Category Archives: Humorous Column

November 9, 2015 · 2:56 pm

Pumpkin Pie, Anyone?

I have stated so many times that I am not a cook. I don’t enjoy it, I’m not imaginative and in fact, if I can just get it from the freezer to the table without over-salting, over-sugaring or over cooking it, I figure I’m doing pretty well.

Why then, do you suppose I undertook a major cooking from scratch project? It’s easy. My sweet little grandson looked at me with those big beautiful eyes of his and said, “Grandma, I want a pumpkin pie from a pumpkin.”

I’m sure his parents are capable of it, but Grandma, who is seriously off her meds sometimes, decided that it was her duty as a card-carrying grandma to make that pie. After all, how hard could it be to make a pumpkin pie from scratch?

Well, as it turned out, it was pretty tough. I forged ahead nonetheless. First, there was the selection of a pumpkin. I went to the store and tried to determine which of those giant ribbed orange monsters looked the most pie-like. I selected a medium-sized one because everyone said that was going to be more than enough pumpkin.

Lacking the sense to just labor in silence and see what I could do, I immediately posted a picture of the pumpkin on Facebook, inviting the little boys to try and guess what Grandma was going to bring them. They guessed that Grandma was bringing a big pumpkin. I should have left it at that.

I cracked open that pumpkin and went to work. I hate taking the seeds out of a pumpkin. It’s slimy and stringy and there is no tool that ever does the job, so I always end up having to use my hands. With a little effort and a lot of swearing, crying and grasping slippery seeds with my fingers, I finally had the darn thing gutted.12190797_975568235814940_5887003693112475364_n

Then came the baking. I put the pieces on a pan and in the oven. About 10 p.m., they were mostly done. I turned off the oven and thought, “I’ll watch the news and then take them out and put them in the garage to cool overnight.” The news wasn’t terribly exciting and so I fell asleep in the chair. About 1 a.m. I stumbled out of the chair and went to bed. The baked pumpkin wasn’t in the garage.

The next morning I rushed around, went to work and about 10 a.m. or so, I remembered my baked pumpkin, spoiled and by this time probably molding in the oven. I got home, flung open the oven door and there they were, looking slightly depressed and smelling—not in a good way. They hit the garbage and I hit the grocery store.

I had a struggle with myself at the grocery store: should I buy another pumpkin or pumpkin in a can? I remembered those trusting little boy eyes and bought the pumpkin. I cleaned another slimy set of seeds and baked it…sitting next to the stove this time.

Then came the task of getting that pumpkin into something like pie-baking texture. This proved tricky. Not only did I have to run it twice through a mixer and a blender, I failed to put the top on the blender for one round before I turned it on puree. The walls, my clothes and my glasses all looked like they had the orange measles. Two days later and I am still combing pumpkin blobs out of my hair.12195090_976443442394086_5417765234042510412_o

The pumpkin at last had the look and consistency of strained baby carrots and I was able to stir them up into a pie-like substance. The baking is done and the pies are ready to try, but I don’t know: Do you suppose I should taste them in advance or let the grandsons take their chances?

Royce - loving the pie!

Royce – loving the pie!

© Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In the Well, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In The Well with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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November 2, 2015 · 10:17 pm

Confessions of a secret Vikings watcher…

My mother raised me right…honestly she did. She taught me that football was a rough game and better left to men to play and watch. For many years, I never had a problem. My father watched the Vikings through thick and through thin, but I always managed to maintain an aloof attitude against the players in purple.

Then I married a man who was an even bigger Vikings nut than my father. It matters little or nothing how the game goes, Roy sets up a row that can be heard through windows and down the block. If they are winning, he is cheering and crowing and if they are losing, he screams so loud that his hunting dogs run for cover.

Needless to say, Sundays in the fall are not designated for a peaceful afternoon nap. Nor is it possible to do any housework which requires noise. My only option, then, is to sit in a chair and wait for the football deluge to be over. On the good days, when they win, it becomes a cheerful evening.

But there are not enough of the winning days. The Vikings, while a tough team, of course, have a tendency to snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory. When they do that, life is sad at our house. We discuss and review and rant about every play. We go over and over the points where they messed up the most and any other topic is not interesting enough to divert the mood.

So, over the years, gradually, I have found myself watching the game, hoping against hope that Bridgewater connects with Peterson and the blocking is good and they make the scores. Walsh has been having a sketchy year with those field goals and extra points and several players, whose names I can’t keep straight, have the following issues, “butter fingers, blind eyes, and numb brains.” Sacking the quarterback is good when the Vikings do it and not when the Vikings have it done to them.

I now know far more about football than I ever intended to. I don’t laugh at the jokes any more, “I’m having the Vikings as my pallbearers so they can let me down one more time,” or “Why do the Vikings wear purple? You’d be purple too if you always choked.” I know the names of many of the players and I even know the coach is Mike Zimmer.

The Secret Vikings fan at a game in the old Metro Dome

The Secret Vikings fan at a game in the old Metro Dome

All of this was still on the fringe of my consciousness until today. Today, the Vikings were head to head with the Chicago team (I believe they are the Bears) when a pass from Bridgewater hit a player far down field right at the close of the game.

I jumped up and shouted, “They got it! It’s close enough for a field goal to win the game. Now Walsh had better hit it!” I immediately slapped a hand over my mouth and looked around. Roy, who can yell pretty loud, had been outshouted and was a little stunned. The dog was hiding behind the chairs. My book and my sewing, both of which I had been trying to do, went skittering from my lap across the floor when I jumped up.

So I guess there’s no more hiding it. Apparently, I have fallen into or been sucked into the trap of cheering for a football team and of all the teams, I had to cheer for the Vikings. I thought friends didn’t let friends become Vikings fans. Is there a support group for this?

© Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In the Well, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In The Well with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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October 26, 2015 · 2:46 pm

Exercise….bah, humbug!

I read an article yesterday telling me how to exercise intelligently so that I will be slim for the holidays and not need to make the traditional New Year’s Resolution to exercise more. I laughed till the tears ran down my face and into my cup of hot cocoa.download (4)

In the first place, I don’t have any ambition to be slim for the holidays and in the second place, if I make a New Year’s Resolution it will be to find more time for naps!

It did get me to thinking about my sedentary lifestyle, though. I am prone to lying prone on my couch or my bed and I may not get enough exercise. Maybe I should worry about that.

The article recommended that I keep a journal of my exercise for a day, a week, etc. That seemed like a good idea, so I began to keep a record. It looks a lot like this:

Monday: Spent twenty minutes going up and down the steps to the laundry room several times. I wasn’t doing several loads of laundry—I would get to the bottom of the stairs with all the clothes I was washing and then I would remember something else and have to run get it. Surely going up and down the stairs several times constitutes exercise…my mind is weak but my body is strong.

Tuesday: Spent the day walking from one end of the school to the other. Not because I was deliberately exercising, I just made the mistake of sending my class on a fact finding project and then realized that the fact was I would find them all over the building. Hustling up and down halls in search of suddenly released children will work up a sweat.images (4)

Wednesday – Spent all of Wednesday evening chasing a small dog around the house with the flyswatter as she chewed up one item after another that she was not supposed to have. I don’t think the dog is at all concerned about my exercise, but she does contribute her share to keeping me active.

Thursday – I spent that evening exercising my arms. Well, I exercised my legs a little too. Okay, so I sat with my feet up and guzzled iced tea all night. We can’t exercise every day right? I wonder if this is what the article meant by justifying my lack of ambition?

Friday – Okay, on Friday, I had a good excuse. On Friday, I have to watch Hawaii Five-O and Blue Bloods; how in the world could I exercise?  I did do a bit of a run, though. I ran to the bathroom and ran back to the television so I wouldn’t miss the show. Surely that counts?

Saturday I did a lot of walking. I swept and mopped floors. Then, I cleaned the bathroom and did an accidental Pilate. That was painful, so I had to sit and do some heavy breathing for a while. Then, I dropped a meat tenderizer on my foot and I did a lot of energetic hopping around. That was kind of exercising, right?

Okay, okay, so I need to do more for exercise, I get it. I just don’t like all the sweating and huffing and puffing that goes along with it. And if I don’t want to be slim for the holidays it’s not that urgent. But when it comes to New Year’s Resolutions—maybe I’ll just resolve to avoid magazine articles that talk about exercise. Yeah, that’s a good one!

© Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In the Well, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In The Well with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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October 21, 2015 · 3:58 pm

Just a quiet morning on the weekend…

It was a day to sleep in. It was Saturday, my daughters were home and we had stayed up too late the night before. They had a long day of travel ahead, so they were hoping for a few extra winks of sleep. Easy, since it was Saturday, right?

Not so easy. I had to be up early for an event of my own. Since I don’t have a large house, anyone up early can create issues. But I am the quietest member of the family when it comes to rising early. There was no need for anyone else to worry. I could get up and get out of there and no one would be disturbed.

I showered the night before, laid out my clothes so there would be no running of water and rummaging for fresh underwear and socks. I had even set out my breakfast bar, so I could just grab it and go. Everything was perfect.

Except I reckoned without my nightstand. You wouldn’t think a nightstand would be noisy and really, it wasn’t. The alarm on it went off, however and in reaching over the stacks of books, crossword puzzles and magazines scattered on it, I managed to knock the clock on the floor…still blaring. With a curse or two (out loud), I finally located the plug and jerked it out of the wall.

While I was doing this, my nightstand pitched my glasses to the floor as well, just for fun. Now I was in the dark, blind without my glasses and afraid to get out of the bed for fear I would step on the glasses. So, I reached down, practically standing on my head and felt around for my glasses. My reaching around grunting and groaning helped me locate my glasses and just as my hand closed on them, I rolled out of bed head first and hit the wall. Now I was upside down in the dark with no glasses. Worst still, I was no longer the only one awake.

“What are you doing?”I don’t think Roy meant the question that way. I think, still half asleep, what he really meant was, “Be quiet!”167957_617720307556_2635020_n

I managed to get myself upright with my glasses on and went in the dark to locate my clothes, which were on the dining room table. I still couldn’t turn on lights because one of my daughters had stretched out in a recliner because of a sore shoulder. She was still asleep, so I reckoned to dress in the dark in the dining room.

I heard Roy go into the bathroom, so I thought I’d just go in there, close the door and turn on the light and then I could get ready in the light. Roy wouldn’t care. So I went in, closed the door and my hand was on the light switch when I heard my oldest daughter say in the dark, “Excuse me, I’m in here.”

She didn’t sound too wide awake either, but I left her alone and went back to the dining room and woke up the third sleeper—the dog in her cage. The dog began to bark, so I decided to let her out. I dressed while she was outside and when she came back in, she immediately ran over to the recliner and brought my other daughter out of a sound sleep. She was not grateful to the dog or me.

After locking the dog downstairs, I decided that the best thing I could do for the household was to get out, so I did. I got into the car, backed it out and then realized I didn’t have my purse…and I had no idea where it was. I had to go back in through the basement to get a flashlight, which started the dog barking again. Then, I had to flash the light around in all of the rooms where there were people trying to sleep, attempting to locate the purse. I finally found it behind the computer in the dining room (I don’t know why it was there), just as my daughter from the recliner asked in a sleepy but aggrieved voice, “Are you sure it’s even in here?”

“It’s okay, I just found it,” I whispered, “I’m just going to leave now, so you can go back to sleep. Have a good day.”26496_590999231806_7679522_n

“Too late,” came grumpily from the chair as I shut the door. So that was my not so quiet morning on a Saturday. Better luck next time!

© Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In the Well, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In The Well with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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October 19, 2015 · 3:43 pm

Pheasants, beware!

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Martin & Roy, with their roosters, 2008

It’s pheasant season in South Dakota. No, no, you don’t understand. It’s PHEASANT season in the state of South Dakota. We have about as many pheasants in this state as we do people. Well, that’s not really true—there are many more pheasants.

This time of year, however, those pheasants had better watch out. I visualize two pheasants meeting in a corn field.

“Hey, Phred, I would have thought you’d be gone by now,” says one, looking around nervously.
 Pheasant

“Why, are they planning to pick this corn field soon?” answers Phred, looking suitably interested.

“Oh, no, that’s not it. Haven’t you heard? It’s time once again for those guys in the bright orange to start shooting at us,” says Phil, lowering his voice to a whisper. “They’re always so mad at us male pheasants this time of year.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed they’re never shooting at the women,” Phred said with some bitterness. “Why is that?”

Off in the distance, they suddenly hear the boom of guns and the baying of the dogs.

“Quick, get out of here, they’ve brought the great barking beasts from hell with them!” Phil exclaims, as both of them take flight out of the corn field.

For anyone not involved in pheasant hunting, let me tell you that in South Dakota, this is a season that is bigger than Thanksgiving and New Year’s combined. There are more family gatherings (complete with weapons), more parties, more traveling and more kinds of fun involving guns and ammunition than you can even imagine.

Blaze orange is the color of the hour and dogs suddenly become the most valuable possession anyone has. 1909653_530935265476_9290_nI have personally never shot a pheasant, I usually bag my limit using the front end of my car. They don’t, however, sell an official license for that and I don’t usually wear the traditional orange hat and shooting vest for it.

The fun and excitement of this season can overshadow professional football games, deer season and even school and work. I know of many people, especially at the beginning of the season, who suddenly contract what I like to call “pheasant phever” and miss a day or two of their responsibilities, just to slaughter a few more pheasants, who would seriously prefer they would just go to work or school!

Pheasant season ends right after Christmas when the avid hunters will pack away their orange garb and oil up and securely store their hunting weapons and dream through the long winter nights of the next hunting season.

So happy hunting, all, and pheasants beware; the hunters are out there. Get your families together and find someplace safe, and may the barking dogs never find you!

© Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In the Well, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In The Well with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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October 13, 2015 · 3:26 pm

Confessions of a Junk Food Junkie

It’s early on a weekend morning. I have my bowl of skim milk over shredded wheat in front of me with a tall glass of iced tea beside it. I have done my Yoga stretches and meditation and I have my copy of Dr. Oz’s article on how to slim down fast ready at my elbow.  I’m ready to enjoy a calm, healthy day.

But it’s all a lie. My ability to enjoy a healthy day is pretty much non-existent. I should be at one of those addiction meetings saying, “Hello, my name is Jackie, and I’m a junk food junkie.” If it’s food that’s bad for you, I’m the first in line.

My husband once told me that the amount of money I have spent at Burger King should have meant that I owned stock in it. But they have the greatest whoppers in the world…if only they didn’t feel compelled to put all that lettuce and tomato on it. Although, I can count that as my fruits and vegetables for the day, so the whopper is actually kind of a health food, right?

In truth, however, it’s not Burger King that has the most addictive junk food. I love, love, LOVE the French fries at McDonald’s. When I go to McDonald’s and order a meal, it’s just a socially acceptable cover. When I order a Big Mac and they ask that oh-so-famous question:download (1) Do you want fries with that? I just snort and reply, “I want a Big Mac with my FRIES, you mean!” Someday, when I no longer care about my heart or my cholesterol or whatever, I’m going in and order five servings of French fries—no hamburger, and I’m going to add, “Supersize that!”

I’m no safer from fast food in the grocery store. I don’t buy Oreos; I buy double stuff Oreos. No sense in getting too much cookie in that! I eat bread, but only cinnamon bread—with lots of frosting. No HoHo is safe in my vicinity and I have never been known to pass by the Snickers counter without taking home a few souvenirs. You’ll find me many times in the aisles of a grocery store trying to score extra bags of M&Ms and chips in the family sized bags.

Drinks are no better. If it was up to me, they could pour all alcoholic beverages in the sea and I would be unmoved. But if you start dumping the Pepsi overboard, I’ll dive in to save it. Any place that wants me to regard them as civilized will have to serve Pepsi, and if they want me to come back, there will be free refills. I’m not hooked on coffee (which has considerably less calories), I’m hooked on Pepsi! I’ll drink Coke when I have to, but it’s never as satisfying. Places where I am a frequent customer bring me a Pepsi without having to ask any awkward questions.545010_850822029836_1082733874_n

So as you can see, my weekend morning’s picture has a few flaws. Because if you look closer, you might find that the milk isn’t skim and that the shredded wheat is heavily laced with sugar, the iced tea will not make it to the bottom of the glass before it’s replaced by a Pepsi, the Yoga session lasted almost four minutes and I’m reading Dr. Oz’s article “How to Slim Down Fast” because I always enjoy a good laugh! Hello, I’m Jackie and I’m a junk food junkie!

© Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In the Well, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In The Well with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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October 7, 2015 · 1:59 pm

Serving two helpings of sick for supper

I have a recurring fantasy. I will be on my deathbed, ready for my final words of love and affection from my family. Roy will lean over the bed, take my hand tenderly and whisper in my ear, “What were you thinking about fixing for supper?” That is, if he lives longer than me…which he won’t if he asks that question too often.

Everyone knows that not only am I a mediocre cook, I also don’t much enjoy it. Somehow, when Roy and I got married, I must have missed the part which said that I would do all the cooking. The sad part of this is that Roy is a much better cook—he just hates it even more than I do.

Over the years, it has been his mission to make sure I end up with the cooking. He happily mows lawn, tends garden, even does some laundry. But inevitably, no matter what, he asks that question: “What are you planning for supper?”

It doesn’t matter the circumstances. I have come home at 9 o’clock at night, dragged in the door, dropped my things and been ready to follow them down and he will be sitting at the empty table and no matter how dangerous I might look, he always sings out, “What are you planning for supper? I’m starved!”

His perseverance in this little ceremony even extends to illnesses. I can be laid out on the bed, wheezing like a noisy radiator, smeared in smelly Vicks and he will come in, look me over and say, “What will you be fixing for supper? Soup would be good for you.”

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Dinner preparation of the sick…

I sniff up the snot sliding down my nose, slurp up the drool that has been coming from my mouth and suggest that he do something with himself that is anatomically impossible. He leaves and inevitably I will feel sorry for him and go out to fix him something. He never seems to mind eating a meal that has been fixed by his disease-ridden wife and even worse, he never seems to get the disease!

The only thing he invariably agrees to cook are steaks on the grill. First, he loves steak. Second, he thinks it’s expensive meat. And third, without even trying, I burn it on the grill more often than I don’t. So, if I really want the night off of cooking, I am likely to propose steaks on the grill. It’s the only time I hear those magical words, “I’ll cook it.”

So, that’s actually going to be the end of that final fantasy. When Roy leans over to ask what’s for supper, instead of saying, “I’m dying, you insensitive rat!” I’m going to reply softly, “Well, I was thinking I’d make steaks on the grill one more time.” He will stand up, head for the door, and announce to anyone listening, “Where’s my lighter? I’ve got to get that grill warm before I start the steaks.”

© Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In the Well, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In The Well with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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October 6, 2015 · 12:03 am

Not making the connection

I’m having my hearing tested as soon as I can. On a not-so-related-note, I had about five seconds of panic that my husband might be cheating on me. And, on a note which will appear to be connected later, I’m ripping the phone off of the wall.

One of the worst things about telephones today is the advent of the tele-marketer. I’ve tried to be patient because I know this is not an easy job, but I think some of them are a real annoyance.

I answer the phone and a loud boat whistle goes off in my ear and I hear that I have been selected to be the winner of a free cruise. I usually hang up before I’m instructed to press “2” for more details on how I can reveal personal information to get the fictitious cruise tickets.6a0120a85dcdae970b0120a86db463970b-pi

Then there are political commercials. I don’t care what political party you are from, what special interests you espouse or what religious affiliations you might follow. When it comes to these political phone calls, I’m ready to vote for Putin as president of Fantasyland! The least they could do is have the courtesy to give me a real person to hang up on, instead of a recorded message.

But I digress from today’s exciting adventures! Tonight, I was watching television at an admittedly high volume when the phone rang. I debated with myself, but finally opted to answer it. First mistake.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” answered a sweet, female voice on the other end. “May I speak to Roy?”

“I’m sorry, Roy is not at home, may I take a message,” by this time, my mind was back on the television show I was missing and I wasn’t listening too closely.

“This is Roy’s wife,” said the sweet young voice.

A silence….a very long silence, while I tried to make sense of the idea that Roy’s wife had called Roy’s wife to let Roy’s wife know that she was, indeed, Roy’s wife.

My voice dropped into a few degrees of ice. “I’m sorry, who are you looking for?”

“I said, is this Roy’s wife,” she replied, prepared to launch into her sales pitch.

It was at this point that I hung up the phone, not because she was particularly annoying, but because I’m now concerned that my hearing might be going.

So, tomorrow, I’m going to call for an appointment to have my ears checked. Then I’m ripping the phone out of the wall….and Roy just might want to watch his step!

© Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In the Well, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In The Well with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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September 30, 2015 · 4:15 pm

Forget me not…for I may forget you!

You know, even those of us who are not so unlucky as to have Alzheimer’s, may have our own little problems with memory. And I’d like to say that my memory problems have become an issue with age, but that’s not true, either. I just have that unorganized kind of mind that makes a good memory very difficult.

There is a commercial on right now, cautioning about the symptoms of Alzheimer’s in which a woman is trying to find her keys and her husband discovers that she has put them in the refrigerator. keysThe caption then reads, “If you place things in unusual places it may be the symptom of early onset of Alzheimer’s.” If that is so, I have been in the early stages of that unfortunate disease since I was about 15! In fact, when I am looking for a misplaced item, the refrigerator and freezer are some of the first places on my list to look!

I admire people with perfect memories, I really do. It’s just that I can’t always remember why. In any given week, I can forget any number of things. My students love it when I forget to ask for homework that they may have forgotten to do, but my dentist and hairdresser are not nearly so fond of the fact that I forget those appointments.

This week, it was intended for me to bring some food to church for the coffee hour. I bought all kinds of cookies and breads to deliver, put them in the car so I would remember to take them to the church before I left town for the weekend, and then left town in the other vehicle. When I came home, it was entirely likely that I can no longer go to that church, but it is also true that I will remember the bread and cookies for a long time, because they ripened unfortunately in the warmth of my car over several days!

I do have tricks to try and help my flabby memory. I make notes and use sticky-note paper to put things up all over the house. Things like, “Be certain to put clothes in the dryer so you have underwear for tomorrow,” or “Turn the roast on in the oven or have raw meat for supper.”

I put kettles on to boil and then get busy elsewhere and don’t remember them until the smoke alarm jars my recollection. I like to watch old movies on television and I’m always delighted when I find one I haven’t seen before. Of course, halfway through I frequently find that oh, yeah, I have seen this one before, but luckily, I have no recollection of how it ends, so it’s all brand new again.

The good news is that my poor memory has remained in the same condition since, oh, I can’t remember when. I can always hope that it doesn’t get any worse, but as I move into old age, it may be that I start putting bigger things than the keys in the freezer…like the cat. Until then, I guess I’ll continue to enjoy life as it is, as long as I can remember why!

© Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In the Well, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In The Well with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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September 28, 2015 · 7:10 pm

Road Trip!

It was going to be a fun weekend. All we had to do was get in the car and drive, make it to our destination and then relax. And who doesn’t love a little road trip?

That’s not how it went down at all. First of all, we debated about the vehicle to take. The red car was too splashy—what if the cops were out? Well, then we should take the vehicle with the least splash—the black pickup. Packing it was a little tricky, because everything we put in the back rolled clear up to the front of the pickup bed, forcing us to crawl on our old knees up to the front to get it.

We finally got going and headed east out of town. This turned out to be a bad idea. As we passed the school we realized with the flashing yellow lights, that school was still in session.

School Zone!

School Zone!

What we didn’t think about was that the flashing yellow lights also meant that we should be reducing speeds to a crawl to accommodate the school children arriving at the school.

We had just registered this idea when a different set of flashing lights appeared in our rear view mirror and in the next few minutes we were being treated to a lecture on what the yellow lights meant in relation to our speed, which, in our defense, was well under the regular speed, but not slow enough to avoid a ticket.

We set out on the road trip once more, with $185 dollars less in our pockets and a somewhat dampened enthusiasm for the fun, but what the heck? We could still have a good time. That is, until we ran into the road construction. Road construction is never fun, with all those detours and orange cones, but this time it was worse than normal because it was one of those sit in a line and wait for a pilot car things and it was a long, LONG wait.

Summer in SD - Road Construction Season!

Summer in SD – Road Construction Season!

We were already officially late to meet our traveling companions, but the 20 minutes we spent staring at the impassive face of the flag person standing in the middle of the road holding a stop sign and the further 15 minutes it took to follow the pilot car through a five-minute section of road meant we were truly late.

When we finally met our traveling companions, we decided to take their car and it was one of those that beeps, has flashing lights and various other annoyances to let you know when you are getting too close to the edge of your lane. I always thought those noisy ridges were enough. Six hours of having my inability to remain between the lane markings was enough to make me ready to crash that noisy, nerve-wracking vehicle into a wall to see what lights and whistles would  go off then!

The weekend went pretty well, but anyone who thinks that a road trip might be fun and relaxing should probably re-think their plans…or at least their preparation for the trip!

© Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In the Well, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In The Well with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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