dropsinthewell

Jackie Wells-Fauth

This has definitely been a tricky summer for rainfall. First, I was afraid there would be no rain, and now, it looks like the best way to get rain is in a deluge. A summer of contrasts, to be sure. Now I love the rain, just not inches of it in minutes! It can be very inconvenient—not to mention dangerous.

All this leads, of course, to what I want to talk about now. We were driving home from the cities, and I didn’t check the weather. I have always had a kind of contempt for those phone apps where they send a picture of the weather radar. Why not just find out what the weather will do in the old-fashioned way—by waiting for it to happen?

Okay, so I was wrong. Our sunny drive home from the cities was rudely interrupted by a set of storm clouds, building in the sky ahead of us. Roy was sleeping and I was driving, so I didn’t bother to check his phone radar. Those clouds were to the north, and they were far away. No problem, right?

Except that I drove into overcast skies with alarming rapidity. Then, before I knew it, there were sprinkles on my windshield, enough for an occasional swipe of the windshield wipers. After that, lightning began to appear in the sky ahead of us. What happened to my sunny day?

Sure enough, the light sprinkle turned into a heavy rain and then a downpour and then a deluge. I drove, cursing, keeping my eye on the taillights of the car in front of me and hoping no one was coming up too fast behind me. Roy, awakened by my whining, advised that perhaps we should pull over. Good idea.

We pulled into a farm driveway, hoping for a break. It didn’t help. The rain was coming down in sheets, blown across the roads and fields by an incredibly strong wind. We knew this couldn’t last forever (or so we hoped) and sure enough, within about ten minutes, it had let up somewhat. Not enough for me, but for Roy, it was important to get his pretty little car away from there before hail set in.

“I’m not driving in this,” I stated, my teeth still chattering.

“Then let’s switch; I’ll drive,” he said.

“I’m also not getting out in this,” I declared. There is the dilemma: how do we switch places with our old bodies in a car with bucket seats and a nervous dog in the back?

Roy began this little dance in the rain by laying his seat down completely and sliding into the back with said nervous dog. It was then for me to drag myself, bad knees and all, across the console and somehow, into the passenger seat. I was midway across when it occurred to me that I should have removed the water bottles from the console!

With every joint I have popping, I began to think that maybe getting out and getting wet wouldn’t be so bad. The rain increased at that moment just to convince me that somehow, I was going to have to complete this weird, car version of Twister without the benefit of leaving the car.

I somehow got my butt on the passenger seat, but with the seat still in the reclined position, I couldn’t brace myself to get my legs over. I ended up laying back against the dog, with my knees in my nose, so that Roy could climb over the driver’s seat and get behind the wheel.

He had already gotten the car in gear and was headed down the road, still in heavy rain, when I finally got all of my working parts in some semblance of the way God intended and left the dog to her backseat alone.

I’m trying to take comfort from the fact that at my age, I was actually able to complete that little dance with only minimum damage to my body and a complete loss of dignity, but I’m afraid that this is just one more grudge I have against the wild rain antics that this summer has presented.

May you all stay dry and upright through this summer. And would someone please show me how to put that weather radar app on my phone?

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I am one of those lucky people who won the in-law lottery. I have very few in-laws who are hard for me to like and some of them are down-right wonderful.

I state this first, because I have always counted my two sons-in-law among them. Marty and Charles married my daughters, and we get on extremely well. I appreciate this, not to mention that they are kind of characters—in widely different ways—and I enjoy both of them.

That is, until this past weekend. Both of them, along with my daughters, are very tech-savvy and I have consulted with them on many issues—always successfully. So, when it was decided that I needed to upgrade my phone, I naturally sought opinion from my children, including the sons-in-law.

My daughters were advocating a type of phone that was a little fancier than I would probably need, and I was debating with myself whether I should try that or just stay with the phone I have and forget it. I do so hate change!

It was then that Charles spoke up. “If you get this type of phone (I honestly don’t know what he called it), it might be easier. It’s kind of… (he hesitated and then plunged in) dummy proof, so it’s easier to use.”

You have to know this serious young man to appreciate that I seldom have a chance to pick on him. So, when the opportunity presented itself, I went for it.

“What are you trying to say, Charles?” I asked, raising my eyebrows at him.

He hastened to explain that he just thought it would be simpler to use, and I was getting all set to pick on him some more, when apparently, Marty thought the water must be fine, so he jumped in with his brother-in-law.

“You know, my friend calls that kind of phone a Fisher Price toy phone,” he stated. Marty is kind of the joker of the crowd, so I didn’t hesitate to turn on him as well.

“I have always defended you two, been on your side, bragged about you and this is what you say to me? I have never been so offended!”

The bad news here is that neither one of them was at all bothered by their statements or my high indignation. I threatened them with everything I could think of right down to writing them out of the will (no final expenses for them to pay) and it didn’t change their attitude one bit.

It also doesn’t matter that they both have had to pull me out of the tech knowledge pit about a thousand times. I always have questions and problems and while most of the time they are fairly polite about my ignorance, I know that there are moments when they are mentally face-palming themselves. I understand English literature, not tech and I know for a fact that if Shakespeare had done his writing on a high-tech medium, I probably never would have read it!

Still, to have my sons-in-law join forces to make clear their lack of confidence in my abilities to handle a high-tech phone stung a little. This will be the subject of my general harassment of them for the next half a year or so. And I am fully confident that it will not bother them at all, because I won’t be harassing them on a high-tech phone!

In the end, I had my daughter buy the phone—their recommendation, but I wasn’t letting them help; it would be better to torment my daughter with it. I’m sure the phone will be fine and because it is not too complicated, I might be able to use it, but not to call them.

In truth, Charles and Marty, I really do love you boys—if the opinion of a dummied-down, Fisher Price kind of woman means anything to you!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

That’s right, the English teacher has now been reduced to using the word ain’t; something I always swore to my students I would never do! But in this extreme instance, I feel strong words are appropriate.

Roy and I are in the exciting throes of planning a vacation. We have been semi-planning this vacation for about ten years. But now, we’re serious. We are using travel experts and high technology to put this thing together.

The only problem? We both struggle somewhat with high technology. And usually, I will bow to Roy’s opinion because for the most part, he understands the whole system much better than I do.

Until now. In the particular argument we are in, I am positive that I am right, and he is wrong. I refuse to tell you what the argument is about, for fear that you will agree with him and I will have to step down from my moral high ground and apologize. It’s happened before!

We argued it out until both of us were reduced to our standard conclusion. “Fine, you’re right I suppose. I never am right about these things,” I pouted.

“You could be right, I honestly don’t know for sure,” was his response, trying to be fair. “I don’t pretend to understand everything about technology.”

In the end, we did what we always do; we consulted with our IT people. By that I mean, we called our daughters. They couldn’t really understand our issue by an explanation over the phone, but I know they were inclined to think neither one of us was completely right. After all, they understand better than most how limited their parents’ abilities in this area are.

Believing that I am right about this issue instead of my husband who is better-informed technologically, gave me an entirely new attitude. Perhaps I can bank online! It might be possible to set up apps on my phone! There are so many things that I could do so much more easily if I just set my mind to learning more about technology.

Except for the fact that I have a 1950s mind trying to deal with technology that out-stripped my understanding and ability long ago. However, my daughter has frequently chided me, “You are smart enough to handle technology. You just don’t have the confidence to try.”

She may be right. I might understand more than I think. After all, I managed to get myself from a land line phone to a cell phone. I can even text. I know how to do Facebook, and I can balance my checkbook online. With this new victory over technology, maybe there is nothing I can’t do.

With a boldness uncommon for me in the tech world, I set about putting a new app on my phone to be used for vital communications. I got it all set up; I even got an e-mail congratulating me on the successful installation of my new app. Then, I went to the app to make use of it. It asked for my e-mail, which I proudly put in from memory. The next question: What is your password. Password? I was supposed to remember what I used for a password ten days ago? Maybe I’m not ready yet.

Not many others think I’m ready for it either, and with good cause. A former student spent some time helping me with some online work the other day. I was just in admiration of the way she could jump from thing to thing and maneuver around on the computer.

“I just can’t believe how easily you do that,” I told her. “I am just no good with technology.”

Before she could stop herself, she gave a snorting laugh. Trying to pull herself up and be polite, she said, “I guess after three years in your classes, I did know that Mrs. Fauth.” She was right. I have always thought my classes were informative and useful, but they were definitely not high-tech.

And that leads me to a new worry: What if I’m wrong about this tech disagreement between Roy and me? What if we’re both wrong? After all, tech experts we ain’t!

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!”