, sitting among passengers getting ready to depart, dribbling our crumbs on their carry-on luggage, we were too hungry to care. The good news? There was no need for a tip!

The eating spaces in hotels which provide continental breakfast can also be interesting dining experiences. Our first morning out, we went expectantly down to eat, hoping for something besides tepid milk (and coffee) and a dry roll. We got far more than we expected because we got a breakfast floor show. While eating our bagels and jelly, we listened to a chirpy young woman who spoke cheerily with everyone who passed until, for reasons known only to her, she addressed a gentleman with hands full of toast and juice, “You can’t sit here.”

It so happened that the gentleman objected, vigorously to her remark and proceeded to explain, in very colorful language, why he could sit there if he wanted. It escalated quickly when she responded, borrowing some of his more explicit phrases. We were afraid we were going to get the deluxe performance (fisticuffs and police intervention) but fortunately, they each delivered a final comment on the other’s character and stomped out. End of floor show and we hadn’t even bought tickets.

We continued on our holiday and for several days, we were blessed with excellent food and comfortable atmosphere. We even enjoyed a sandwich lunch at a cute little restaurant in Plains, GA that we convinced ourselves had once enjoyed the patronage of Mr. Jimmy Carter himself. We took pictures, anyway.

The highlight of our dining adventures, however, came from an evening when we were late arriving in the city and we were starving. We first came upon a hotel (not ours) which offered several establishments of fine dining, including a hamburger spot. But when we tried to pull into the parking lot, we were blocked by a gate demanding money. My brother-in-law refused to pay $35 in parking to eat a $10 burger, so on we went, on a wild ride, finally ending up at a local bar and grill, whose main attraction was that it was open.

We stepped in and quickly deduced from the psychedelic wallpaper and music from a play list that was marked by its vulgar references and incredible volume, that this was probably not our normal type of establishment. We ordered some food at the top of our lungs from a waitress who was probably thinking the same thing about us and prayed that we had heard each other right. After a while (and the food took a loooooonnnnngggg time to come) we were reduced to sitting silently nursing our migraines and entertaining ourselves by reading the signs—such as: “Do not smoke marijuana in here.” Fortunately, we had not connected with our drug dealer and so we were not able to light up. We tried not to gobble our food when it was served to us at Table 13 and before you ask, no, we didn’t stay for dessert!

We had so much good food in so many fun places over the time we were on vacation that we are all going to have to diet for the next month, but one thing is sure: Eating on vacation is always an adventure.

Jackie Wells-Fauth

It is a fact, and I have admitted it before, that Roy and I differ greatly on how to pack for a trip. He’s concerned with mass; while I’m concerned that I get all my brushes and bottles and hats and shirts on the trip.

Now this problem isn’t so big when we are taking a road trip. If it fits in the car, it goes. However, when we take an airplane trip, things are a little different. Roy becomes the man who wants to take as little as possible so that he doesn’t have to carry too much and he doesn’t have to pay the exorbitant prices to check bags.

“What are you doing?” I walked into the laundry room where we store our luggage to find Roy nearly upside down with a tape measure wrapped around a bag.

“I got the measurements for the suitcase that we can carry on and I don’t know if this suitcase makes it. Do these measurements include the wheels on the suitcase or not?”

I couldn’t answer that question, but before I took the wheels off of the suitcase, I’d carry my vacation clothes dragged along behind me in a gunny sack. We have learned the hard way to never travel with any kind of bag that doesn’t have wheels.

On a recent trip to Denver, we decided we could go with a smaller case and not have to mess with a larger one with wheels. About halfway through the massive Denver airport, Roy stopped and dropped the bag to the floor, indicating we were going to rest.

“What’s in this suitcase anyway,” he panted, red-faced and breathing hard. “Surely two changes of clothing don’t weigh that much.”

“Two changes of clothing?” I laughed. “Surely, you’re kidding. I have at least five outfit changes because I never know what I will feel like wearing. Then there are the books.”

“Books?” he questioned (a little sharply, I thought.) “What books?”

“I have four books in the bag, of course. I have one for mornings, one I prefer to read at bedtime and two for spare.”

It was at this point, a helpful woman stopped beside us. “It’s so much better if you use a suitcase with wheels.” She waved a little and went on down the aisle, rolling her bag and having no idea how close she came to being hit with a bag full of books.

So, now Roy is measuring our suitcases with the wheels and trying to determine what will meet the dimensions set out and what won’t. At the same time, I am trying to estimate how much I could cram into the “carry-on” bag that was to fit under the seat in front of me.

“Okay, we are going to go with this bag,” Roy announced. “Hopefully, it will meet the dimensions. How are you coming with the carry-on bag. Remember, no books.”

I gave him a steady stare.

“All right. Two books. What else?” he gave in with ill-grace. “What else have you got in there?”

“Well, just all my medications and supplements. And then my heating pad and back brace; you never know when you might need those. Then, I have lotion, because a lot of times those hotel showers dry out the skin. I also have two hats and sunscreen for hot weather and a jacket for cold weather.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes, except for several magazines—they’re not books–and then I have some extra underwear, cause you never know.”

“Fine,” he grumbled. “But if we run into Mrs. Helpful and her wheeled suitcase again, she may find out that we pack our suitcases with a punch.”