dropsinthewell

Jackie Wells-Fauth

“Yes, I’m calling to speak to Mr. Smith; it’s a matter of some urgency,” I say to the polite young woman who answered the phone.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Smith is busy right now; can I connect you with his voicemail?”

Now, I understand we live in a world of automation, but I am highly reluctant to discuss my business into the vacant air, invited  by a mysterious, robotic voice which bids me to, “Leave a message, after the to…” at which point it disconnects me and I’m leaving a different, somewhat heated message into the literal dial tone.

I have long believed that Alexander Graham Bell was an evil genius who presented the telephone to an unsuspecting world as a product of Satan. I know, I know, I’m probably being too harsh, but my battles with the telephone have been extensive, bitter and sometimes downright bloody (I once banged the receiver against my forehead in frustration and cut myself.)

The early phones might have been convenient and fine. “Oh look, Martha, we don’t have to run down the hill to talk to the neighbors, we can just ring them on the telephone,” says George in delight.

“That’s good, since the neighbors don’t live down the hill; they live across the street, and I’m pretty sure they listen in on our calls,” Martha retorts bitterly, “I hate party lines.”

Personal phone use has never been the biggest issue for me, though. We all know the relief of getting to talk to an actual person when we make business calls. That, however, doesn’t happen much in the business world where AI has taken charge of reception duties. And AI systems serving as receptionists have all the telephone charm and etiquette of the warden of a maximum-security prison.

“Listen to the following list of options,” intones the warden, “Press 1 for a manager, press 2 for accounting, press 3 for Maintenance and for Complaints, please hang up and dial 1-800-wedontcare. You have not responded by pressing a number as instructed. We will repeat the options…”

“No, wait! I want maintenance; just give me maintenance,” I say as I frantically try to figure out where the keyboard has disappeared on my cell phone.

“Since you have not responded with a number, you will be disconnected; have a nice day.” And just like that, the warden is gone—off to torture another telephone inmate.

“Wait! Warden! I need maintenance! I forgot the number thingy, play the options again!” I say desperately as the dial tone sounds in my ear.

My favorite telephone antic of all of course, is the “Hold button,” which I am convinced came from the seventh circle of Dante’s Inferno.

“Your call will be answered in order of receipt. You call is number 52 and we are presently working for the next hour on caller 3. But your call is important to us, so we will put you on hold and play music they wouldn’t inflict on prisoners of war, but don’t worry, we will break in every so often to repeat that your call is important to us.”

In the meantime, I have called Mr. Smith on my urgent business ten times and have sent that many voicemails into the abyss, never to be heard again. But I’ll try one more time.

“Hello, I’d like to speak to Mr. Smith, please,” I say, bracing for voicemail.

“This is Mr. Smith,” says an actual person with an actual voice, “How may I help you?”

I’m delilghted…I’m astounded…I…have completely forgotten why I called him….Dialtone time!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Okay, everyone who contemplated moving to the tropics this week, raise your hand. (Give me a moment while I raise mine.) For those of you who didn’t, you’re just not thinking creatively…you must be too cold!

I know that into every winter, a little cold must fall, but this week, it has verged on the ridiculous. I do love living in South Dakota, but I admit I don’t handle the ultra-cold too well. It disrupts everything and I can’t wear my short-sleeved shirts. This is a tragedy!

I am poorly equipped to handle all this cold. I had to switch from my afternoon iced tea to hot tea and I absolutely cannot face eating cold cuts in weather like this. It makes me want to curl up in a blanket and eat comfort foods like chocolate and doughnuts. Cold weather is bad for the body mass, but on the bright side, I’ve heard that the higher the body mass, the warmer I’ll stay!

Fortunately, we have the capability to have fires in our basement stove. Unfortunately, I’ve never been any good at starting fires. Roy does it well, but if I try, it never works. I’m reminded of the Jack London story “To Build a Fire.” The poor man was freezing and trying to get a fire going. When he finally succeeded, the snow from a tree overhead dropped and put it out. You just knew he was going to freeze to death then. I would not have taken as long to succumb to the weather!

I never have the luck to get a fire to start. I have tried everything from kindling sticks to all types of paper and I never even get an ember flickering, but I do get a lot of cold air coming down the pipe! So much for the comfort of a crackling fire—the furnace is on its own.

I try the mind over matter trick. It’s ten below outside, so I make sure to read the epic novel “Hawaii” and I eat pineapple while wearing a lei. I draw the line at doing the hula, however; the last time I tried, I put a hip out! Mind over matter didn’t work; I was still freezing.

Roy is not nearly as bothered by the cold. He was watching a football game this weekend where the football players were playing in the snow. They were slipping and sliding, and they had bare hands and arms in a snowstorm so thick that it was hard to see if the ball went between the goal posts in a field goal!

“How can you watch that stuff?” I asked, pulling my coat closer around my body as the snow changed to sleet and clanged off the helmets of the players. “It’s positively freezing my blood.”

“Well, I’m not there,” he replied, “and sometimes a game is more exciting when you don’t know from one minute to the next if they are going to go sliding into the goal line.”

After three hours of watching the blizzard of Philadelphia, I was relieved to have it over. Probably the LA Rams were too—I can’t imagine that’s their usual climate for play. They undoubtedly went back to their hotel rooms to thaw out and I removed one layer of my many layers of clothes.

Then, just like that, another game came on and guess what? More snow! I don’t enjoy football all that much anyway; I really don’t want to increase the misery by freezing while I watch the game.

“Can’t we watch something else,” I whined as I put on another pair of socks—over my hands. “I am freezing and it’s obvious Buffalo is going to win.”

“You never know, anything can happen and that’s especially true when they are playing the game in the Arctic.”

Monday morning proved that football games in the snow are not the worst thing about cold. I did not set a single foot outside and I was still frozen, just looking at the thermometer. I kept waiting for it to get above zero, and it never did.

The dog went to the door and looked back as if to say, “I would like to go out now.”

“You don’t want to go out, trust me,” I told her.

She didn’t trust me, so I let her out and she made a complete about face and had her head back in the door before I could close it. Turns out that dog and I have something in common. Neither one of us enjoys the cold.

“Don’t worry, if I find a tropical island to go to…” I began, looking at her, “I’ll be sure to send you a postcard with something warm on it.”

Stay warm all of you—spring must come sometime!

Welcome to Hell’s Kitchen

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Yes, indeed this is another rant about my cooking. But I’ve finally decided what my culinary technique reminds me of. There is a program on television called “Hell’s Kitchen.” I see it advertised, but I don’t watch it because cooking programs just depress me. And that program appears to consist of a man yelling at people for poor cooking. I can get examples of poor cooking anytime I want!

What I don’t usually have is people yelling at me for it. Fortunately, the one person in my household who hates cooking more than I do is Roy, so he’s careful about how he comments on what I cook. Since we met when he, as an Aberdeen fireman, showed up to put out my burning supper, he can’t even tell you that he didn’t know what he was getting into!

So, he has eaten many a meal that wasn’t exactly up to cooking show standards and he’s pretty mellow about it. He can eat burned bacon, undercooked pancakes and warm orange juice, without too much complaint. “The bacon has less burned spots this time,” he will say and I feel like Julia Child because I take that as the greatest compliment in the world. Take that, Hell’s Kitchen!

There are some critiques occasionally for my cooking, however. I mismanaged a piece of fried chicken one day and divided it between the dog and the cat. The dog, not the most discerning of cuisine artists, gobbled down her share, but when I offered the other part to the cat, she looked down her nose as if to say, “I don’t take failed cooking projects, thank you.”

I occasionally make pastry items when my grandsons come. Years of experience have taught the older two to be cautious about what they put in their mouths, but the four-year-old not as well-educated in my cooking yet, crammed an entire bar in his mouth, looked thoughtful for a minute, and then spit it back out. That pretty much says it all!

The biggest critic in the house, of course, is the smoke alarm. My sister once gave me a set of napkins which said, “Supper’s ready when the smoke alarm goes off.” I would be offended by that if it weren’t for the fact that the smoke alarm and I are on very close terms. I slightly overcook something and the smoke alarm announces it to everyone. “Shut up or you’re next!” is my favorite response, but the smoke alarm is usually unmoved. It also doesn’t respond to shoes thrown at it, brooms taking a swing or any curse word I can come up with.

That would have been bad enough if not for the recent addition of an air purifier. I thought this was a great idea until I realized that the only time the air purifier gets excited is when I cook. Now I have two robotic critics of my cooking, and people want to make this an AI world? I don’t think so!

The other day, I decided that instead of burning bacon in the frying pan, I would char it on the broiler. Someone told me this made less of an atmospheric impact. No, I don’t know what that means, but it sounded good!

Of course, the bacon singed on all the edges and the smoke alarm joyfully started its usual routine. “I know, I know, I don’t need you to tell me the bacon burned,” I shouted at an inanimate object. “Nobody else cares, why do you?”

At just that moment, the air purifier kicked in. This machine, normally completely silent in its operation, suddenly kicked into a gear I didn’t know it possessed, frantically trying to clear the air of my cooking. It revved like a racecar engine, and for a few minutes, I thought its insides were going to come bursting out with the effort.

“Et tu, Brute?” I asked, my eyes stinging with smoke. “I don’t already have one machine giving my cooking an F, you have to add your opinion??????”

By the way, even the dog wouldn’t eat the bacon. Welcome to Hell’s Kitchen.

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I was out for dinner last week when I overheard a conversation that really resonated with me.

“My New Year’s Resolution this year is to lose weight,” came the determined declaration of a young lady at a neighboring table. “After all, God loves a healthy girl.”

“So, the same resolution  as last year,” drawled her companion cheerfully, “And the year before that, and…”

This cynical observation was interrupted by a sharp rap on the shoulder from the young lady setting her resolutions, but the fact that everyone, including her, laughed, told me this was probably a correct assessment.

But I can truly relate to this resolution and I don’t think it’s too chancy of me to say I’m not alone. How many people, every year, including me, set losing weight as their New Year’s Resolution, only to have their good intentions blasted out of the water by a January filled with lots of calories?

It is, however, a legitimate choice for a new start. After eating the fatted cow all through the holiday season, I wager we are all finding the waistband on our trousers a little tight. The merchandizers of the world long ago caught on: After pushing every candy and snack possible at Christmas, January’s ads are all about exercise equipment and diet deals.

And while I do try to clean up my eating habits after abusing them horribly during the criminal holidays, I stopped calling it a diet some time ago. And this philosophy, although rocky at times, serves me pretty well. I simply resolve not to resolve to lose weight. Simple, right?

“I thought you weren’t dieting any more,” a friend will say after I have selected the sugar-free beverage (with obvious reluctance).

“Oh, I’m not dieting,” I say, with false cheerfulness, “I really like this diet soda…it has a delightful aftertaste.”

“It tastes like the inside of an oil can,” my friend answers, “admit it, you’re on a diet.”

“I’m not on a diet; I’m just exploring new and nasty tastes,” I insist, but we both know the truth: Resolution or not,  I am counting calories in the new year and I’m reminded of it everywhere.

Choosing a muffin over a frosted roll is a major dilemma.

“You know, it is a proven fact that in order to lose weight and keep it off, you have to give up high calorie things for good,” the television dietician states positively.

How sad that makes me, but I know it is probably true. That does not, however, mean that I don’t cheat on my marriage to high fiber muffins by stepping out with a roll slathered in frosting once in a while. After all, I have not made a new year’s resolution to diet. I just try to keep the sugary activities to a minimum. But I’m not dieting. My resolution is to not diet.

Which brings me to my greatest enemy…the bathroom scale. None of this non-dieting thing works if the scale doesn’t cooperate. I regard my scale with all the affection that Elmer Fudd had for Bugs Bunny. And occasionally, as I watch the dial spin higher and higher, I fantasize about shooting it.

When I first began my “non-diet,” I wouldn’t step on the scale if Roy was in the house.

“It won’t change just because I’m here or not here, you know,” he pointed out, the first time I demanded he vacate the premises during the morning weigh-in.

“I know, but if it’s too high, I want to keep my screaming to myself, without any witnesses,” I explained.

“And if it’s nice and low?”

“Then you’ll have to come back into the house sometime and I can brag about it then,” I concluded.

So far, my resolution to not diet has worked out pretty well. And if I don’t maintain the weight I want, I won’t worry too much. After all, God loves a chubby girl, too!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I have always loved shopping for Christmas presents. Even with all my complaints about having to shop online, I still love accumulating that little pile of loot, ready to distribute to family and friends.

Except the longer I look at it and the more the pile grows, the more I begin to dread it. Not the gifts, just the next step: wrapping all those things. Because as much as I love shopping for the perfect gifts or making things I know they will love, I hate wrapping them!

I usually end up playing the “ignore” game. First, I pass by the small stack of things on the table. After a time, I move the growing heap to a spot on the floor. When Roy kicks the bigger things across the room, he usually inquires, “Time to wrap the presents, is it?”

The message is not subtle: he wants the gifts wrapped under the tree, but unfortunately, he is actually worse at wrapping them than I am. I once caught him leaving the house with a gift for his father, tied up in a ratty looking grocery bag.

“What is that?” I said, thinking that I already knew.

“It’s Dad’s gift; it was hard to wrap, and I didn’t find any of those gift bag things, so this will work,” was his answer.

“Couldn’t you at least have put on a name tag and a bow or something?” I wondered how to get it away from him to properly wrap.

“I couldn’t make a bow stick,” he said, holding it well out of my reach. “And it doesn’t need a name tag. He’ll know it’s from me.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I murmured as we left for the Christmas celebration.

As much as I don’t admire the way he wraps things, he is equally unflattering in his observations on my work. My wrapped gifts generally look like they have been viciously attacked by a drunken Christmas monster and they lost!

“Where are the scissors?” I exclaim, pulling out my hair as I search out the location of the scissors. “I swear, they walk away. Roy, can you go get me another pair of scissors?”

“Okay,” he says helpfully, “but that was the fourth and final pair out of the sewing stand. You’re going to have to make do with the kitchen shears.”

“That’s fine,” I agree eagerly, “if they can cut up a chicken, they should be able to cut this thin Christmas wrap.”

Roy brought me the shears and stood and watched me estimating where to cut and then shoving those oversized scissors into the very thin paper.

“Why are you cutting it?” he finally asked. “You could do as neatly as that if you chewed it.”

“I’m not going to chew the paper apart!” I was indignant. “How could you think that?”

“Because that’s what everyone else is going to think when they see the drunken edges on their gifts,” Having delivered his opinion, he left me in peace to ruin my gifts as I wished.

I lost the tape about 15 times, cut every piece of paper either too small, so I had to piece in extra to at least cover what was in it; or I cut it too large, and having no wish to try and chew off the excess paper, I simply wadded it up and tacked it down with extra tape—when I could find it.

In my family, my younger daughter Tracie is the one who got the neat wrapping gene. She is able to eye and cut (with reasonable scissors) a piece of paper that fits the gift exactly. She neatly folds the ends (also the right size) and uses the exact amount of tape needed to hold it in place. Watching her do this always makes me wonder if they somehow switched her with my actual daughter at the hospital and as she is untwisting, untaping and unwrapping the paper which goes three times around the gift, I know she wonders the same thing.

Well, another year is winding down and so I have taken the plunge and managed to wrap all the gifts and only one of them ended up in a garbage bag—but I put a bow on it. I’ll spend the next year rounding up all the scissors I lost and the tape dispensers that disappeared, and I will breathe a sigh of relief: for better or worse, “that’s a wrap.”

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Given the snow this week, I bet it’s no shock to anyone that I decided to write about shoveling snow! Anyone who tells you that they enjoy shoveling snow should be watched carefully and probably placed under medical treatment!

I have always loved that piece written about the woman from the South who was looking so forward to enjoying snow for the first time. With each entry, she graduates from childlike excitement to some frustration to realizing that the city snowplows hate her. She finally descends to cursing as yet another snow falls and at this point, I can relate to this woman.

Snow removal has always kind of been Roy’s thing. Especially when a few years ago I developed legitimate health issues. Before that, I did try to help, but usually, he got tired of my whining about my legs, my back, my cold face, etc., and would tell me to leave and he would figure it out.

I still do what I can. It’s easy to shovel steps and the back deck because I can just set the shovel on the snowy surface and push, until it falls off the edge. It makes for some funny snow trails, however, and I admit I don’t always clean those up as well as I could.

It’s a terrible shame, then, that I married a snow shoveling perfectionist. When he is done shoveling the driveway, it is pristine. You don’t find snow lines and every inch of the concrete drive is cleaned of snow. Even so, he will grab the big push broom each time he is out there and do some more sweeping, carving the edges so no snow dribbles back in the path.

You can imagine, then, his reaction when I am done casually pushing the majority of the snow off the steps or the deck. I am somewhat cranky about any criticism of my work, and he has learned over the years to be subtle in his comments. Still, I can feel the  desperation in his attitude when he looks out at the deck and sees all the snow trails. I am so proud that I have done the work, so he does not dare say anything negative.

“I took care of the back steps and the deck;” I announce proudly when he walks in the door. “No need for you to do anything there,” and as he heads for the back deck, “No, really, don’t you dare do anything more.”

“I assume that it must have snowed again after you were done?” he asks, continuing to inspect at a safe distance.

“No! Why would you think that?”

“Well, the middle of the deck isn’t too bad, but it must have snowed under the porch swing and the grill,” he is a little more cautious now.

“It’s all right. I consulted with the porch swing and the grill and they agreed that I could leave the snow under there because we weren’t planning any picnics in the next few months,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Okay, well, I appreciate your help. Those snow trails down the middle of the deck will melt in the sun and make great ice trails. I always think walking on the deck should be an adventure.”

“I double-dog dare you to go out there and straighten that out,” I threatened, “cause I still have a snow shovel and I know how to use it.”

“All evidence to the contrary,” he answered dryly as he walked away.

No more was said about the snow shoveling for the rest of the day. I watched him carefully, but he is pretty crafty. Late in the afternoon, when I looked out the kitchen window, the snow trails were gone.

“Nice shoveling clean-up,” I said rather bitterly.

“What, me? I would never go out and clean up after the fine shoveling job you did. I can’t imagine who could have done that. Darn neighbors. What’s for supper?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “Maybe you should check with the neighbors.”

Jackie Wells-Fauth

When I started school back in the Stone Age, we studied everything in inches, pounds, and miles and we received all of our temperatures in Fahrenheit. Except for the fact that I took forever to learn how to spell Fahrenheit (and I still don’t do so well), I was satisfied with that system.

Not so, the rest of the world. All of these countries, completely ignoring my pain, went ahead and put up kilometer signs instead of miles, measured weight in kilograms instead of pounds and worst of all, measured temperature in Celsius instead of Fahrenheit. And the United States looked on at that, and thought, “What a great idea.”

During the presidency of Jimmy Carter, I think, I began to hear about going to the metric system. We were to join the rest of the world and learn the metric system. Except teaching me the metric system after I had already painstakingly learned another measuring system, was about like trying to teach me French, when my mind was welded to English! It was just too hard for me.

Eventually, I think the powers that be looked at us all, drowning in kilograms and meters and centimeters, and decided the struggle was too difficult. Plus, we would have had to change all those roads signs and make all new rulers and that was just too difficult. Once the school stopped haranguing me to come up with the distance between my house and the school in kilometers (I said that I could not answer that question because I didn’t know French—that got me a zero) I pretty much let go of that system.

Then, I went to Canada and then Europe and guess what? In addition to the fact that they don’t measure in miles or tell temperature in Fahrenheit, they have different money as well! So, while I was estimating how much time (measured the same, thank goodness) it would take to get anywhere in kilometers, and just how warmly I should dress in Celsius, I was also trying to figure out money, the value of which was (forgive the term)  “foreign” to me!

“Where is the train station from here?” I could ask in English, because the Germans have done a much better job learning English than I have German. That’s where the similarity might end.

“It’s just about two kilometers right down that way,” comes the very polite answer from a fine German gentleman.

“And how much is that in miles?” is my next question.

After a rather funny look, he answered, “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that.” Imagine, he knew English, but not miles!

I finally got to the train station and the first thing I needed desperately was a bathroom. “Oh, they have them on the trains,” offered a friendly woman, “although they are a little small, not more than a few centimeters.”

I had no idea what that would look like, so I went in search of a public bathroom in the station, hoping it would be big enough. I found the bathroom, guarded by the attendant who is put there to collect the fee charged in most bathrooms.

“I don’t know how much I have,” I said, holding out a bunch of coins like a blind person. “Just take what you need and let me through!”

Changes in measure have followed us back to the United States. While I can still get a thermometer measuring in Fahrenheit, it almost always offers in Celsius as well. So, sure enough, the first thing I did was somehow change it to Celsius. And, given my skills with technological devices, I have not been able to change it back.

 Now, when I need to take my temperature, I must drag my fevered body to my computer, with the thermometer in my mouth and type in: Google, how much is 37.5 Celsius in Fahrenheit?  Someday, I know Google is going to answer, “Perhaps you should learn Celsius or just die!”

When I go to the medical offices, they weigh you with the metric system and I actually kind of like that. If I look at the scale and it’s in kilograms, I have no real idea what I really weigh. In pounds, I’d have to take it seriously and do something about it. I think it might be even better if we measured it in the British fashion. How much do you weigh if you are “12 stone” anyway?

I realize that I have devoted this column to my ignorance of the metric system, but honestly, I don’t think I’m unique in this. Ever since Mr. Carter got the idea to teach us all the metric system, I have been struggling, but I’m fairly certain I’m not alone in that struggle.

So, somebody help me out: I think I have a fever and I just took my temperature. How much is 38.1 Celsius in Fahrenheit?

Little Sure Shot Sure Shocked ‘em

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I have read, for many years and with great interest, the expression, “the weaker sex,” when talking about women. As a member of the weaker sex, I frequently laugh myself sick while I drag around heavy, wet baskets of laundry or giant mounds of garbage or wheelbarrows full of dirt. Being the weaker sex means I shouldn’t have to do that kind of thing, right?

Oh wait, I forgot, all those types of jobs are also considered “women’s work.” There is another phrase that really eludes me. What exactly is women’s work and how did women, who go through the rigors of childbirth and hold entire households together, become known as the weaker sex? Hold the door for me? How about you lug heavy rugs to the deck to be cleaned or juggle three children, the evening meal after working outside the home all day and a couple of hours of homework wrangling.  Then, I will be glad to open the door myself, thank you!

I was having all of these bitter, gender-war thoughts when I came across a picture of Annie Oakley this week. Maybe you remember Annie Oakley, the young woman who was an expert shot with a gun and who traveled for many years with Buffalo Bill Cody and his Wild West Show. “Little Sure Shot,” they called her and I’m convinced that half of her appeal was that she was a woman—and since the weaker sex are not expected to be good at shooting, her ability to drill a dime in mid-air with a bullet made her an aberration worth watching.

Of course, women participating in the Wild West Show would be expected to ride out with the rest of the performers on a horse. The rest of the group, men in cowboy attire, would be astride their horses, one foot in each stirrup on either side of the horse. Not so for the “weaker sex.” Annie Oakley, as befitted the delicate gender, rode on a contraption called a “side-saddle”. Historians can explain all the many reasons for assigning women to ride the side-saddle, but if you’ve ever seen one or ridden on one, you know that there is nothing “weaker” about anyone who can hang on, draped as they would be in long skirts and clinging to one side of the horse!

I got to try out one of these things (not on a horse, of course) which was set up in a museum and the signs invited you to try and mount and sit on the saddle. It also mentioned that you should attempt to imagine sitting on that saddle on a moving horse. I was wearing jeans and I was a few years younger than I am now, and I could not mount and stay upright even with that saddle immobile on a sawhorse. I can’t imagine trying to sit on the side-saddle strapped to a horse.

That brings me to the picture of Little Sure Shot. Annie Oakley wasn’t just riding a horse with long, draping skirts and a side-saddle, the picture captured her as she reared the horse up on two legs. Now, maybe, after the photo was taken, she slid off the saddle and ended in the mud, but that picture made me so proud of her—proving that even with all of a woman’s restrictions, she could live in a man’s world. I didn’t see any of the men in the Wild West Show doing that!

In the same group of pictures was a photo of Belle Starr, also seated on a horse, riding side-saddle. That one just made me laugh. Belle Starr, if you remember, was known in the Old West as “the Bandit Queen.” She was an outlaw with the best of them. In the picture, she is both wearing guns and carrying them, but still, there she was, on a side saddle. I can understand; if she had ridden astride, people might have thought she wasn’t a lady!

Annie Oakley apparently lamented the fact that she was considered a “trick shot” because, as a woman, she wasn’t expected to be a good marksman. I see her point and I see that she was far ahead of her time in her outlook and abilities. So thank you, for setting the pace for all the girls coming after you and proving that the “weaker sex” isn’t so weak, after all!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Right now, everyone’s celebrating the holiday. That one we squeeze in between trick-or-treating and Christmas. This is the one where we give ourselves permission to stuff ourselves and then sit around afterward discussing key issues like, what’s for sale already for Black Friday and whether it’s okay to have the Christmas tree up while the Pilgrim statues are still decorating the mantle.

People may not realize it, but Thanksgiving is actually a very divisive holiday. It’s divided between those who can cook and those who believe that God invented TV dinners for a reason. It is on Thanksgiving that we separate the chefs from those of us who made a last-minute dash to the store for two-day old buns and a can of black olives to take to the annual event.

The day will come, I know, when I will not be able to accept someone’s generous invitation to Thanksgiving dinner, but I am not looking forward to that day because that is when I will sink irrevocably into that world where you “microwave on high for four minutes, stopping halfway through to stir the potatoes and turkey—separately.”

It’s not that no one tried to teach me to cook. But you have to have two things to learn to cook: a certain amount of aptitude and a great deal of willingness to do it—itude. I believe that from the start, I did not possess either. I would be content with a piece of toast and a fried egg for every meal…if only I could fry an egg. It’s sad, but when Roy wants a fried egg, he makes it himself, knowing that’s the only way it will not come out burned and slightly scrambled.

But back to Thanksgiving. You may think, as some do who have tried to encourage me, that I just don’t apply myself. But the truth is, I am highly intimidated by some of the cooks around me. And…yes, I don’t apply myself, either.

“Try some of the cranberry-apple resole, I made with fresh cranberries,” someone will say.

Fresh cranberries? I get my cranberries jellied in a can as nature intended. And I’m not trying anything whose name doesn’t appear in Webster’s standard dictionary. So, I missed out on the cranberry-apple thingy, but at least I kept my dignity, right?

As for stuffing, aside from the fact that I object to that much bread in one single sitting, I have a great deal of trouble with how it’s prepared. No, I do not wish to sample your great aunt Bessie’s stuffing, when it has to be shoveled out of a turkey’s butt to be served! And that is not just me being bitter because I can’t make a stuffing that anyone will eat, regardless of where it reposed during baking!

Obviously, the fact that I have failed this Thanksgiving test a great many times, causes people who do invite me for a meal to be less than enthusiastic for me to bring anything.

“I could bring a pumpkin pie,” I will offer, half-heartedly.

“Oh my, no,” the hostess will stammer, “I’d hate to have you go to that bother.”

“Are you sure? I think they are on sale at Kessler’s. Would be no trouble to go pick one up.”

Even if I’m bringing it from the store, most hostesses will turn it down. That’s fine, it saves me the trouble of shopping and it saves them the worry that I’ll take some wild notion in my head and make it myself. I have nightmares about making dinner rolls that turn out to be rocks or a macaroni salad loaded with mayonnaise-covered mystery lumps, and usually that’s enough to get me out of the notion of actually cooking.

So, I will continue to view Thanksgiving as the ultimate cooking test that I have failed and I will count myself on the side of those who are always asked to bring some paper cups or napkins but never Grandma’s homemade fudge! While it is a divisive thing, I think we will all survive it, especially after a good meal. And rest assured that my lack of cooking skills will continue to horrify others and be perfectly okay with me!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I’m the first one to admit that my household is a little disorganized. I have often thought it would be better if I hired someone to clean and organize it regularly, but I’m afraid a professional would take one look at the blankets and throws all over the living room and yarn scraps from sewing projects throughout the house and run screaming into the night.

And so, I go on, year after year, wallowing in my disorganization and losing things right and left because of it. Or at least, that’s what I always believed. I figured that some higher power just liked messing with my mind, and rearranged things throughout the house. That explains the loss of things like scissors and ink pens.

I have a project that needs gold-colored yarn and I cannot find any in the house. So, I buy some and then, of course, the higher power places the missing yarn someplace quite ordinary, like the plate cupboard, or the freezer.

I have tolerated this circumstance because everyone assures me they have the same problems. Needles go missing, socks constantly lose their mates and finding a hairbrush is frequently so difficult, I have learned to comb my hair with my fingers and I have convinced myself that it looks just as good!

Everything was fine until the knives. Now, I have lost many pairs of scissors. It seems when I need a pair of scissors, there is never any around. I end up using a small knife or just as often my teeth. I can accept that scissors pack up and move out of the house, but now my knives have gotten into the act.

I bought a couple of knives a while ago that were really quite expensive because I was tired of the knives that cut so poorly I could chew it better and  more smoothly. Those two knives were great and I used them for everything. Then, one by one, they silently disappeared into the night. Frustrated by bread that got mashed and meat that wouldn’t slice, I got a couple more knives, not so expensive, but at least temporarily sharp. They, too, disappeared into knife oblivion.

All the dull knives have remained and they are only good for causing cuts on my fingers as I sort through the drawer, looking for knives which can do anything besides cut me! I was debating about whether I should be shopping once again, for knives that can do kitchen work, when I happened to overhear a program on television that made me stop and think.

It was while I was in the living room, digging carefully through the furniture looking for both my scissors and my missing needles, that I overheard a man describing his experience with what he termed to be ghosts.

“My knives slowly started disappearing. No one seemed to know where they went,” he drawled. He had my attention.

“Before I knew it, all the sharp knives in the house and some scissors and a bunch of large needles had mysteriously vanished. I looked everywhere, I asked every one and no one could answer the question of where they went.”

By now, I was sitting in a chair, hanging on his every word. What happened? “Did you ever solve the mystery?” the interviewer asked.

“One night, I woke up in the middle of the night and I was pinned to the bed with my sheet, which had every sharp utensil that had disappeared in the last year holding the sheet to the bed all around me. Those ghosts were sending me a message and I left that house quickly.”

What? Ghosts were collecting all the sharp objects? Did that mean I was going wake up some night looking like the knife act in a circus show? I told my husband the whole story.

“Well, it seems more likely to me that he should check out his wife,” was his reply. “Besides, I have problems of my own. I can’t find my hatchet anywhere.”

Okay, that’s it. I’m packing up and moving out until that ax reappears…someplace other than in my bed!