Category Archives: Humorous Column

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.”

Jackie Wells-Fauth

We bagged a pheasant this week. And about a month ago, we tagged a deer as well. Now I know perfectly well that it’s not hunting season. Unless, that is, the wildlife is hunting us. Because our method for taking out wildlife is to use our vehicles for the kill; and if we have to sacrifice the motor vehicle, well, that’s just the chance we take.

There is no one out there right now who can honestly say they have never done this, or at best, they have narrowly missed the event. If you have driven a vehicle, you have inevitably played chicken with a deer, a coyote, a pheasant, etc. And while these encounters generally end with a deceased animal, it’s an expensive truth that the vehicle doesn’t escape unscathed either.

It doesn’t pay to take it less than seriously, either. Once, in southern Colorado, we were greeted with a flashing sign which warned: Beware of migrating animals.

I laughed and said, “What are they migrating for? And why do we need to beware of…” I got no further, as a deer leapt from the mountainous forest above us on the driver’s side of the car, slammed into our vehicle, sprinted over the top and without even stopping to apologize, galloped and tumbled down the other side, where there was a very steep slope. We didn’t even have time to ask if she was one of the migrating animals—or if she had insurance.

We spent the next half day of our vacation trying to report our encounter with Bambi’s mother, (the migrating deer) and we became acquainted with the cheerful local mechanic of the area who bent the driver’s door out enough so we could open and shut it and artistically duct taped our fender together. So much for the natural course of nature!

Sometimes, I will see a deer standing on the side of the road as I approach and I know it’s thinking, “Let’s see now, just how close can she get before I dash out and challenge her right to the road. If I can make her slam on the brakes without getting myself killed in the process, all my buddies watching from the ditch will think I’m the baddest deer on the prairie.”

Our latest encounter with the baddest deer on the prairie resulted in the loss of a side-view mirror on our car and a loss of some hide from the deer as he made contact and then fled the scene. Whether he checked into the nearest hospital or just needed a few Bandaids and some aspirin will forever be a mystery.

And as for the pheasant, well that was sadly a fatality. The unlucky bird lost his game of chicken (pardon the expression) and we lost the windshield in our pickup. That was one pressed pheasant on the glass as we were treated to a shower of tiny, glittering glass fragments and cracks in every direction. The pheasant who made this undoubtedly memorable impression could not be found, but we were picking tiny shards of glass out of our hair, clothing, seat covers and even our mouths.

So, no wild game feed from either of our latest hunting trophies, but a lot of repair bills to get our four-wheeled hunting weapons back into shape for the next round of “who’s the roughest and toughest one on the highway?”

Drive with care folks—the next shattered windshield could be your own!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Roy reached over to flip on a table lamp this week and grabbed nothing but air. He was a little surprised, but not a great deal. After all, it’s that time of year.

“Is the lamp going to be making a premier in a play sometime soon?” he asked.

“Two plays,” I answered. “It gets to be in both.”

That’s right, it is spring play time and in the absence of the ability to collect props from other places, I tend to have a lot of my own things making their stage debut in whatever play I have going on. This is not a new situation, as Roy has frequently gone to one of my productions and seen something walk across the stage that belongs to him.

“Now I know where my tool belt went,” he said after seeing one production. “It was on the main janitor in the piece.”

“And looking good; it should really think about a career in theater,” I said encouragingly.

“Yes, but then what would happen to the hammer, nails, screwdriver, file and tape measure that it abandoned on the tool bench? That tool belt has obligations and can’t just run off and join a traveling side show,” he replied. “I presume it will be home soon.”

Normally, that’s the intention, but he hasn’t stopped mourning the hammer (with the red handle) that he claims never returned after its performance in a spring play some years ago.

The closer we come to any production, the less he questions things missing in the house. He remembers to look before he sits down, in case his chair is on stage instead of in the living room. He never questions the fact that he can’t find his favorite mug and he knows that the chimes are missing on the porch because they are delighting a theater audience somewhere.

The opposite can also be true. It’s almost as entertaining to have him come and help me bring things home. As he was loading up the dresses in bags the other day, he protested, “These can’t belong to us. I’ve never seen them before.”

“That’s because they are hanging in my closet, not yours. They belong to our house, their use on the stage is over, so back they go, to hang, neglected and catching dust, in the closet. If you really want to feel like they belong, you are welcome to hang them in your closet.”

Not surprisingly, he didn’t take me up on that offer, but that isn’t the only thing he doesn’t seem to recognize. As we were taking down the little corner table stand, he said, “Well, I know this doesn’t go to our house; I’ve never laid eyes on it before.”

“It has been standing in the corner of the living room for the last eight years. It has a large bouquet of red flowers on the top shelf and a music box that plays regularly on the second shelf. You look straight past it to watch television every night,” I reply. He loads it in the pickup without another word.

The play season is nearly over and for Roy, it’s probably a good thing. We were enjoying supper the other night when the landline phone began to ring.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” he asked as I continued to eat my food.

“I can’t.” I said, as the person on the other end began to leave a detailed message. “The handset isn’t here, and I can’t answer the base. I didn’t have enough phones for the telephone skits in the play so the handset is on stage.”

“Well, I suppose I can use my cell phone until the play is over,” he comforted himself.

“Speaking of your cell phone,” I replied. “We’re still short a few phones, so….”

For the sake of my marriage, play season needs to get over soon!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I spent all the years of my teaching career in the high school. I always felt capable of teaching students who were old enough to tie their own shoes and cut up their own food.

This philosophy has not held true in my days of substituting. Sometimes, it is necessary to hire a teacher to substitute who is not—shall we say—skilled at the art of elementary education.

Every time I am in the younger grades, I am reminded of my deep admiration for elementary teachers. Their jobs are complicated in ways that high school teachers don’t face. In addition, the maturity level of their charges is much more delicate, in my opinion.

The first time I substituted in a kindergarten classroom, I lined them up to go out for recess and then took a good look. Most had coats on, but few were buttoned or zipped. Gloves and hats were not properly fixed, and some had boots on while others didn’t. High schoolers frequently don’t wear winter things at all, even on the coldest days, but any who do would not thank me for helping them button or zip up their coats and hook their boots. That recess was cut short because the teacher had to run down the line and get everyone ready. By the time we were dressed for outside, it was nearly time to come in. And of course, they needed just as much time to get out of their winter wraps!

I made a note to not sub for the kindergarteners, but then I waded right in with a second grade classroom. They had an art project the day I substituted. They were to make snowflakes from cooked spaghetti, glue and glitter. I have since seen the project properly done, but that day, I had no idea and neither did the second graders. What resulted was a bunch of limp spaghetti, tortured into shapes that looked like dark symbols of antiquity, drenched in glue and glitter. I have since become friends with the teacher, but I don’t think she has ever gotten over my lack of ability to conduct a second-grade art class.

After that, I kept my resolve for the sake of all those little ones who cry when they see a strange face at the teacher’s desk.  I accepted sub work in the high school and even the junior high and prayed that no one in a math class would ask me any questions.

That is, until recently, when I hit a new low in subbing for the younger elementary. I accepted the challenge of a half day in a first-grade room. How bad could it be? I couldn’t do that much harm in just half a day, right?

At first, it went pretty well. I read them a story and then we worked on a packet which had to do with shapes. I went about the process wrong, but veteran first graders who have spent almost the whole year adjusting to routine, will soon put you in your place. We were well on the way to successfully finishing out the day when snack time arrived.

Now, in high school, snack time is non-stop, all day long and they serve themselves. I’ve never had to worry about which snacks to serve and the beneficial qualities of any of them. But first graders understand the concept of snack very well and they are also keenly aware of what works and what doesn’t.

We spent quite some time debating the merits of bananas or Oreos or Goldfish or Fruity Pebbles bars (I didn’t know there was such a thing.) I stood there, with some of everything in my hands, drowning in the 15 opinions of 15 first graders as to what we should have. Pandemonium reigned as they shouted that they needed healthy and unhealthy snacks and that they needed a choice. I had begun to think “take it or leave it” was going to be the choice, when I was rescued by the young art teacher, who, trying to set up a lesson, shoved two things in my hands. I went around the room, serving snacks and feeling like teaching Shakespeare to seniors is a real snap, compared to snack in first grade.

The knowledge that I flunked snack was reinforced at the end of the day, when one youngster slipped a hand in mine and said quietly, “You were a good substitute…except for snack.”

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I walked into a store the other day while it was still pretty early in the morning. The doors were open and the lights were on, but  there were no customers except me, and worst of all, there was nobody at all in sight.

There was a ladder in the aisle I needed to go to and it looked like someone was interrupted while stocking shelves. It began to feel a little eerie. But, once I selected what I came in to get, and went up to the counter, I thought someone would surely appear: no, still pretty quiet, with me beginning to feel like the world had departed without leaving a forwarding address.

It was then that I began to replay all the murder mystery documentaries that I’m hooked on, in my head.

“At 9:40 am on a casual Tuesday, a local housewife walked into a small store and received the shock of her life. Calling out in the echoing silence, and walking through the deserted aisles, she heard nothing but the clapping of her own footsteps. Following some unexplainable instinct, she proceeded with pounding heart, to the back of the store where to her horror, she discovered the broken and bloodied body of the unfortunate clerk.” (Cue blood-curdling screams.)

Or, the much worse scenario, “Unnerved by the silence, she turned to flee the empty store, and was bludgeoned to death by the killer, who was still lurking in the silent aisles. (Cue sound of body hitting the floor.)

Fortunately, I had simply missed the on-duty clerk working in the store, who was nearby and she immediately came to help, so both of us ended the encounter alive and upright and certainly not the subject of a grisly documentary.

It started me thinking about my television viewing habits and how they might be affecting my wild imagination. I really do love documentaries of all kinds, but I find I also enjoy murder mysteries as well. Everything from Jessica Fletcher cleverly solving murder in the violent town of Cabot Cove, Maine, all the way to the investigative skills of Tom Barnaby who lives in Midsomer, England, undoubtedly the bloodiest district in the whole of the United Kingdom!

When I think of my fascination with these shows, I am a little bothered by the fact that I have become hardened to the idea that someone must die for these shows to work. “Oh, that woman is a real pill. She’s gonna die.” I can always pick out the victim. And that bothers me less than it should.

Probably worse is my enthusiastic attitude towards documentaries; history, ghosts and crime. It reminds me of the comedian who said, “As my marriage goes on, I find I annoy my wife more and more and she watches more and more murder documentaries. I hope the two are not connected.”

Because of this kind of television viewing (and although I do watch a lot, I don’t think Roy needs to worry) I run a lot of weird scenarios in my head. A strange sound late at night and I know there’s a ghost or a serial killer in my basement. A procession going by on the street makes me wonder how they will write this historic moment into a documentary.

Best of all, if you watch enough television, you never have to go to the doctor for diagnosis again. You just need to call them up, explain that the pharmaceutical commercials told you what disease you have and that all the doctor has to do is fill out the prescription.

Now that spring is here, perhaps I’ll get away from the television and get out and enjoy the fresh air. “At 10:30 on an ordinary Friday morning, a local woman went out for a walk. Alas, this decision would prove fatal…”

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Years ago, a government teacher explained the difference between the Russian KGB and the American CIA in the following tongue-in-cheek manner: “The American CIA is in charge of finding people and things and the Russian KGB is in charge of making them disappear.” I don’t know whether I accept all of that, but it was a simple enough explanation.

I’ve thought about that a lot over the years, though, and it occurs to me that in a past life, I must have been part of the Russian KGB. While fortunately, I have never technically made any people disappear—a few might actively avoid me—I make things disappear all the time!

These thoughts were in my mind this week because in addition to locating my keys and phone on a daily basis, I have managed to lose two pairs of scissors, a tape dispenser, two small knives and the lids to about 15 Tupperware-type containers. If I have the lid, you can be assured that I have no container for it!

While I was in a frustrated hunt for about a dozen socks in legal separation from their mates, I received a message from my cousin, Kristi, asking if possibly one of her blue washcloths might have gotten into my suitcase after a recent visit.

This is a bad thing because currently, I have in my eclectic towel collection a blue hand towel that turned up several years ago and I have two washcloths that I cannot identify as mine—neither one blue, though. This evidence, and my past life as a KGB agent probably mean I had some involvement in this latest towel-napping!

In order to see why this missing washcloth is important, you have to understand the meticulous housekeeping methods of Kristi. This is a woman who never allows dirty dishes to stay in her sink—some of mine are permanent residents there! She has dishes that match each other, and all of her glasses are of the same style. Some of my glasses are from the collection of Mason fruit jars!

She has high quality towels, and they match each other. So, when she puts a set of towels out, they are the same color and style. That means a missing washcloth throws off the whole ascetic. Now, I didn’t deliberately take the blue washcloth, and she is obviously not likely to call the cops to report it, but my Russian KGB gene could definitely be the cause. I have been carefully shaking out all of my laundry, for fear it will show up here (I’m hoping it will turn up under her guestroom bed or hanging off the deck or something) and I would have to admit that the KGB had struck again.

Forks at my house disappear like they are being swallowed with the food, and I have an inordinate number of bottles of aspirin because all I have to do is touch one and it immediately disappears only to reappear when I have bought a replacement bottle. I guess that makes me the KGB and the CIA!

I can make a remote control disappear without any effort and usually, unless they have made a trip down the crevice of a piece of furniture, they never appear again. The only time my KGB heritage doesn’t work is with clothes. I have clothes in my closet that I don’t even remember buying and some of them make me wonder if I was drinking when I selected them. I try to make them disappear, but my skills don’t work on them. Hangers, however, disappear right and left and they never return!

I haven’t re-discovered the missing washcloth, and I wouldn’t worry about it if it didn’t ruin a towel combination and if I didn’t have the sneaking suspicion it will turn up someday in my cupboard when I have completely forgotten where it came from.

In the meantime, I am headed to the store to buy a new garbage can for my sewing work. I know, I know, that seems like a rather odd thing to make disappear, but the fact is that it is gone and it’s not down the crevice in the couch, either. Maybe the washcloth is inside and my time as a Russian KGB agent will go on!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

It should be clear to anyone who sees me on a regular basis that I will never take the world by storm with my fine fashions. I see clothes as a necessity so that I don’t offend the human eye with a look at what is underneath. Beyond that, clothes don’t really concern me a great deal.

It’s not that I don’t admire fine clothes, I’ve just never had the ability to pick the color and the style that would best enhance me. And, as the years have gone on, it just became imperative to buy things big enough to cover me.

About a year ago, however, I had an intervention concerning my size which was staged by my right leg. That may sound funny, but it is very true. I was having trouble with my left knee which made it necessary to put all the weight of my body on my right leg when I stood up.

The first time I transferred all that weight to the right leg, it responded with, “All right, I think we need to have a little talk. You need to lay off the doughnuts or I’m going to lay off of you.”

For the next three weeks, that leg held protest by hurting worse than the left knee and so I came to the sad conclusion that at least some of me had to go.

Now, for anyone who has tried to lose weight, you know this is no easy accomplishment. I was used to my three helpings at a meal and constant snacking, not to mention my favorite thing: soda pop. I did some research and discovered the things that were the worst for me: sugar, salt, bread, fried foods, etc. In other words, anything I liked was bad for me. I could have fruits and fresh vegetables, but then what was my reason for living?

So for a year, now, I have been trying to school my voracious appetite, eating less at meals, avoiding the sugary snacks and having a messy divorce with my Pepsi…or at least a contentious separation. And all of this just to placate my right leg which didn’t appreciate carrying so very much weight!

Losing weight has been interesting – notice I didn’t say fun- and over the year, I have had some success. Like any addiction, I experience backslides. Occasionally, a Twinkee or HoHo will just be too enticing and I have to start all over again, convincing myself that those carrots are just as good.

The side effect, of course, has been what has happened to my clothes. As time has gone on, I’ve discovered that my clothes are fitting differently. My favorite fat clothes won’t stay in place anymore and pretty much everything else is a little looser than it used to be. I was told repeatedly that the best thing to do was get rid of all the fat clothes, but I have not done that for two reasons. One, I like those clothes, even if they are kind of baggy now. They stretched with me over the fat times and they deserve to hang around now. Reason two, of course, is that with all weight loss, it could easily come back. If my right leg is not vigilant, I could slip back into old habits and then I’ll need those clothes.

This attitude did not please my Aunt Jean. If you knew this lady, you would know that she valued good appearance. And when she saw me after a long period of absence, I think she was a little chagrined (she never got to angry or horrified) to see me wearing my beloved baggy clothes. The only pants I’ve completely quit wearing is the pair that will no longer stay on when I stand up. Everything else is still serviceable in my mind, but not in Aunt Jean’s.

She had a hard time figuring out a way to broach this subject, since she is, above all things a very polite and correct woman. And sadly, this last month, we lost her at the age of 91.

In her honor, I have begun working on getting clothes that are less baggy, but probably no more fashionable than ever. But it will always hold a special place in my heart that her last concerns for me were about the clothing of her most unfashionable niece.

 The last words my Aunt Jean said to me as we parted for the last time were concise and to the point. What did she say? “Go shopping.”

Alright, Jean—but I’m not getting rid of my fat clothes!