dropsinthewell

Jackie Wells-Fauth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jackie Wells-Fauth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jackie Wells-Fauth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jackie Wells-Fauth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jackie Wells-Fauth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jackie Wells-Fauth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jackie Wells-Fauth

All I needed was my credit card. I mostly use it for gas fillings because it’s convenient. The problem for me is that it’s also really small. And the longer we go through winter, the more coy and unreachable it becomes.

That’s what’s wrong with all plastic money for me. Those slender cards can disappear in your pocket or purse and never be seen again. Especially if they choose to disappear in MY purse or pocket.

You know how some people have a spot…a table or a chair or a counter where they tend to drop everything, and it is constantly a disorganized mess? Well, I don’t do that. I use my purse and my pockets. And when my credit card disappears in there, it’s the proverbial needle in a haystack.

I needed the card the other day and as usual, it had gone into witness protection somewhere and I couldn’t find it. I looked all through the sleeves of my purse, digging past pens, coins and appointment cards, but to no avail.

There was nothing else I could do: I had to look in my pockets. Roy is always fascinated (notice I didn’t say impressed or happy) with the amount of junk I can cram into coat pockets. After an entire winter of collection, the pockets were full enough to horrify him.

“What is all this paper trash?” he asked, running his hand through a bunch of litter I pulled from both pockets.

“Those are receipts. You are always lecturing me about getting receipts when I buy things,” I said virtuously. “So, I keep them.”

“Yes, but eventually, you are supposed to use them to reconcile your checkbook,” he said, smoothing out one crumpled ticket. “This receipt is from last October.”

“There you go, using fancy accounting words on me again,” I grumbled, and about then, I drew out two empty prescription medicine bottles.

“I know you have a good reason for those in your coat pocket,” he said (but he didn’t mean it.)

“Yes, I do. I finished up the prescription when I was out and put the bottles in my pocket…two months in a row. I just never took them out.” I added defensively, “That isn’t as bad as when I take aspirin with me. Then I rattle when I walk.”

“You probably waddle, too with all that stuff in your coat. Look at this, you actually have gloves in there.”

“I don’t use them very much, though,” I admitted. “It’s too hard to get them out—everything else falls out. Same with keys. I have them in my pocket, but it’s easier just to let someone else open doors for me.”

“Why do you have this novel in here?” he asked. “It’s right on top of the hair clip and ponytail holder in this pocket.”

“I sometimes have to wait in various places, and I like to have a book to read,” I said, “and sometimes I need to get my hair put up…when I’m on the road…you never know.”

“So, you want to read while you wait, but why is it necessary to bring War and Peace? Surely there are smaller books around.”

“I found my credit card,” I exclaimed, cutting off his inventory of my coat pockets.

“Great!  Where was it?”

“In one of those little slots in my wallet. No wonder I couldn’t find it!”

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I had everything handled, you know. I knew what the weather was going to be like every single day. And just as I was fully adjusted to what South Dakota was throwing out for this winter season, she pulled a fast one and went back to the third version of winter.

I know that when you live in South Dakota, you will take whatever winter chooses to throw at you. But on years like this one, I can kind of fool myself that I’m living in San Diego or some other year-round mild temperature spot. I will admit it; I have enjoyed the warm days and long walks not on my treadmill. Of course the dog has also enjoyed the times outside, running through dusty tracks and scaring up pheasants.

As far as I’m concerned, this could have gone on indefinitely, but in South Dakota that’s not how it works. Here we have many more than four seasons: There’s the One Day of Spring, Summer on the Equator, the Sweet Fall and the Evil Fall, Winter Part 1, Winter Part 2, Faking You Out That It’s Spring Winter and End of Winter—April Fools!

And End of Winter—April Fools is where we are now. I had all my winter things put away. I had transferred the junk I always carry in my pockets from my winter jacket to my spring jacket, my boots were stored, shovels were shelved and even the fans were set out.

Of course, this winter has not been very typical for South Dakota. We have had warm, dry, record-setting weather all winter to the point where my father the farmer would have said, “Gonna be a dry summer if we don’t get some snow pretty soon.”

Well, he would be pleased that we are in End of Winter—April Fools season now. It is wet, icy and very bright. For myself, I look out at the snow and think, “April showers, God, it’s April showers! A little rain wouldn’t have hurt anything.”

When you get snow in End of Winter—April Fools season it means shoveling. And since, thankfully, the snow is nearly liquid and very heavy, shoveling is hard work. And all the while I’m shoveling, I’m thinking, “If I let this go for a day, it would melt on its own.” It is in the soul of a South Dakotan to shovel, though, even during End of Winter—April Fools season.

I’m looking forward to One Day of Spring season before we hit Summer on the Equator, but from the looks of it, that will be a little bit longer in arriving. In the meantime, I’m slopping my way through icy slush and wondering how I got the mud mess on the back of my trousers. I’m trying to figure out how to convince the dog to wipe her feet and I’m watching the flocks of birds hovering in the tops of the trees while their food fields are covered with snow. And that scene reminds me of an old Alfred Hitchcock movie that still haunts my dreams!

I’ve scraped the latest snow off my deck and now it sits in a wet pool on the ground below, and I can almost hear the lawn sucking it down. I didn’t need hat or mittens to work out there and by the time I got back in the house, I was covered with sweat, all over the inside of the winter coat I had just dry-cleaned for the season. I forgot there is a season between Faking You Out That It’s Spring season and the One Day of Spring season, so now I have to do all those end of the winter things all over again.

I’m kind of thinking I’m going to set up the lawn furniture and grill and have a picnic tonight; you know, get a jump on that One Day of Spring Season—it’s always so short. I’m encouraged by the warming temperatures, but then again, I’ve lived long enough in South Dakota to know that there’s no telling about End of the Winter—April’s Fools season. Everyone needs to stay alert and not put those shovels away yet.

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Now, you’ve heard me whine about technology in the past. Probably louder whines come from any of the people who must deal with me on a technological level. But I have decided that this is too bad. People will have to accept me with all of my technological deficiencies.

My daughter spent a few days with me recently and while I used to call these family visits, I’ve decided I should just call them what they are: service calls from my IT person.

I was working with my e-mail (my lifeline for any work I do) when I received notice that I would have to undertake a procedure to make the email more secure. Oh lord! I immediately shot back a panicked notice to the tech person who had alerted me to this problem: Do I HAVE to do this???

Something in my grunting and profuse sweating set off the alarm bells in my daughter. Without asking me too many questions, she contacted the tech people (who obviously had no idea the low level of tech they were dealing with) and when she was done, the new level of security was no problem. The only difficulty I had left was the extra “app” I had managed to load on my phone that it turns out I didn’t need. I still have it because I hated to admit to her how completely I had screwed up, and I have no idea how to “unload” it. (I don’t think that’s the right reference.)

Moving right along, she noticed that I have a brand-new DVD player (it’s not a VCR player, but I frequently call it that). She asked if I was enjoying using it and I said, “I don’t know. There’s something wrong with my cable service and I can’t switch from the cable channels to the DVD player setup and back again. I’m going to call them and get them down here to straighten that out.”

While I was ranting and raving on that topic, she began randomly switching from cable to the DVD player and back to the cable. “How are you doing that?” I demanded, forgetting that I should probably be grateful that I hadn’t called a cable guy down to my house for a simple switch of a button on the remote.

“It’s simple,” she explained more patiently than she should have, “You were just pushing the wrong button. This one will handle it for you.”

She looked awfully smug for a woman who once depended on me for food, clean pants and support while she learned to walk. Could it be that this is payback for my ineptitude at dealing with those things?

Technology experts surround me: they are called “anyone younger than me.” I break into a cold sweat if I have to go online to do anything—I can barely deal with business over the telephone. Some people zip onto the online programs, do whatever they need to, effortlessly and zoom on to something else. Me? It took my two-year-old grandson to show me that there was an outside button to get in the trunk of my car!

I find some kindred spirits among those my own age, but I also find some older people who can actually handle all that technology and age as well. In my jealousy, I refer to them as turncoats. The least they could do is act like they can’t use technology; then I would feel better.

I keep reminding myself that these young tech wizards grew up with computers while my first experience with a computer was the giant one filling a room at college. They gave me a bunch of cards, which, after I punched the appropriate holes in them…caused the computer to spit out a piece of paper with a short, wavy line on it. This was indeed, the sum total of my technology skills and they haven’t increased much since then!

As for the technology it took to secure my email, I assure you it’s now in place and all of you tech types who got that done have my undying gratitude and my confession that I have no idea how you did it! And the caution that this is not likely to change! Sorry!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I was in the grocery store the other day, picking up a few of the items I knew I needed at home. Towards the end of the store, I took stock of what I had bought: I had two bottles of tea, three cartons of cottage cheese, a bag of chips, bananas and strawberries, a loaf of bread and three different kinds of soup. There was scarcely enough room for the eggs and orange juice that I picked up last. I thought perhaps I should check my list, but of course, I hadn’t brought it with me. That is how I run to the store for one thing and come out with 20.

It isn’t just the grocery store where I do this. The other day, I popped in at the variety store for a spray bottle. I came out with two gallons of vinegar, a couple of packages of dishwasher soap, a bottle of aspirin and two birthday cards. I even managed to remember the spray bottle, but that isn’t always what happens.

I recently needed a new pair of sneakers. I went to the shoe store and looked over all the sneakers. I found a pair of shoes that I thought were lovely and bought them. Couldn’t wait to get home and show them to Roy.

“What do you think of these shoes?” I asked, modeling them proudly.

“Very nice, but where are the sneakers you went to buy?” he asked.

I thought about it for a moment, then picked up my coat and purse.

“Where are you going now?” he asked.

“Back to the shoe store,” I didn’t need to explain any further. Once again, I bought what I didn’t intend to and as frequently happens, I forgot the thing I was shopping for.

I have a hard time going into a store and not coming out with something I think I absolutely need. I am particularly affected by this disease when it comes to books. I always promise myself I will only buy one…or maybe two, and I find myself coming out with another bagful. It’s so much fun!

When I come home with another shelf of books, I am very defensive. “It could be worse, you know,” I tell Roy as I squeeze another book onto the shelf.

“And how is that?” he responds.

“Well, I don’t collect antiques, which could be expensive, and I don’t drink or smoke or spend all night in bars,” I pointed out.

“Compared to ten books at a time, it might be cheaper if you take up drinking,” was his rather surprising response.

I once went to a craft store (one of my favorite types of stores) and came out of the building without anything. I noticed Roy, waiting in the car, take out his phone and take a picture.

“What are you doing?” I was already frustrated by not finding what I wanted.

“I’m just taking a picture of you coming out of a craft store without anything,” he responded. “I need proof cause otherwise no one will believe it.”

I’d be more upset if he wasn’t right about my spending habits. But by far the worst is definitely the grocery store, which brings me back to my latest spending spree. I brought home all the bags and began unloading them.

“I thought you just went to the store for butter,” Roy said.

I hesitated for a moment and then got my coat and purse and headed out. Maybe this time, with a little luck, I’ll only buy five things and one of them will be butter!