dropsinthewell

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I am fascinated by the number of different therapies and treatments and tests out there to determine whether or not two people are likely to “make it” through the harrowing years as a married couple. There is a very simple way to determine whether a couple might be suited: send them to the grocery store!

Roy and I answered questions during our pre-wedding council about hobbies, religion, family outlook, etc. But nowhere in those surveys did they ask the most important question: can you grocery shop together without the authorities being called? For us, early on, we discovered that the answer was no!

Our first and only trip together ended in disaster. And it began so well: Roy pushed the cart and I checked the list. “We should get some peanut butter,” I said, crossing it off the list and reaching for a jar.

“Why are you getting that kind?” he was immediately questioning.

“It’s the best kind,” I was amazed he had to ask.

“It’s also a dollar more than that other stuff and that would work just as well,” he said, pointing to the bargain brand. “Peanut butter’s peanut butter.” Now, there’s a philosophy that won’t stand the test of time…and neither did the bargain brand peanut butter!

From there, things just went from bad to worse. The type of mayonnaise I had always purchased was overpriced. The potatoes (potatoes, for crying out loud) were less expensive if you bought the larger bag. In vain did I argue that they would spoil before we could use them all. Three aisles later then,  I was not surprised when we bought the 25 pound bag of rice because “it’s the best deal.”

Never take an accountant with you, as I did, because this man possesses the ability to calculate how much the tuna is per ounce, per can, in his head…very quickly. It was both amazing and frightening.

For us, as the years have gone by, grocery shopping has become my job and I conduct it with all the finesse of James Bond on a mission. Rather than encourage Roy to come to the grocery store with me, I will tell him I’m off to have an affair with some man somewhere, and he pretends to believe me. Our marriage is more likely to withstand that than another conjugal grocery shopping trip!

While I’m at the grocery store, I see both men and women doing the shopping; some are even brave enough to bring their children, but seldom do I see a married couple. Even if one of them has to wait in the vehicle, most couples will do that rather than risk having the local supermarket named in their divorce suit.

I have seen couples fight practically to the death over such things as: Should we buy the more durable plastic plates or the more environmentally friendly biodegradable plates. That argument degenerated into a shouting match. They left without either one as she said to him, “We wouldn’t need plastic plates if your family weren’t such pigs,” and he replied, “This conversation is over, tree-hugger.” I’m hopeful they didn’t go straight to the lawyer’s office from there.

It’s plain to see that a true test of marriage is a trip to the grocery store, by both people. If you can survive that, and most people can’t, you can probably endure anything. As for me, I’m going to continue to be careful. Yesterday, while Roy was napping, I quietly put on my coat and grabbed my purse.

“Where are you going,” he murmured sleepily from the chair.

 “I was just going to check and see if any of the neighbor men are home and their wives aren’t,” I said, preparing to close the door.

“Oh, okay. Pick up some bread, will you? And I think we are probably low on cereal as well,” was his reply as I headed out. Yes sir, our marriage is strong, I tell you!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Most people are aware that I have three grandsons, but I bet those same people are not aware that I appear to have two granddaughters as well.

I say I appear to have two granddaughters because at the beginning, I was not aware that this was the case. In the beginning I thought my younger daughter and her husband had acquired a couple of cats and I must admit that is exactly how I regarded them.

But in Tracie and Charles’ house, these cats, two girls named Haru and Mako, are most definitely the grandchildren of that branch of the family. The “girls” as we call them, are adopted children, joining the family one after the other. They are like most siblings in that they get along sometimes and sometimes they don’t.

I didn’t give them a lot of serious thought, however, as I entered my years as a grandmother. I know I was grandmother to Royce and then Arthur and then Emmett, but it never occurred to me that I was also grandmother to others.

It is my custom when on vacation, to send postcards back to the boys, to let them know we are thinking of them. On returning from a vacation, we were discussing the postcards the boys had received, when I was brought up short by my son-in-law, Charles. Keeping a most solemn face, he said to me, “The girls didn’t get any postcards.”

How silly! To think I would be expected to send postcards to a couple of cats, one of whom hides herself when “Grandma and Grandpa” are visiting and the other who guards her resting spot on her cat tree with a swift hiss and a set of fine claws. The girls wanted a postcard?

Okay, I went home, picked a couple of postcards from the local drugstore in Miller, filled them out (“Having a wonderful time here in Miller, wish you were here,”)  and sent them to “the girls.” The proud parents were happy. They took the postcards, taped them to the cat tree and photographed the girls with them. While “Mom” and “Dad” were satisfied with the postcards, the looks on the cats’ faces were more expressive of boredom or indifference. However, I was assured that the girls were thrilled and everything was good.

The following vacation, I simply bought five postcards and filled them out. I didn’t allow “Cat Grandpa” to fill the girls’ out because he thought it would be funny to give them a picture of a coyote and tell them it would eat them, or a picture of a panther and tell them that was their real mother and they had been kidnapped at birth. I don’t know if they would have been traumatized by it, but I’m pretty sure Mom and Dad would.

This last Christmas I bought inexpensive Christmas music boxes for “the boys” and Tracie got that same serious look on her face and said, “The girls like music.” Okay, that’s ridiculous. Are you telling me those cats love music so much they would like a music box? What, do they go out and carol to the neighbors at Christmas?

So, I bought another Christmas music box, knowing the girls wouldn’t care. And you know what? They liked it. They didn’t break into Christmas carols, but both showed great feline interest in the music box.

Okay, I give up. I have become grandmother to two cats. However, that will be where I draw the line: three boys and two cats. When I saw my older daughter Stefanie’s dog, sniffing around the music boxes, I set her straight at once. “Oh no, poochie, I may have two cats in line to inherit the family silver, but I draw the line at dogs. Enjoy your doggie treat and be happy.” You have to be firm with these four-footed family members!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I went to the dentist a week ago and something very weird happened. The hygienist looked in my mouth and said, “Good job! I don’t see any issues here.”

I nearly had an emotional meltdown all over her dental cleaning tray. That hasn’t happened before.  In fact, my association with dentists has not been a pretty one.

And if you look at my teeth, you can see why.  Years of dental neglect have given me battle scars:  fillings, crowns, implants and sadly missing teeth. This monument to dental carelessness is sobering.

Keep in mind that a woman my age started going to dentists practically back in the days when you went to the local barber and let them yank out a sore tooth. Okay, okay, maybe not that far back, but I will say that the first dentist I went to  (at the age of 18) pulled a tooth for me with very little pain medication and using a method that I like to call “put your knee into the patient’s shoulder and then lean back on all your own weight to get that stubborn cuss out of there.” That method resulted in the dentist pulling the tooth—or at least most of it. Suffice it to say I avoided the dentist after that.

For several years, my visits to the dentist were only when I had a toothache so bad that it lifted the hair off my head and made my eyes water and cross at the same time. Even today, when I try to describe some pain or other to someone, I inevitably say, “You know how it feels when you have an abscessed tooth?” Most of them don’t because they took care of their teeth, but some of my favorite sleepless nights were spent walking the floor promising God anything if He would just make the toothache stop. Usually His reply was, “Brush your teeth and you shall be saved.”

Finally, after years of neglect, I resolved to do a better job with my remaining teeth. I went to a dentist and I was set up with a hygienist. She looked in my mouth and said, “How long exactly, has it been since you had your teeth cleaned?” My reply? “What does that mean?”

For better than an hour she scraped, dug and scrubbed to try and clean years of neglect off my teeth. I have heard that some torture experts use dental equipment to extract secrets from their enemies. I think that hygienist trained with them.  I would have told her anything she wanted to know if she had just stopped!

And then she made a critical mistake: She said, “I think we should give you a break. Come back in a week and I will clean the other side then.” The other side????? You guessed it; that week stretched into a further five years at which time I was forced back to the dentist for another abscessed tooth, on the side that hadn’t been cleaned.

Since then, I have gone to the dentist semi-regularly and there is usually a long list of things to correct. Dentistry has come a long way in my lifetime and they do everything they can to make it easier. But all the soft music, eye covers, and bubble gum flavored medications do not help when you hear that drill start up. There is no pain like the pain you get when you have a shot of Novocain delivered into the nostril (oh, yes, I’ve had that), and the only reason I let them put a needle in my mouth is because having dental work done without it is unthinkable. Those poor people who had their teeth pulled by the barber!

After years of playing Russian roulette with my teeth, I have finally learned the benefits of regular cleaning, brushing and flossing. Those teeth that are missing are the brave soldiers who gave their lives so that the rest of us could wise up and live clean.

So when I went to the dentist this past week, it was a heady feeling for the whole appointment to take about 15 minutes, for the hygienist and dentist to tell me what a good job I had done and for there to be no list of additional work that needed to be taken care of. A weird sensation? Yes, but one I really liked!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

It was supposed to be simple. My passport is coming due this year and although I don’t presently have plans to be out of the country, I thought it wise to get it renewed. Little did I know the process might make it so I have to flee the country!

For those who have never been so foolish as to do this, to get a passport, you must fill out a lot of paperwork, give the State Department an inordinate sum of money, and best of all, have a very specific picture taken. I presume this is so the guards at the borders have something to laugh at and break up their day!

I accept that my pictures on official identification are never going to get me a spot on America’s Top Model. My driver’s license picture always makes me look like a thug working for Al Capone, but the passport pictures! My expiring passport had a mediocre picture at best, but we must understand that they weren’t working with prime material. So I would like to state right here that I was not expecting a lot. But I was hoping for reasonable.

It seems that when you take passport pictures now you don’t wear your glasses. Without my glasses, I couldn’t see from where I was sitting to the camera. She took the first picture and announced, “We need to try again, you look uneasy.” That’s my natural expression whenever I have to take a picture, especially without my glasses!

Her camera was “acting up” according to her, so it was taking pictures not just when she pressed the button, but at random times as well. She got one of me picking something out of my teeth, looking down because I noticed my shoe was untied and rubbing my forehead because the whole process was giving me a headache. I presume it was doing the same for her!

She told me, “Do this with your eyes.” And she proceeded to pull her eyes wide open with her fingers. I wanted to get done, so I did the same, which caused my eyes to water. “You’re squinting in this one. We have to try again.” Of course I was squinting; I couldn’t see a foot in front of me and I pulled my eyes open and made them burn!

“We have to get a picture with some of the whites of your eyes on all sides,” she explained to me. So, I concentrated on holding my eyes wide open. “Shut your mouth,” she said. It’s not my fault, I can’t hold my eyes wide open without hanging my mouth open too!

“You’ve a terrible frown on your face in this picture, that won’t work,” she said, snapping three more as I attempted to hold my eyes open, not squint and not frown.

“You need to hold your eyes wide open, but have a natural expression,” was her next instruction. By that time, I was afraid she wouldn’t want to see my natural expression, but I kept trying.

Finally, on about attempt number 55, she said, “Well, that  one’s not too bad, we’ll use it.” The picture she felt was “not too bad,” has me, holding my eyes wide open, looking like someone just shoved something up my rear. “Not too bad,” for me was extremely bug-eyed. I’ve never looked so surprised in my life. However, the good news is you could see the whites around my eyes!

I paid $15 for the picture which was $14.75 too much and took it home to show Roy. “Don’t laugh,” I said, and he truly tried, but within seconds, he was holding his sides and snorting water out his nose. Yep, it was that bad!

I sent the picture in with the form, and I figure the people at the State Department had a lot of fun that day, which makes me wonder what using that passport is going to be like. The border guard is going to say, “I can’t tell this is you. Take off your glasses and bug out your eyes.”

I will end this sad saga by stating that I did not take this picture locally and I will not be including that picture with this article. Suffice it to say, however, that with that for a passport, I may need to leave the country permanently!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

There was an old show years ago called “Green Acres.” On that show Eva Gabor played a socialite-turned-farmwife who was a terrible cook. She made one particular dish that she pronounced something like “hoss-cakes.” They were pancakes (or hotcakes)  that she cooked so horribly that they came out like hard, white hockey-pucks.

I was thinking about this the other day as I was whipping up a batch of pancakes for lunch on one of those cold, cold days. Because as I took the pancakes out of the pan, they very much resembled those “hoss-cakes.” They were thick, and hard and tasted like chalk and I’m pretty sure that a reasonably skilled hockey player could have hit one into the goal without much damage—at least not to the pancake. And that’s not even the worst cooking disaster I have ever had.

Now, I’m no socialite like the hapless Eva Gabor, but my cooking talents are much like hers. I’m not sure exactly how I got the cooking job in our family, but I think it’s because my husband likes cooking even less than I do.

And that is why he attempted to eat those hockey pucks without complaint. I had one bite and got up and, with that bite lying heavily in my stomach, proceeded to scramble some eggs—something even  I rarely mess up.

My husband politely took a small helping of the eggs, but after another bite of the “hoss-cake” he emptied the egg platter and made himself a piece of toast to go with it. I put the rest of the pancakes down on the floor next to the dog dish. She sniffed it once and then looked at me like, “You have to be kidding if you think I’m touching those. How about some eggs?”

Another cooking disaster to add to the long list of cooking disasters that I have written about so fondly over the years. And the list is so incredibly long.

I’m not completely ignorant, you know. I know there are people out there who cook very well. My own family has some wonderful cooks. My cousin, Diane, makes a homemade jelly that she could sell to Buckingham Palace and my cousin, Melody cooks masterpieces for which she uses no recipe. Then there are the husbands out there who happily take on the cooking chores because they “like cooking.”

I keep telling my husband that he needs to take some of the cooking chores. I’ll happily mow the lawn and change the oil on the car if he will just throw something on the stove that comes out edible. I know he can do some things, because he frequently volunteers to do the grilling of the steaks because he doesn’t like to eat shoe leather and he does make a better fried egg breakfast than I could ever do. So, I have spent some time trying to rearrange the chores around the house—and don’t tell him but the way I would change the oil on the car is to take it to the mechanic’s shop.

I guess it’s too late to teach this old dog some new cooking tricks and I have never figured out a way to enjoy the work. If the baked fish isn’t underdone in the middle, then I manage to singe the edges all the way around on the bacon. I can slap a potato in the oven for baking, but don’t ask me to mash it (smoothly) hashbrown it (evenly) or French fry it (at all). Cooking just ain’t my thing.

So now, with the “hoss-cake” episode added to my major cooking disasters, I will continue the argument Roy and I keep having about what I should do: he says I should take some cooking classes and I say I should hire a cook! I’ll let you know how that comes out and if you want my pancake recipe, you’ll find it at the bottom of my garbage can!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

As I have grown older and my daughter has had children, I have discovered that I must learn a new language. That language is called “Grandson.” And despite my headline, I do not speak it fluently, even after 13 years, but I do try. It doesn’t help that the language changes as the grandson ages.

My eldest (hereafter referred to as Eldest so he can’t sue me for libel) grandson has always relied heavily on gestures and looks. He’s really very good at it. For instance, he has perfected the “Grandma’s done lost her mind,” look.

The “Grandma’s Done Lost her Mind,” look appears when I give him something that he thinks may be beneath him in maturity. For Halloween, I thought it would be cute to get each of the grandsons a skeleton to hang on their doors and thus be festively prepared for the holiday. The younger two opened their skeletons and immediately played with them or tried to scare each other with them or whatever. Generally, they were having fun and at that point, not questioning Grandma’s sanity.

I have a photo, however, of the Eldest. He is carefully unwrapping the skeleton, removing all pieces of paper that are stuck in the ribcage or wrapped around the feet. And the look on his face communicated it all: “Grandma has done lost her mind. What am I going to do with this collection of bones?” He was polite and he said to me, “Thanks for the…skeleton thingy.” I know that expression. When you call something a “thingy” that means it’s probably beneath your contempt, but you love your Grandmother (even though she’s done lost her mind), so you try to be polite.

He also has some sighs that convey quite a message. When he was here in October, he decided he wanted some apples from our tree to go home and make an apple crisp. I was charmed. While he was picking the apples, I said to the Eldest, “Now, when you get the apple crisp made, be sure to take a picture and send it to me.” Eldest heaved the biggest, long-suffering sigh you’ve ever heard, shook his head slowly and solemnly and said in his most patient voice, “Oh, Grandma.” Yes, yes, I know, Grandma’s done lost her mind!

The little one (hereafter referred to as Wild Man—you figure it out) is much simpler in his Grandson language, even though he has command of fewer words. His theory has always been “Grandma’s old and fading fast, so be direct.” On a recent visit, I awakened in the morning to find him by my bed, peering into my face. As soon as I came back down from the ceiling where I leapt with a scream, he got down to business. “Hi, Gamma. Wild Man awake.” (He used his own name, but I don’t want him to sue me either).  

After scaring the life out of me, he took my hand, and led me from the room. “Okay,” I said, figuring my heart was off to a good start, “let’s go get you dressed for the day.”  He let go of my hand long enough to grab a package of baby wipes as he walked by, “Pants yucky,” he announced in his usual direct fashion. It’s just as well to have that conversation and interaction when you are still half asleep!

I have always depended upon the middle one (hereafter known as Middle Ground) to be the easiest on his grandmother when it comes to Grandson language. He’s a pretty easy-going guy most times. He’s quick with a smile and a hug and he dearly loves to beat his grandmother at War. In recent times he has, however, taken up the hobby of Lego-building. He’s quick at it, nimble in his operation and never fails to make his point with what he builds.

That’s why Middle Ground kind of threw me for a loop this weekend. He visited my house when I was not there and spent the night as a break on a longer journey. No doubt, he was working on some Lego projects, or even dearer to his grandmother’s heart—reading a book. However, Middle Ground left some of his Legos behind on my desk. If you check the picture above you will see them…exactly as he posed them when he left them there.

Now, I’m not entirely sure what this means in Grandson language, but Middle Ground has left me with something of a dilemma: I’m supposing one of those characters is supposed to be his grandmother—do I want to be the dinosaur who is such a monster she eats people; or do I want to be the poor schmuck getting eaten? So far, his only verbal comments are a laugh and the admission that he is the guy who staged the scene. So I ask you—is he trying to tell me in grandson language that I should be worried???? I need to work on my fluency!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

We have reached that point in the year when we face the dreaded Christmas aftermath. You all know what that’s like: when you are sitting in a sea of wrapping paper and plastic wrap, trying to figure out which of your gifts need batteries and which things just have “some assembly required.” And amongst all that, you are trying to figure out how you got to this point.

The holiday high always starts the season off. That’s when you have pulled out the Christmas hangings and the tree is up and full of lights and tinsel. You can’t wait for that first chance to turn it on and light it up and the first time you put a neatly (or in my case) incompetently wrapped gift under the tree, it’s like all the dreams of the holiday will come true.

We proceed through the season, building on that present mound under the tree, keeping the cat from climbing up it to claim the highest branches from the crowning angel. Most of us get the urge at some point during the Christmas holidays — I think it has something to do with the decorations – to pull out the cookbook and make our attempt at some Christmas baking. Now, you can admit it, most of us by the time we get to the Christmas aftermath, have some leftover sugar cookie dough in the freezer or some fudge that didn’t turn out quite right, that we stuffed in a container in the back of the cupboard where we will forget it until it turns into moldy rocks in July. We may squeeze out a few cookies as we go along, but most people don’t get the holiday baking done that they would like and those that do find that their invitations to holiday parties include a request to bring along a few cookies or don’t come.

By the time we have filled out our last Christmas card and gone to our last holiday party, most of us are probably ready for Christmas to be over. It isn’t until the last few days before Christmas that we finally get into the spirit of the holiday, by which I mean church and religious services, family gatherings, and our own quiet remembrances of the season. This is when the true meaning of Christmas– forgive the expression– really comes through, but we have devoted so much time to all the preparations that the all-important “true meaning of Christmas” arrives when we are the most holiday spent.

And then– drum roll, please– the big day arrives. In a flurry of ripping paper and flying ribbons and exclamations, pleased and otherwise, we open our gifts to each other. Usually we have that profound, weird feeling at the end, that even while we’re sitting in a mass of new things, we still ask the question:  “Is that all there is?”  Somehow, an event this big during the year should come with drums and whistles and parades and elephants and instead of the bang we were expecting, no matter how big the gifts,  it definitely ends with a whisper.

Now, I have some new things and they are wonderful; my family put a lot of time and thought into what they gave me as gifts this year. I also believe that they enjoyed the gifts that I gave to them. But there is something about sitting around, in a food-based stupor, looking at the empty tree and trying to determine which of your gifts you will use first and most, that leaves us feeling like we missed something.

I hope all of you in this holiday week are enjoying your Christmas aftermath and that you all have a happy new year; another holiday we tend to expect too much of. As for me, while I am putting away the tree and the tinsel, I am going to look forward to the next year and perhaps hope that my Christmas aftermath next year contains at least one elephant!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

It’s sad when we have to part with old friends. You know, in that moment of separation, that you will miss the times you spent with them, all the joy they’ve given you. That is, unless what you are parting with is a skin growth that has dogged and annoyed you for a minimum of ten years. Today, I parted with that old friend, and I was never happier.

One of the first questions the doctor asked me when I showed her this thing (hereafter referred to as TAG—for skin tag) was just how long had I had it. That was a tricky question, because TAG located itself on my hip, and my fat rings above it have always hidden it from my immediate view. And, since I don’t examine myself in the mirror (I just can’t) I failed to be aware of its existence until it started giving me problems when I wore my jeans. The first protest came about ten years ago, so we’ve been together a while.

The doctor’s next question was: How much has TAG grown over the past ten years? Well, you know, had I known that this question was going to be important, I would have gotten one of those growth charts and marked down TAG’s progress over the years and hung it on the kitchen doorway. Since, at first, I wasn’t paying a lot of attention, and since then, I tried very hard to just ignore it, I have no concept of if, or by how much, it has grown.

The next step of the doctor was probably the weirdest: she took pictures—of TAG—while he was still attached. She had perfectly good reasons for this procedure, but until she did that, it never occurred to me that TAG might have a future as a model. But the doctor assured me that TAG’s only chances for a future would be in a specimen dish in the lab…without any more pictures.

At last, it was time for TAG and me to part ways. It was emotional, but only because I had to have shots to numb the area and I hate shots. The actual separation was over in a matter of minutes—lots of blood, but no tears. Because TAG is going to leave such a hole in my life, three stitches were necessary. I told the doctor to be very careful with those…I didn’t want her to scar me and ruin my chances as a stripper. She didn’t seem overly concerned and she took no more pictures, which doesn’t bode well for my chances in the field of entertainment.

So now, I am back home and TAG is on the way to a lab where they can determine how such a hideous little thing had the nerve to attach itself to me. I have several theories, but I think the most likely is that I was kidnapped by aliens and TAG was the spy they attached to me so he could gather information for the inevitable alien invasion. I guess we put a stop to that!

My hip is kind of sore and I can’t seem to remember that I had that tiny bit of surgery there because I keep hitting it, turning the wrong way and bending straight over it. I worked with my drama kids this afternoon and discovered that apparently I have a tendency to stand like Captain Janeway on the bridge of the starship Voyager—with my arms and legs akimbo and my hands on my hips. Every time I tried that today, and it was a lot, the Captain had to give a little whimper and find another place to put the hands!

I know that once my stitches heal and the soreness leaves, that I will not miss TAG at all. No more careful donning of my jeans or hitting it with the bath brush. As for now, I think it is important, after ten years, that at this parting of ways, I finally say to TAG, “Good riddance!”

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Couples are supposed to spend more time together, right? I mean, a healthy, solid marriage is built on mutual respect and time spent in each other’s company. Or so I always believed.

Today, I put that theory to the test and it didn’t fare so well. I went with my husband on one of his local hunting excursions and we came back from that and almost headed for the divorce courts. And why, you might ask? I’ll tell you, it’s because when he drives out to go hunting, he calls the rutted, pitted messes he is driving on roads or maybe “section lines”. I call them the highway from hell, and that should in no way indicate for you that there is anything remotely like a highway anywhere near where we are driving.

He always takes the pickup on these pheasant tracking excursions, and apparently if you have the pickup, you can drive through anything. And while the pickup does fine on paved roads and even gravel or dirt, I don’t happen to trust it to navigate grass tracks barely touched by farm equipment, let alone a pickup.

It started out fine. We got in the vehicle and went driving down a fairly wide, paved road with hardly any chunks out of it. On that road we were able to play “chicken” with a pheasant—not  easy to do. The pheasant refused to fly away and just kept walking towards us…I thought for a moment we were going to bag it with the pickup! Eventually, with a cackle, it flew into the air and bang! Roy had ‘em.

“Splendid,” I praised as he came back to me. “Now that you have your pheasant, we can go home.”

“That’s only one,” he answered. “I’m not done. I haven’t got my limit.”

“Your limit? What is your limit?”

“I can get three pheasants in any hunt, that’s my limit. And I haven’t reached it yet.”

As we got back in the pickup and headed down a somewhat narrow, gravel road, I contemplated telling him about MY limit, but I had just watched him shoot a pheasant that refused to back down…I wasn’t going to take any chances!

After a few minutes of spitting up gravel and dust, we turned onto a narrow, dirt road. Now, I was raised on a farm…I know when we have reached the end of the road and when we got to the end of the dirt and the start of grass, I knew we were through.

“Well, too bad, we’ll have to turn around,” I said, trying not to chortle.

“Turn around? What do you mean? The road is up ahead.”

What he optimistically called a road looked more like two tire tracks across a football field, but a football field that was full of potholes and littered with bales of hay which served more as blocks than guides. As we bumped along, the pickup tilted because on one side, the wheels were deep in a rut and on the other side, the wheels were driving at a precarious angle on some high grass.

At last, without running into a single pheasant, we came to a gully in the tire tracks which could only have been crossed with a ferry.

“What a shame!” I said. “We will have to turn around and bump our way back on this section line superhighway. We can’t get over that.”

I was wrong. He put the pickup in reverse, bumped across a couple more tracks, and, squeezing between the scratchy bale and the vicious barbed wire fence, he managed to detour around the hole. Oh, yay!

We finally came to a point in the section line which was fenced off for cattle. We stopped, Roy did some hunting, and I did a little exploring and discovered that to one side of us was a fine dirt road, which looked like the European Autobahn compared to the section line we were on.

“Well, at least there is a road to this side that is an actual road,” I said, pointing to be helpful.

“Oh no,” was the emphatic answer. “If we turn around and go back (past the gully, remember), there is another section line to drive. I hope that big mudhole has dried up.”

Yup, in the future, I think our marriage will stand a better chance if we spend less driving and hunting time together!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Now, for those of you who have never suffered with insomnia—the inability to sleep—this particular entry in my writings will affect you very little—enjoy your nap. For the vast majority, however, who have suffered from at least occasional insomnia, I may be able to strike a cord.

Insomnia has been my companion since childhood. I can remember getting up in the middle of the night and going outside to walk so I wouldn’t disturb others with my sleeplessness. This, of course, created its own set of issues as I lived on a farm and some of those walks were dangerous in total darkness, while others just involved the annoyance of stepping in a hole or in some animal’s droppings. Usually, however, youth and fresh air solved the problem and I went back to my bed and slept.

The trend of sleeplessness grew more prominent when my girls were born. Every mother out there can tell you that deep sleep (that REM kind) is difficult to achieve, when you are listening with your half-asleep ears, for every grunt, groan or breath of a small child. We train ourselves to sleep lightly so that we are ever-present for our little ones, but the joke is on us: when the little ones don’t need that vigilance anymore, we are still trained not to sleep!

Beyond that, there is a little fun activity called “brain mania” which attacks at night. I can go for months without worrying about what there is in my freezer or whether the neighbors are going to replace the loose tile on the roof, but let me get into bed on a weary evening and suddenly, that is all my brain can think about, in addition to how much shopping I have left for Christmas (in July) or whether I should trim my hair or cut it at my next appointment. If future plans can’t occupy my brain, I can always go backwards and wonder if I should have bought those pears when they spoil so fast or whether the odd look on my husband’s face means I said something wrong. A little tip here: if you have that problem, your partner will not appreciate your waking them up at 2:00 in the morning to ask them if they are offended. At 2:00 in the morning, the answer is YES!

Insomnia has caused me to take up things like jig-saw puzzles. I work on them at 3 in the morning through blood-shot eyes and then, when the sun is up, I go back and re-arrange all the pieces I shoved into the wrong spots. I write in the middle of the night a lot, but when I read most of it in the shine of the morning light, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. I still don’t know what I meant by such notes as: “Napoleon was misunderstood,” or “check out light switches.” Sleep deprivation doesn’t necessarily promote clarity of thought, especially at midnight!

I watch a lot of television on sleepless nights, but if you have ever perused the television schedule for the middle of the night, you will find it is not appealing. This is when they binge-play such fascinating programs as “Night-Stalker” about the supernatural and “The Best of Naked Housewives” which makes Night-Stalker look good! Mostly, there are paid programs on in the middle of the night, but I’ve never been tempted to buy the age-defying face creams or the jewelry made from Alaskan pines. The down side, of course, is this programing doesn’t make me go to sleep either.

Now, before anyone suggests home remedies, just let me tell you that I have tried pineapple juice, hot vinegar, noise-blocking sounds, hot milk (who ever thought of that anyway?), exercise before bed, meditation before bed, no food past 8 o’clock, a heavy snack at 10:00 and so on. As for over the counter sleep aids, I believe I may have a bottle of every single one of them. My medicine cabinet looks like a yard sale for night-time aides and they all have one thing in common—they don’t work!

The sad fact is, that the only cure for my insomnia may be a sharp blow to the head with something hard and I’ve never been desperate enough to try—but give me a few more sleepless nights and we shall see. Happy sleeping, everyone!