dropsinthewell

Jackie Wells-Fauth

As I have said, I love history. In fact, I love it so much that it was my major in college. I would have been perfectly happy teaching history, but English intervened and so history became my hobby instead. And I have always had the idea that I would fit right in with those hardy souls in previous centuries.

I nurse this fantasy all the time. Imagine, wearing the colorful costumes and riding horses and having all of those fun adventures! This fantasy, however, does not hold up against the harsh reality contained in the question of power.

I don’t mean political or social power, although the more of that you have, the better you are going to live. No, I mean energy, that which it takes to run my household appliances. I want to live in the good old days, but I don’t want to be the automatic dishwasher!

This fantasy about the past hit a brick wall this morning when suddenly, right in the middle of one of my favorite television re-runs, the television died. At first, I thought it was the television that was taking a permanent break. But then I noticed that the radio was dark and when I flipped on a light to check the time, there was no light.

Usually these outages are very short-lived, but the people at the electric company were having a very bad start to their day, because I waited in vain for quite some time. Still no juice to the lights and television. A call to the power company assured us they were aware of the problem, and they were working on it, but they couldn’t tell us when we would be back in the century of electric power.

No problem. These things happen. I would just go out and make my morning coffee. Except the grinder for my coffee beans is electric and even if I could have ground the coffee, the coffeemaker is electric. There was no need to panic, though, I would just put on the kettle and have tea instead. I am nothing if not adaptable.

Of course, the tea kettle sat on the stove like a cold, dead fish while I reached for the controls and realized that the stove was also electric. Okay, so water it is…except the water and the ice are in the refrigerator and as soon as I opened the door and looked at the dark interior, I immediately slammed it shut—need to save the cool, right?

Now, things were getting serious. What did those people in the “good old days” do without their power? Well, they never had it in the first place, so they didn’t worry about it. Maybe that’s what I should do, I thought; just build a survivalist hut and live without power. Then I laughed; this is me we are talking about. I need my flushing toilet and electric lights!

I decided to make use of the battery charged items. I flipped on my laptop because it has several hours of battery power. I’ll just check to see if anyone else is out of power. The first message to come up? Due to lack of power, you do not have Wi-Fi. Darn!

Things were getting desperate now. I sent my Roomba vacuum out to do the floors, just so I could see something that was powered to do its job. But when the time came to send it back to its base? It informed me in its robot voice that it was “unable to detect charging base.” It sat in the middle of the floor looking as lost as I felt.

So, no laundry (okay, I wasn’t too upset about that), no cooked eggs, no smoothie out of my electric blender and no non-stop re-runs of Midsomer Murders, Outlander, Eureka, etc. What to do with my days? What did all of those people in history do? Well, according to my notes, many of them died long before my age due to lack of proper hygiene and medicine and a few of them died in a shoot-out at the OK Corral—but that’s probably a different kind of power.

I was beginning to get a little panicky, with all these options to entertain myself blocked by a lack of power, when all of a sudden, it came back on. Thank you, power company for being efficient.

And as for those good old days of history, it’s during these powerless moments in time, that I decide that rather than living those days, I’ll just study them…over my second cup of coffee from my electric coffee maker! Power to the people!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I have written on this subject before and before you say it: Yes, I know, there are worse addictions. But when I consider that my snacking habits are connected to my health, I know it’s time to take it seriously—so to speak.

I decided that now would be a good time to see if I could rein in my rampant snacking habit, so I looked for some advice. “I control my eating simply by writing down everything that I am eating,” a friend suggested. “That way, when I see what I am eating, I will always slow down or cut back.”

It sounded as though it was an idea with merit. So, here is the journal I kept of my snacking:

8:02 am – Had a delicious breakfast consisting of oatmeal and coffee.

8:30 am – The oatmeal was lumpy and the coffee was cold, so I rewarded myself with a cupcake…I slathered on the frosting because, well, I needed to get over the trauma of breakfast!

9:10 am – Feeling a little empty, so I went to get a graham cracker. I ate the afore-mentioned graham cracker…okay, so I had a package of graham crackers. Oh, all right, all right, I had a BOX of graham crackers! But that should hold me until lunch.

10:05 am – I had lunch a little early. I ate a sandwich and a few chips…and then some more chips.

10:45 am – I ate a banana…okay, then I ate another banana…I know you think I’m going to say I ate the whole bunch of bananas, but you’re wrong, I didn’t. There is still one left!

11:00 am – I finished the chips, but it didn’t count, because they were all in little pieces. Everybody knows that you can’t count chips or cookies that are in pieces.

11:10 am – Stomped on the Oreo package and then shoveled them in with a spoon. As I said, it doesn’t count.

I could go on and on with this tale and tell you about the three bowls of Rice Krispies I had with lots of milk and sugar, or about the rest of the frosting from the cupcakes, which I licked off the tops of five of them and then finished off what was in the container.  However, I comforted myself with the knowledge that at least I didn’t eat the cupcakes!

I’m sure you get the point by now. It did me absolutely no good to write down what I was eating. Contrary to slowing me down, it simply helped me to rationalize that if I ate the frosting but not the cupcakes, I was entitled to a reward, which was a cup of tea and a cucumber sandwich—topped with every kind of luncheon meat I could find.

Thinking about food obviously plays a big part in the life of a snack addict. I don’t watch cooking shows because while I wouldn’t go and cook the items on the screen, it would give me some ideas for other things I could eat.

I cannot walk by cookies, pies, chips, or toaster strudels without trying to reason why I should be able to eat them. As for Twinkies and Ho Hos, they are the work of the devil and I sell my soul for them whenever I can!

This is a continuous process. We went to the latest Jurassic movie the other night and all I could think of while that tyrannosaurus rex was chomping on person after person was, “Man, no wonder he has such a big belly. He’s taking in a ridiculous amount of calories! I mean, a whole human being in one bite, what a pig!” I may have missed the point of that movie.

Now you can see that, like the tyrannosaurus rex, I have a serious eating problem, but at least I’m not eating people! And indeed that was me, justifying the fact that I should be allowed to eat sweets as long as I’m not devouring humans!

I don’t see a cure in the future. I have thought about contacting the tyrannosaurus rex and starting a snacks anonymous group and I may get around to doing that; right after I’m done finishing off this package of pieces of cookies from the Keebler Elves!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

This week, I indulged myself with a little back surgery. I say indulged myself because I really needed some help in that area and so far, I am glad I did it. I knew there would be benefits in lessening my pain, but what I didn’t realize is what an educational time the recovery would be.

I learned a lot of things, starting with the fact that after you have back surgery there is no comfortable way to sit. Additionally, there is no comfortable way to stand or lay down. But don’t worry, you will have a back brace, a form of torture so refined, they still haven’t found all the ways it can break a person down until they promise to tell you anything you want, as long as you get that hot, bumpy thing off of them!

Some things I learned were just reminders. Like the Murphy’s Law which states that you will not wish to clean your house when you are capable of it, but the minute you are incapacitated, it becomes essential. The house is filthy (as it has been for months) and you must have it clean right now; scrub the kitchen floor someone, and clear away that stack of newspapers and magazines that has been piling up for a year and for the love of all that is holy, wipe that smear off the living room window before staring at it drives me insane—further insane.

I received an important object lesson in using a public toilet. You know those toilet seat liners that are supposed to be a handy aid to reducing germs? Well, I learned that I can’t open them up, figure out how to place them on the seat and sit down fast enough to prevent the automatic toilet from flushing—thus gobbling them up! I finally stuck the third one to my posterior as best I could and sat down. The toilet flushed, pulling the toilet seat cover down with it. I would have been as well off with a Sears catalog in an outhouse!

Continuing on the journey of discovery: I am too old to learn new body maneuvers. I was instructed to lie on the edge of the bed, tense up my body muscles and “log roll” to wherever I wanted to end up in the bed. I discovered that I am not a lumberjack and there is no way this particular “log” was going to roll anywhere! After five tries and various curse words along the way, I slept in the recliner the first few nights, which didn’t require a log roll. Finally, I resolved to sleep in bed. I positioned myself as the log, tried to do the roll and ended up cross corner at the foot of one side of the bed. I congratulated myself on getting  right where I wanted to be and slept that night teetering on the corner of the bed. “Log roll,” my eye!

On an interesting note, I learned that if I want a new stove, all I have to do is have Roy cook for three days on the clunky old one I’ve had for ten years. He didn’t much care for the cooking quirks that the old stove threw at him and now it looks like a new one is on the horizon. As a side point, Roy will be operating a variety of household appliances for the near future, so I expect we will be going on a big ole buying binge this month!

I discovered that we CAN go to the grocery store together without getting a divorce, but it is best to have the argument over the shopping list before we get there! I learned that while Roy is in charge of laundry, I can expect everything to be hung on the clothesline instead of going through the dryer. While this is economical, it means my sheets, towels and underwear will have all the softness of a Brillo pad! I see no way out of this one for the time being so forgive me if I have to stop and scratch; my outfit is a little prickly!

I have learned a lot of things this week, but I think Roy has learned a thing or two as well. After he cleaned the bathroom, he shook his head and said, “Boy, cleaning in and around everything is rough.”

“Yes, I know,” I said, trying to move past him into the room.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m going to use the bathroom,” I answered.

“What, now? After I just cleaned it?” See, now Roy knows how much fun maintaining a clean bathroom is! For the record, Roy has been a wonderful, invaluable help through this. I say this first, because it is true, and second, because I don’t want him quitting the job anytime soon

Jackie Wells-Fauth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The magic is really gone, isn’t it?”

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

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

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

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

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

Jackie Wells-Fauth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are nice,” snarled one of them.

“You are awesome,” spit out the other.

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

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

“Well?” I said to the older one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jackie Wells-Fauth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time to leave “the land of cotton!”

Jackie Wells-Fauth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jackie Wells-Fauth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I gave him a steady stare.

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

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

“That’s all?”

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

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

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!