dropsinthewell

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Things have apparently become desperate for the deer population. This week, a member of that species checked into the city drug store by way of an unscheduled dash through a plate glass window. Didn’t do the window or the store a lot of good and I don’t think the deer really enjoyed itself either.

I don’t think the deer said why he was there, but one can draw the conclusion that, with all the hunters in town, he was probably after some tranquilizers for his nerves. In any case, by the time he had crashed in through one window, checked out the merchandize in the store (maybe he was Christmas shopping?) and crashed out through a second window, he was probably in need of medication of some kind!

Deer infiltration is a pretty common occurrence for those of us who live in South Dakota, and once in a while, they will take a stroll down city streets where they almost always come to grief or cause it, anyway. Whether it’s a foray through someone’s garden, hoofprints through the flower beds or a walk on the wild side of a road, they are always with us.

I don’t need to tell any of you, either, about the rigors of driving down a road in the gloaming, searching for a deer, well-blended with the scenery and unwise enough to play “chicken” (if you’ll forgive the term) with the motorized monsters on the road.

Imagine, if you will, a gathering of deer in the ditch, observing the lights of oncoming traffic. Merwyn, the lead deer, is gauging speed and distance before he decides on a plan of action.

“Now, I’d watch it, there, Merwyn, that car is coming fast. Don’t get cocky,” says his brother.

“Yes, Merwyn,” his wife chimes in. “You be careful on that road; you’re not as young as you used to be, you know.” She screws up her face unhappily as she sees him standing, debating. “Remember, if you try it, the children will all think they should too,”

“I have been dodging these things for years, Mildred,” he counters. “There’s an art to it. I know just when to…”

And away goes Merwyn and the next thing anyone knows, Mildred is holding a roadside memorial over the moldering remains of the unwise Merwyn. Meanwhile, the driver of the car is being told it’ll cost $6,000 to remove the Merwyn-shaped dent from his vehicle.

In South Dakota, a deer dead on the side of the road because it lost a game of Russian Roulette is almost cliché. No one mourns the death, just the damage. But, in some of my travels, I have encountered places where they treat the deer like a precious, endangered species. A sign in Florida said, “Have a care for our deer friends.” That is not a problem—I don’t have any deer friends, and I only care for my property!

They might not think they are so precious if they have my experience. Their “deer friends” have caused two of my car doors to spring when they ran into them, one hood to need replacing after a deer did a handspring roll over it and a few side mirrors have disappeared because deer paused to check their hair as my car passed.

While cars are the biggest target, this week’s shopping spree on Main Street is proof that nothing is sacred. Deer tend to make themselves at home, no matter the inconvenience to us and the danger to them.

Still, it might be that we don’t have it as tough as we might have. My aunt still wins first prize in the wild times with wild life as she tells the story of living in the mountains and opening the patio curtains, thinking the dog was outside. Instead, a full-sized bear stood on its hind legs and pounded a rhythm on the glass.

She wins the wildlife stories, but a deer through a plate glass window is a close second. Nice going, Merwyn’s brother, I hope you didn’t cut yourself—or maybe I do!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

It’s been a rough couple of weeks. I was feeling pretty miserable with an ugly cold and then Roy made it so much worse.

“I want to check myself for Covid,” he said, holding his head and laying back in the chair. That got my attention. When Roy feels so bad, he wants to undergo actual tests, that’s quite a thing. I wasn’t worried, though. After all, Covid is long past—right?

I kept hoping he would test negative—but he didn’t. And so, that meant that I had to test and of course, I also had Covid. Talk about regressing immediately into the past a few years! (Where DID I put those masks????)

The worst part for me is calling the people I have been in contact with to let them know I exposed them. It’s always an awkward conversation. It’s not like we’re used to giving people heads up on our health issues. “Yeah, I just thought I’d call and tell you I have the diarrhea and an uncomfortable rash right where I can’t scratch it.” But with Covid, we feel an obligation to let them know what’s coming.

Luckily, we were not greatly inconvenienced or made too ill by this round of the disease, but it was a subtle (or not-so-subtle) reminder that the pandemic, much as we want it to be, isn’t quite over. We were forced to confront the harsh truth that life will probably never go back to pre-pandemic proportions.

Before Covid, I never really noticed if someone was coughing. They could cough up a lung and I would not react. Now, if someone clears their throat, I want to put on a full haz-mat suit and drench myself in Purell.

We have stopped regarding the handshake as a form of greeting and begun to see it as a hostile attack. Before Covid, we laughed at the germophobic detective Monk, seeing his exaggerated fear of human contact as something ridiculous. Since the pandemic, it’s difficult not to look upon him as the prophetic poster child for fighting disease!

As a student of history (and long before the pandemic hit) I read with fascination the accounts of the Spanish flu epidemic which hit in the early 20^th century. I sneered a little at these people who couldn’t find a way to control the spread of a simple disease.

 After Covid entered our lives, I began to understand the problem. I listened with great interest to the lady who got on television and read a list of “suggestions” for how to avoid the spread. One of the suggestions was to avoid putting your hands near your eyes, nose or mouth. Then, she promptly licked her finger to turn to the next page of her notes! Okay, maybe I understand better now.

Before the pandemic struck, it would not have occurred to me to get up in the morning and go to work by staying in my house. Terms like lockdown referred to prison riots or airport security. Since Covid rolled over us, most people got the opportunity to scramble through their homes, eating breakfast at a dining room table that was turned into a glorified office. Before Covid, I would have thought “working at home” meant stuffing envelopes or doing hand sewing. But now, people are still frequently working at home offices, using a computer to do business and the joke about holding a meeting in your suit jacket and Santa pajama pants has become old.

I’m not really sure where I’m going with this…just a line of thoughts on how one single but deadly infection could so change our lives and outlooks. We live in a world where infection from colds and flu was carelessly spread for all of my youth and adult life. When I went to college, they didn’t cover the complexities of teaching a classroom full of students with all of us masked like we’re robbing a bank. “You gave the right answer. Which one of you said it?” Likewise, I never took a health class where they taught you a song by the singer Lizzo to help you wash your hands long enough to get them germ free…My hands are cleaner, but I discovered that I’ll never be much of a singer!

I learned so much about the difference between pre-Covid times and the post-pandemic world, but what I apparently didn’t learn well enough was that despite all the wonderful things the medical community and everyone else have done, Covid is still out there—maybe not as predominant as before, but definitely still visiting me when I let down my guard. Cough carefully everyone, and make sure you wash those hands for 20 seconds!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

“If you know the extension of the person you wish to speak to, dial that now,” came the automated voice over the phone.

“I don’t know who I need to speak to, I just need a person,” I replied, still not getting that I was talking to a phone robot and one who didn’t really care about my problems.

“In a few words, state what you need from our facility,” was the next instruction.

“I NEED TO TALK TO A PERSON,” I don’t know why I was shouting; it was not so much because I was angry; just because somehow I thought the robo voice would respond better. I was nervous; give me a break.

“Please state, in a few words, what you wish to speak to our people about,” was the repeated instruction, and because even a robo voice knew they were dealing with the simple-minded, they went on, “For example, do you want to update an account, open a new account, have billing questions…”

“I want to talk to a person about my account,” I shouted; by now I was convinced that I was not going to be talking to a human being anytime soon.

“We apologize for any inconvenience, but there is no one who can assist you at this time,” the robo voice intoned without a hint of apology. “We recommend that you visit our website or call our 1-800 number.” The next thing I heard was dial tone.

This is not a new event. The advantage to living in a small town has always been that I could walk in the front door of the business and talk to real, live people who give every indication of being willing to help me with whatever the problem is. So I guess I’ve been spoiled.

Any business that must be done long distance—and that happens a lot—leaves us at the mercy of an automated phone system which doesn’t care if their bad attitude and limited responses make us mad.

As an older American, I am less than comfortable with the technological advances that spring up almost hourly around us. I have already stated that my children are much better at figuring out technology than I am, but this is of no concern to the companies who rely more and more on the robo voiced phone receptions which handle the high volume of calls. The older the American, the more likely that these phone experiences don’t go well.

The website visit for me is always just as useless as my conversation with the automated voice. “Click on the box at the left side of the screen for a list of options.” I followed these instructions. None of the options took me to a place where I could get information for my account.

“We have a different address than the one you gave,” is the message which comes up when I try to identify myself. This is a problem: I’ve only had one address for the last 30 years. That might explain everything—I’ve been living under a false identity at a false address, no wonder I can’t get a response to my problems!

In the end, I called the 1-800 number. After answering a long series of questions and responding to a special code that they sent and I repeated back to them, I finally got to speak to an ACTUAL PERSON! Judging by her voice, she was somewhere in the south, but when we finally got down to my problems, she was able to help me fix it. I was so thankful, I couldn’t tell her enough how grateful I was.

“Oh ma’am, you are so welcome,” she drawled with her honey voice. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“Yes, tell me how I can get a hold of someone at the branch of the office that is in my area. They keep hanging up on me,” I whined.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s the new automated phone system,” she explained. That much I already knew.

“When they ask what you want, just say, ‘Branch manager,’ and you will get a person in the most local office to you,” she went on to instruct me. We parted on very good terms.

Several days later, when another issue appeared, I was confident of myself. I now knew what to do. I called the most local number and waited while the robo voice greeted me and asked me to state in a few words what I wanted.

“Branch manager,” I enunciated proudly.

“We apologize for any inconvenience, but there is no one who can assist you at this time,” intoned the robo voice. My reply was highly emotional and slightly profane. But by then I was speaking to dial tone.

Jackie Wells-Fauth

When I was in my early 40s, I remember trying to pick something up and having a twinge somewhere in my back and thinking jokingly, “Oh, look at me, I’m getting old.”

Nowadays, I only have to bend over or move sideways–without picking anything up–and I’m reminded seriously of that bumper sticker which says, “I thought growing older would take longer.” It is a sad truth that I no longer joke about getting older and every day I am reminded more vividly that I am getting so very much older. And far from taking longer, it has all happened in the blink of an eye!

As our bodies begin to age, we all begin to make concessions. We begin to deal with ourselves to keep from facing the awful truth that age, that merciless witch, has caught up with us and she did it with all the speed of a sprinter. I sit down more carefully and walk more precisely than I ever did as a young woman and still, the body persists in showing that age.

I used to walk through a grocery store picking up things aimlessly and in no particular order. Today, I stand and debate with myself about whether I could really maybe get along without milk for another week because I don’t want to walk to the back of the store to pick up the carton that I forgot to get (memory–another age-related casualty) while I was at the other end of the store.

I avoid certain clothes in my closet because they require me to twist my body to get them on in ways that age now forbids me to do. I don’t throw away the clothes, mind you, because someday I’m going to feel better and exercise my way back to all of the moves that I didn’t appreciate when I was young. And of course, I never clean the closet because my body is no longer fond of that activity, if it ever was!

I like to think that I am meticulous about keeping my kitchen floors clean—always mopped them regularly. Old age has made me watch the dog much more carefully. If she is out in the kitchen, licking the floor, I figure I can let the mopping go for another day or two. And as for moving out appliances to clean or mop beneath, well, if the dog isn’t bothered by their condition now, I see no reason I should get excited about it!

When my children were babies I dreamed of going to bed early and not having to get up in the night. That dream has never become a reality. If I go to bed too early, the old body protests against too much time in a prone position and as for not having to get up in the night, well, most of us old people will tell you that we have a night light in the bathroom and it’s not just for show!

Each morning, I get up and do an inventory of what aches, is numb from an unwise sleeping position or just plain has shifted and sends up notice that its function has now changed and it won’t be performing all those menial tasks for me anymore.

In my 20s, I threw fits because my hair was so thick I couldn’t get a comb through it. Today, I have put away all of those worries and just hope I have enough hair to cover my head. I loved high, spiky heels as a girl, believing they flattered my legs. Now, I wear heavy sneakers and comfort myself with the fact that my legs are always covered in compression socks, so no one would see them anyway!

At 35, I wrote my first column/blog about getting old. It was a complete whine about having to face the problems of encroaching age. Now, at almost 70, I would like to go back and kick that idiot 35-year-old in the butt—except I can’t get my foot up that high. And I suppose, if I live to be 100, I’ll look back on this column and laugh at what I can still do now that I won’t be able to then! It is all relative.

So it’s true, I did think growing old was going to take longer and instead, it has happened in the blink of an eye. This thought was really kind of depressing me the other day and I confided to a colleague that “I can’t believe I got old so very fast.”

He looked at me, cocked his head thoughtfully and replied, “This is all very true. It’s not that much fun getting older…but the alternative is a lot less attractive. I’ll take aging.”

And there you have it; the aging process is all in how you look at it—whether you’re 35, 50 or 80. So, I’ll try to be content with my growing age, but I still say that eye blinked pretty darn fast!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

It happened again the other day. Roy had to buy himself a new reading lamp and after he had unpacked and assembled it, he asked that fatal question:

“Where are the lightbulbs? This didn’t come with lightbulbs.”

What he may not know (and should by now) is that his wife doesn’t come with lightbulbs, either. There is never a spare lightbulb in the house, unless it is lying unwrapped in the cupboard and cracked so that it will not light. As I was sneaking around the house, stealing lightbulbs from any available unlit lamp, I reflected on this fact. The idea that I am the keeper of supplies (known in the Army as the Quartermaster) is a little like putting a four-year-old in charge of the aspirin supply. I never know how much of anything we have and the chances that we are out of something is equal to the desperation for which we need it.

My shopping lists are usually very detailed. They give me everything I need when I go to the store. And while I am at the store, the shopping list is laying conveniently on the counter at home. That forces me to shop by what I like to call the “take a stab at it and rely on my ever more failing memory.” This is not a good method.

While things like lightbulbs and stamps and ink pens are neglected in supply at our house, I have at present four boxes of Zesta saltines, five and a half tubes of Crest toothpaste and enough eggs to feed an actual army if they came for breakfast.

I like to make jelly when I can get my hands on enough chokecherries. I know that sometimes lids are in short supply, so the fact that I have a kitchen drawer I can’t shut because of all the lids doesn’t surprise me. What I’m still trying to figure out is why I felt the need to buy four packs of a dozen jelly jars each—given the fact that it has been three years since I made jelly. Now those are at least useful. Having never been taken out of the package, they make an excellent place for me to store all the bottles of Super glue, hot glue and Elmer’s glue that I have drying in the basement. They also are great support for the two dozen glue guns that I keep in stock. You think I’m joking…I wish I was!

I try to make do when I must. I have found that those large Christmas light bulbs, of which I have dozens, fit into most of my lamps, so Roy is lucky that he did not get a red or green light to read by until I was able to re-stock regular lightbulbs. Too many crackers lead to a lot of soup (if I have any in stock) and the eggs can be used in any number of dishes, until I start clucking like a chicken and have to desist.

I can’t even imagine what life would be like for me in the quartermaster’s corps. My father used to describe the work he had to do to keep uniforms and equipment available for the soldiers in his unit when he had to serve on the supply line. He made jokes about the wrong sizes, wrong equipment, etc., but I have to say that had I been in charge, it would probably not have been funny!

Imagine we are in the forests of middle Europe. Guns are blazing, troops are advancing, and I am in charge of supply.

“Sergeant Fauth, we need more bullets!” would come the demand.

“I’m all out of bullets; I’ll have to go to the store. While I’m gone, just fire these tubes of toothpaste at them. Aim for the eyes!”

I would be demoted in a real hurry on that job. And when I couldn’t find any lightbulbs for Roy to put in his new lamp, I was demoted to undependable at my house as well.

I don’t see myself getting any better at this supply thing, so when I finally did get lightbulbs, I only got enough to fill his lamp, with one left over. That one is presently on a shelf in the bathroom…and I’m pretty sure I cracked it when I put it in there!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Roy’s phone did one of its funny little quirks this week, so he did what we always do when our technology fails: he called one of our IT guys. Now, it should come as no surprise to most people that I gave birth to two of the IT team and they married the other half of the set. And take my word for it, our IT guys are always delighted to hear from us…especially when everything must be done by phone!

The phone issue for Roy was a tough one and he had to use my phone to communicate with our elder daughter to describe what his phone was doing. Since she was at home, alone, with the four-year old computer trainee in the family, it made for an interesting conversation.

“It won’t show me my e-mail, and I like to get that on my phone,” he complained.

“All right, I need you to go into the apps and click on the Google app,” she said, while in the background, the little one was chanting, “Hi, Grandpa; Mommy, I’m saying hi to Grandpa.”

By the time our IT guy had sorted out what was wrong, handled the minor crisis or two that the little one had and convinced her father (customer) that he had to Face time her so she could SEE what was on the phone, I’m fairly certain she was wishing she was an orphan.

Her ultra patient customer service voice was very soothing, but I’m pretty sure that underneath it, she was thinking that she could send us poison through the mail, but then she’d have to explain to her sister why she had done it.

She shouldn’t have worried though. Her sister, another one of the IT support staff in our family, has also dealt with her parents and their issues. “Okay, is the computer plugged in?” You laugh at this question, but half the time, that’s the problem. “Well, now, try turning it off and turning it back on,” is the second step. This always makes me mad. Do they think we can solve a huge problem in technology by just powering down and powering back up…how stupid or naïve do they think we are…oh wait a minute, that worked!

The married half of the IT team has no better luck, although for each of them, the approach is different. Stefanie’s husband, Marty, once confiscated Roy’s phone for an entire afternoon, industriously inputting the locations and directions for the places we intended to visit in Germany. We had all of that set up in our GPS, so it was annoying that Marty tied up the phone the whole afternoon to do what was not necessary. We thought this right up until the GPS, and every other location device we had, failed us in a foreign country and we were hanging on the every word of the directions Marty had put into the phone. We confessed that it was very helpful and he, as any good IT customer service member would, kept his mouth shut and refrained from saying, “I told you so.”

Tracie’s husband, Charles, is the epitome of patience as well. Each time I buy a new laptop, he sets it up for me. He asks questions that I don’t have an answer for and he attempts to set up the programs I need without any help or suggestion from me. He has even, on one rare occasion, locked into my computer from his house and fixed a problem I was having. I am convinced he learned that trick during his computer magic training at Hogwarts. However, I am also convinced that he has mastered the art of mentally facepalming himself every time he asks, “What is your password for your server?” And I answer, “I think it’s something to do with cheese. Try that.”

It’s possible that all four members of our IT team get away from their work on our technology only to bang their head against a convenient wall, but so far, they have not refused our calls or sent us any bills. We will probably never master the fine art of technology, so it’s necessary for us to continue to make use of our IT support team.

The good news is that we have discovered that we have new trainees for IT support, since the two older grandsons are now almost as good as their parents at adjusting our technology. They aren’t quite as patient, however.

“No, Grandma, you didn’t do it right! Didn’t you listen to what I said?”  They will have to work on that if they want to be good IT guys.

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Before I begin, I should give the following disclaimer: I recognize how important medical tests and exams are. There is so much that the medical community can do for us and help us to solve using their potions and pills and machines and tests. That having been said, I feel years of being x-rayed, ultra-sounded, run through the MRI, having endured multiple thyroid biopsies and the ever-enjoyable colonoscopy, I have a right to try and find the humor somewhere.

So as grateful as I am for modern science, I’m here to tell you that the little blue box that allows you to screen for colon cancer “your way” is misrepresenting things and the yearly mammogram for women is really no picnic, either!

I was thinking about the mammogram specifically during my yearly screening this last week. For the men in the reading audience, I realize the word mammogram makes you a little squeamish and that is too bad; maybe this is the week you don’t read this article to the end. For the brave men and the women, however, I believe I have something worth sharing.

The mammogram has always freaked me out. The first one I ever had was the baseline and they did so many views, re-takes and follow-ups that I was pretty much convinced I was just going to die right there. The trauma of that one has stayed with me, so I admit, I drag my feet and try everything to put it off—don’t ask me why; I know it must be done.

When they finally get me dragged in there, it is in some ways even worse, because when it’s over, I have to wait for that phone call. You know the one. “Yes, this is the clinic, and we have the results of your mammogram…” I don’t want those preliminaries. In fact, if they could arrange for a phone ringtone that was like an “All-clear” button, that would put me out of my misery immediately. However, I realize that there is a certain professional protocol, so I just have to be happy if at some point, they say everything’s normal.

All of these feelings were present when I reported for this year’s mammogram. I took my book along as usual, because I have heard that anxiety is handled better if you have something to read while you wait. I have never read a book while waiting for a mammogram that I did not have to re-read later, but it is something to hold in my hands, so I look reasonably calm.

I knew it was going to be different when I didn’t have to wait at all and the technician doing the mammogram led me into her exam room where I discovered calm, soothing lights and party music playing. You can’t get too wound up with a girl who is playing party music in the mammogram room.

A friend told me recently that she is sure that the mammogram machine was concocted by a man, and she is probably right. They don’t look friendly at all. They look like a giant monster with a huge mouth ready to swallow you. Erma Bombeck once said that in order to prepare for a mammogram, a woman should slam her most delicate appendage repeatedly in a refrigerator door. I have never tried that, but I think of it often when I approach those machines.

I particularly hate that you have to stand there in a gown open down the front (every year I put it on backwards first, don’t ask me why) while the technician puts little stickies as markers for any moles, etc. These stickies are meant to cling, and they do. But this technician, as she was liberally putting them on, said, “I just got a new set of stickies. They are great.” Can’t argue with that kind of cheerfulness.

At last, we got to the actual mammogram. This fantastic technician announced, “Now, we are going to do what I like to call the “Mammo Mamba.” When I got done laughing, I discovered that she had a whole set of footsteps on the floor, showing me exactly where to stand and how to approach the mammo monster. Before I knew it, I had concentrated so much on where to put my feet in those dance moves, that the exam was pretty much over. Somehow, she made having the most delicate portions of my body awkwardly squashed, not quite so bad.

When I was ready to leave, she even gave me a prize for being so good. I got a string of gold, plastic beads. It didn’t occur to me until later that this was kind of like Mardi Gras: Women flash themselves and get bead necklaces. It didn’t matter, I was so happy to be done, that I even left the machine without calling it my usual bad names.

So, I got a good report, and I was happy about that. I really enjoyed the attitude and atmosphere set forth by that technician. The question remains: Now that I can do the Mammo Mamba, will these tests be better in the future? Not a chance!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

We got done painting the kitchen three weeks ago. It looks really nice. I moved all the cooking things back into place and it has been working just fine. Except for one thing: the walls are bare.

Now, anyone who knows me knows that I like things hanging on the wall. A blank space on any wall gives me a nervous tic and I have so many of those automatic picture hanger things on the wall, I’m not sure I really needed to paint it. But I stripped everything off the walls, painted them a lovely blue and now, because of another of my idiosyncrasies (procrastination) the walls are still as bare as a baby’s behind, without so much as a trace of talcum powder.

It’s not that I don’t want things back on the walls. I just can’t seem to get organized and get it done. And it is causing me some problems. I took all the pictures and utensils and other items and laid them on the counters where I wanted to hang them on the walls. And for the last two weeks, I have been industriously wiping them down after a round of cooking grease or spilled tomato sauce or errant soap bubbles. This has not been good for the pictures and even worse for Roy’s and my good humor.

“Don’t set that there!” I yelled, the other evening as he tried to place a plate on the counter.

“It’s a dirty dish, where do you want me to put it, in the china cupboard?” He was rather incredulous.

“It would be better in the china cupboard than sitting right next to those kitchen utensils,” I pointed out reasonably.

“Those are kitchen utensils. Why aren’t they in the drawer, so I can put a dirty plate on the counter?” A worthy question, I suppose.

“Those utensils belonged to my grandmother. They are supposed to be on the wall.” It made perfect sense to me.

Unfortunately, Roy wasn’t following the conversation. “Okay, so your grandmother wants her kitchen utensils to hang on the wall. So why don’t you hang them there (I can’t believe I’m asking this) so I can put a plate on the counter?”

Yes, indeed, that’s the question of the hour. Why don’t I get things hung up? I am going to get around to it, but sometimes I just have a little bit of an organization problem. Those utensils are going to take some thought, and I haven’t decided exactly where to hang the antique grater and where the eggbeater should go. It must be considered before I do it, because I believe my grandmother is involved.

Of course, she is no longer alive, but she would laugh herself silly if she saw her utensils hanging on my wall, and I know she thinks it’s ridiculous, because she has already dropped that eggbeater on my head a couple of times. So, I must take some time and consider where it should go. Meantime, it sits on the counter and collects egg yolk from the plates Roy puts there. Grandma, you should drop that eggbeater on HIS head!

But I digress when I really mean to procrastinate. After a few days of wringing my hands looking at the bare walls, I came across some ripe tomatoes from the garden…in one of my enamel pans.

“What is this? Why would you put tomatoes in that pan?” I was furious.

“Because tomatoes should go in a container…oh, wait, this is another one of Granny’s things, isn’t it?” He catches on quickly.

“Of course, and only a philistine would think to put tomatoes all juicy from the garden in this enamel pan,” I raged.

As he emptied them out and washed the pan, he pointed out in vain that my grandmother undoubtedly used the same pan to collect produce from her garden and she didn’t hang it on the wall as a decoration afterward.

I can see it’s time to quit procrastinating and get my things hung back up before he manages to get syrup or ketchup all over the antique measuring spoons. I’m sure there is a proper way to do this, but I still need some time to figure out exactly where to hang the eggbeater. I’ll keep thinking until next week…or maybe the week after.

Jackie Wells-Fauth

We had an interesting time on Saturday night. Our anniversary is coming up and Roy was looking for ways to put a special stamp on our 42^nd time around the sun together. I was therefore delighted when he said to me, “I see that the comedian Jim Gaffigan is coming to Sioux Falls. You like him, don’t you? Maybe we should get tickets.”

Did I say delighted? Oh man, I LOVE Jim Gaffigan! He is such a funny guy and the chance to see him in person? I couldn’t have been more excited. And I was determined not to let any little things surrounding it get to me. I was going to see Jim Gaffigan! And I knew he would be awesome.

We headed out mid-afternoon in order to not be late. My hair was a wreck, my shoes were uncomfortable, and my hip was bugging me like usual. But that’s okay, we were in the car and headed down to see the show.

And in the end, Jim Gaffigan was awesome.

We were laughing rather self-consciously to ourselves as we pulled up to the Texas Roadhouse for supper. It was only 4:30…we were terribly early for supper, and we’d have extra time before the show, but that was okay.

And in the end, Jim Gaffigan was awesome.

We discovered that Jim Gaffigan was not the only event in Sioux Falls on Saturday and the Texas Roadhouse, at 4:30 in the afternoon was inundated with customers from a golf tournament in town and we had a forty-five-minute wait on a hard bench and ten minutes standing before we were ushered to a very crowded corner. The food was good, and we got in on several birthday yee-haws, so that was exciting.

And in the end, Jim Gaffigan was awesome.

Getting to the event center was a little stressful; my cane (that I was using for my hip) set off the security scanners, they questioned the pillow I brought to sit on (but let me keep it) and we had trouble figuring out the numbering system on the chairs, but we were there fully 40 minutes before it started.

And in the end, Jim Gaffigan was awesome.

We had great seats on the floor straight back from the stage. This was fine until Paul Bunyan sat down in the seat in front of us and I didn’t have the guts to ask if he would remove his hat. So, I developed a crick in my neck looking around him and that hasn’t gone away yet.

But in the end, Jim Gaffigan was awesome.

After the show, we went for ice cream, and we had a tough time getting through to the sweet-faced young clerk that we wanted chocolate SAUCE, not chips or bars or whatever. We finally got it though and enjoyed it before heading out of town.

And in the end Jim Gaffigan was awesome.

On the Interstate, we were abruptly re-routed to a side road by a lot of flashing lights and patrol cars. I said to Roy, “Oh no! Why did we hit the sauce at the ice cream store? Now we’re going to be arrested for driving under the influence of cocoa powder! Why didn’t we just get the chips?!” Fortunately, they were not looking for persons guilty of crimes of chocolate, so we made it home without further issues.

And did I mention, Jim Gaffigan was awesome!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I knew from the moment I picked up a paintbrush and color pad in kindergarten and watched those around me as they swirled and combined colors in beautiful ways…I knew right then. I knew I had no talent nor inclination for painting.

This has not changed over the years. It’s not like I haven’t tried. I have painted flowers and fruit, and I even went to one of those wine and paint parties—loved the wine, hated the painting. My initial feeling about my painting abilities was confirmed and examples of my art grace landfills everywhere.

That should have given me some hint that perhaps house painting wasn’t for me either. It didn’t help that I married the all-time greatest of house painters. His meticulous attention to detail has made him a wonderful accountant, and it means he puts meticulous attention into everything he does…including painting.

He took on the painting of the outside of the house a few years ago and I assured him that I could be a great help. The first day we were both out painting, I thought some pictures were appropriate, so I got the camera, came around the corner where he was painting and snapped a really cute photo.

He looked away from his work for a moment and said, “I thought you were supposed to be painting.”

I was chagrined, put away the camera and slopped on some paint. He came after a while to check on me and discovered that I had indeed gotten some paint on the house…and on the window…and on the flowers below…and a lot on myself. After observing the area, which did kind of resemble a paint war, he commented, “Perhaps it’s best if you just go back to taking pictures.”

He wasn’t wrong, but it was kind of offensive and it did make me want to prove myself with painting. So, while he was busy with work, for the next year or so, I proceeded to paint the inside of the house. I managed to cover the walls in every single room and, by making a rug constructed of newspaper, I was mostly able to keep it off the flooring. I had a real sense of accomplishment.

For the next several years, we lived in those rooms, and we pretended that when we looked at the ceiling, we did not see the streaks and missed spots. Of course, it was the worst in the bedroom. We carried on with our lives as if there weren’t three large yellow roller marks in the ceiling of the living room. We brushed our teeth and took our showers, without commenting on the green streaks down one side of the bathroom cupboards.

There is a strange dark spot on the ceiling in the guest bedroom where I didn’t quite cover the lavender paint I accidentally sprayed up there and there is just a hint of peach paint on the bedframe in our bedroom.

For as many years as he could stand it, Roy has overlooked these deficiencies, but this fall, he has decided that the time has come to take the painting in hand for himself. I was glad to leave that to him, and I really did try to help.

“Would you like me to tape along the woodwork, so the paint doesn’t get on that?” I asked.

“I think that it is already too late for that,” he said, inspecting all the old paint marks along the door frames. “Did you tape it the last time, or were you trying to paint the woodwork?”

“Well, I was kind of in a hurry to get it done,” I admitted.

“Obviously,” he replied, as he cut, chopped and strong-armed the electrical outlet covers off the wall. “You are supposed to wait until the paint dries to put these back on you know,” he said, as an entire strip of paint came off with a light switch cover that had been glued on to that paint for years. “And why can’t I get any of the ones off in the kitchen?”

“Because I left them on when I painted,” I replied defensively, “I was in a big hurry by then. I’d like to see you do so much better.”

So, of course, he did. He edges without any guide; he paints quickly and efficiently, and he can roll paint on the ceiling so that it looks like the whole ceiling has actually been painted. My kitchen, dining room and living room are looking great and so far, I can’t find any paint smears, drips or skipped spots. I can’t help feeling a little inadequate, but just as it was when I was in kindergarten and all those other kids were painting squares and circles and triangles, while I was getting paint on the floor and my fingers, I understand that everyone has their particular talents and the art of painting in any way is not one of mine. And if I’m a little patient, I can get the other rooms in my house painted by the guy who does have the talent.