Monthly Archives: September 2025

A great lady passes

Jackie Wells-Fauth

When I got married, I supposed that I would find my mother-in-law, Millie, to be irritating or at best, tolerable. We aren’t supposed to be all that crazy about our mothers-in-law, are we? That is a normal attitude towards mothers-in-law.

Except my mother-in-law was not at all what I expected. She was, at first, quiet and demure and she did not interfere at all with my marriage. I appreciated her hands off attitude, but it soon became apparent that this was not at all what she was really like. She was not necessarily quiet and demure; she was so sweet and a whole lot of fun to be around.

Her support for me in my marriage and her unwavering friendship have been of great value to me. She loved my children as well with that quiet, always supportive attitude and they grew up appreciating her kindnesses as well. Stefanie wanted her name to be Crystal–she complained to Grandma and the next thing you knew, Stefanie had a T-shirt from Grandma that had Crystal, written in sparkly crystals, across the front. Stefanie was delighted and wore it out. Tracie didn’t care so much for rhubarb kuchen and told her grandma she thought chocolate chips would be better. Grandma quietly made chocolate chip kuchen just for her (nobody else wanted it) and Tracie was charmed.

Nothing she did was splashy. She would come to my house and stand doing the dishes after a meal. That made me nervous, because she was a much neater housekeeper than I. She never said a word about my housekeeping, although I was amused to see her surreptitiously wiping the tops of the cupboards or swiping quickly behind the faucet, places I never got to—but she did it quietly and automatically and without critical remarks and attitudes.

She was a beautiful seamstress, making clothes for the girls, including when she and my mother collaborated in the construction of Renaissance dresses for my daughters.  She also altered just about anything. When Roy had a project, he would say with confidence, “Mom can do this.” She always did. When I could not figure out how we were even going to begin on the wedding dress Stefanie had chosen, I took her with me to Stef’s for a weekend and by the end of that time, just like that, a wedding dress was underway.

She was also a dynamite cook, with a real talent for kuchen. She once made enough for an entire wedding reception, no mean feat, I can tell you! Watching her prepare meals in her spotless kitchen was always an experience. I told her once that I had used her work–fixing and presenting a meal–to my classes as an example of visual artistry. She laughed so hard at that, as she continued to so gracefully stir and bake and boil and peel in her seamless, graceful way of presenting a meal. She once told me that she was not a very good cook, and it was my turn to laugh uproariously. She never thought of herself as talented or skilled, but she was in so many ways.

She was a wonderful painter. On one of our last conversations together, I told her my girls—who both have paintings and many pieces of artistry from her themselves, were having a lively discussion over who would get the paintings she has given to Roy and I.  She responded,  “Oh, well, that’s nothing to bother about. Once you don’t want them anymore, they may not have space for them anyway!” It was amazing that she really didn’t realize that I would lock my children out of my house before I would willingly give up her art works while I’m alive and my daughters will clear anything they have on their walls to hang her creations.

She loved to travel and was still agile at the age of 84, when she determined to climb to the top of the Statue of Liberty for the second time in her life. She made it, too, while I gave up about three quarters of the way and then cursed her for making me look bad. She just laughed and kept on going.

Millie passed away this week, and did so right where she wanted to be, in her own home. Roy and I had just landed in Amsterdam at the start of our long-planned trip to Europe. So, we began our trip by sitting in a Dutch airport, crying copiously in front of strangers. We continued the trip because so much had gone into it and I think Millie would have been sorry to be the reason we ditched and went home, but she was with us the whole way.

 I will miss Millie so much not because she was my mother-in-law, but because she was my friend, my confidante and the most human person I have ever had the privilege to know.

The world is a little poorer now, because a great lady has passed.

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Talk of the Town

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

“I need to get the clothes started in the wash early, because there are a lot of them. I wonder where the dog is. She was just here. I need a new pair of shoes; these are so worn out.”

This was the conversation I was having this morning and it’s pretty normal; just what anyone would talk about…except that I was alone and talking to myself. Go ahead, try and convince me that you’ve never done that! I talk to myself all the time.

“Mrs. Fauth, who are you talking to?” a student would come into my classroom and ask. “There’s no one else in here.”

“I’m talking to myself,” I would answer defensively.

“Don’t do that; it makes you look crazy,” they would chide.

“I love talking to myself,” I told them proudly. “I am the most sympathetic listener I have.”

I’ve always mumbled to myself, so it isn’t a symptom of old age, but my students and my grandchildren definitely think it could be otherwise. I was mentally arranging the things I had to do for the day in my head as I moved around the kitchen during a recent grandchild visit.

“Grandma are you talking to me?” asked my loving grandchild.

“Oh, no, I’m just answering the voices in my head,” I said, trying to make a joke. I’m not sure he got it and I’m also not sure he didn’t contact his parents that afternoon, asking them to come rescue him from the crazy lady!

The fact remains, however, that I have whole conversations with myself and they are usually the most satisfying! I can solve all of my problems and some of those in the world, just with a quiet conversation with myself over a cup of coffee in the morning. “If they would just put a stoplight on that corner, we would have no problems, you mark my word,” I observed one morning.

The dog, who was lying on the deck beside me, picked up her head and looked around for other people. None were there, however, and she is too used to my mutterings to be too worried about it. She went back to sleep while I continued, “I don’t know what to do about that bush. Should I trim it back, do you think? No, that would ruin the looks of it.”

Someone told me once that talking to yourself is not a sign of being crazy. However, if you answer yourself, then you have a problem. So, I have a problem. Because I answer myself all the time. Even worse, I get into arguments with myself…and occasionally, I lose them!

“You need to get that window cleaned, it’s filthy,” I will tell myself.

“I’ll clean that window when I’m darned good and ready and don’t tell me what to do!” I count that as an argument that I won.

Talking to myself in the confines of my own home is one thing, but I have been known to carry on conversations with myself in public places. If you see me out for a walk, I’ll usually be having a lively conversation, complete with hand gestures.

I don’t always know that I’m doing this, but occasionally, I will look up in some public place and see someone giving me a very odd stare and I’ll know that they were in on the conversation I was having about the best pain reliever to buy. Me, myself and I haven’t come to an agreement on that, so we argue it in public a lot.

The other day, I was driving the car down the street (I frequently compliment myself on my driving). On this day, however, I was having a heated argument with myself, and I don’t even remember the subject or which of me was winning. However, I was chattering away and as I raised one hand for emphasis, I noticed the person waiting on the corner for me to pass so they could walk. I quickly paused and indicated that they should go ahead. For a moment they looked at me and then turned around and walked the other way.

“Well, that was odd,” I told myself.

“Oh, I agree. What was their problem?” I answered.

Life is fun when you are the talk of the town!

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Live Long and Prosper

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

My cousin tagged me in a message concerning the fact that Sept. 8 is apparently Star Trek Fan Day. I found this to be a very exciting message—because after all, who doesn’t like Star Trek? Who hasn’t found some version of the franchise to love?

I admit it; I’ve always been a kind of a Trekkie. I don’t dress up like Uhura and attend conventions (I don’t have the legs for that tiny little skirt), but I am a huge fan of the Star Trek world anyway.

I take surveys which ask questions like: Which captain is better? Kirk or Picard? How ridiculous! They don’t even include Captain Janeway, who strode onto the bridge as the first of the female captains. The heck with those men, Kirk and Picard—the journey where no one has gone before got so much better when a woman was at the helm!

I love the imagination it took to create whole new species (all of them suspiciously  humanoid). Who can beat Klingons as warriors in battle and who has the calm reason of a Vulcan, devoid of those pesky emotions?

I know my story lines too. I can tell you exactly the first time Spock held up his hand, fingers spread in a vee and told us to “live long and prosper.” I know the exact moment when the evil, mechanical Borg were introduced to cause havoc among all the “good races,” and I was there, front and center, the first time the Enterprise went into warp drive.

I absolutely love this vision of the future created by Gene Roddenberry. But you know who doesn’t like it? You guessed it! My husband. He is so misguided he would rather watch a football game than be thrilled by the discovery of a ship, floating in space, filled with people in frozen containers.

“Oh, the show’s going to be all about cryogenics,” I squeal, all set to immerse myself in the rigors of outer space.

“The Vikings are on in ten minutes,” he responds, sitting down and reaching for the remote.

“You have to be kidding!” I simply cannot believe it. “You would rather watch the Vikings…a bunch of football players, beating up on each other than watch another exciting episode where Captain Picard and Data save the world?”

“I’d rather have the Vikings beat up on ME than watch Picard and Data do anything,” he replied.

“Some people have no imagination,” I sniff. “Well, you’ll just have to record your Vikings, because I got to the television first.”

“No way! I need to watch the Vikings live. If I record it, someone will report on what happened before I can watch it first hand,” he protested. “No one is going to report on your Star Trek show. Besides, don’t you have every Star Trek episode from every series on DVD? You can watch it anytime.”

It’s a shame. I feel so responsible that he has not learned to love all the wonderful species and exotic places that Star Trek offers. “This is a show about a world where peace and harmony are treasured,” I pointed out.

“For people who believe in peace and harmony, they have some pretty impressive weapons,” he points out as a space battle, complete with exploding space ships, proceeds. “Now, take the Vikings playing football; they understand teamwork and dedication.”

“Oh, live long and prosper,” I snarl, holding up my hand.

“Aren’t you supposed to use more than one finger for that salute,” he asked. “What would Spock say?”

“Spock doesn’t have to live with you and the Vikings,” I grumble. “He wouldn’t be so calm and emotion-free if he did!”

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A sticky situation

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

It was a tricky kind of holiday weekend. For starters, it was cooler than anticipated and yet unpleasantly humid. My daughter and her family were here, so of course, some major issue went wrong in the house because that is how my husband and son-in-law usually spend one of their visits here.

The upstairs toilet decided to spring a leak, causing it to drip downstairs…directly onto the toilet in the lower-level bathroom. What an exciting Labor Day weekend, laboring in the bathroom over a misbehaving toilet! We all avoided the upstairs restroom and made use of the lower level, especially after the upstairs toilet stopped sending down sewer showers!

We waited patiently while the two amateur plumbers removed the toilet (an event in itself), cleared away any debris, applied new adhesives and reset the toilet. Before it was finished, it was supper time and unexpectedly, as happens sometimes, I felt the need to go to the powder room.

No problem, right? All I had to do was go down to the lower-level bathroom and accommodate myself. I didn’t mention that I was going, as preparations upstairs went noisily forward with putting supper on and gathering together at the table. I gave a great sigh and relaxed for a moment on the downstairs commode, enjoying a moment of quiet in a hectic weekend.

It was as I attempted to finish and rise from the toilet that my dilemma became clear. I couldn’t get up. Something had a firm hold on the back of my shirt and it wouldn’t allow me to get up. I tried, unsuccessfully, to extricate myself, but nothing seemed to help. It was in those first moments of disbelief – I could not possibly be stuck to the toilet – that suddenly the door banged wide open, and my four-year-old grandson announced, “Hi Grandma. Whatcha doin?”

He scared the life out of me, but it wasn’t enough incentive to get me loose from the toilet. I heard voices upstairs, calling him to supper and so he turned and ran upstairs, leaving the door to the bathroom wide open.

I know what you’re thinking now: It would be so simple to call upstairs and explain my situation, whatever that was. But the fact that I was sitting there, with my sticky dilemma exposed to the world should everyone come running down, gave me pause. I didn’t want everyone to come flooding down into the bathroom while I was stuck, immovably, on the toilet!

Likewise, pulling my shirt off didn’t seem advisable because I wasn’t sure how I might get myself out of it and even if I could, I didn’t want to walk upstairs dressed basically in my underwear. I continued to wiggle and squirm and try to get myself loose, but that toilet had me in a firmer grip than the loser at a wrestle-mania main event.

It was time to take stock of the situation: I had not told anyone that I was coming down here, and I object to the idea of holding supper because someone is late getting there, so they wouldn’t be looking for me anytime soon. It also seemed unlikely that the four-year-old was going to tell them anything and even if he did, be honest; if a four-year-old were to say to you, “Grandma’s stuck on the toilet,” would you take him seriously?

I figured the older two grandsons, and their father (and maybe their grandfather) would try to get some video footage before they helped me and that thought caused me to make a massive effort and finally wrench myself loose! Heaving a sigh of relief, I washed my hands and ran up the steps, to where everyone was already eating. They nearly choked with laughter as I regaled them with my adhesive adventure.

It turned out that when the amateur plumbers applied serious adhesives to the upstairs toilet, it unknowingly dripped down through the floor/ceiling and settled a little bit on the inside of the toilet seat lid of the lower-level toilet. Now I know there were worse places (and things) that could have been glued together in that incident, but I assure you that five minutes with my shirt stuck tenaciously to a toilet seat lid was more than enough fun for me! Next time, I plan to inspect the facilities a little more closely!

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