dropsinthewell

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I used to love reading romance novels about a couple who first see each other and the room just ‘floats around them in a romantic whirl.’ That always sounded kind of cool to me, until recently.

I woke up one morning not so long ago and the world was just swirling around me. The difference here is that mine was not swirling for fabulous romance. For one thing, Roy had already gone to work and before you ask, no, I do not have some gorgeous swain as an illicit lover. I could have if I wanted, I just don’t happen to want to!

Where was I? Oh yes, I was standing in the hallway. I’m pretty sure it was the hallway, but it wasn’t acting like a hallway. It had more the appearance of an out-of-control roller coaster. So, I did what I always do on a roller coaster—I threw up. Then I fell down. And I liked it a lot better on the floor, even though it was acting like a canoe on the water rapids.

This rather unsettling experience led me to the conclusion that perhaps I should share this adventure with my local medical personnel. I waited until I could walk without hitting a wall or a piece of furniture, and then I went in and described the condition. They listened sympathetically to my explanation:

“Well, I got up and I ran into the dresser…that’s where I got this bruise. Then I went into the hall, and it was all kinda whoozy-like and I didn’t like that, so I fell down and threw up…or I threw up and fell down, I can’t remember…”

From this convoluted ramble, they decided that I might have a dizzy issue. (No, not my personality, a physical issue—unrelated to romance). They made me lie down (not a good idea) with my head hanging off the back of a pillow. This was REALLY not a good idea. I didn’t throw up, but it must have appeared as though I was contemplating it, because as I quickly sat up with a hand slapped over my mouth, a bucket appeared in front of me.

“Yes, I would say you have vertigo,” came the medical conclusion.

Vertigo! At last, my roller-coaster condition has an actual name. Okay, just give me the pill that cures it, and I’ll go home.

“I’ll schedule you for physical therapy,” was the unbelievable prescription to cure my vertigo. Physical therapy! That’s where they make you jump around and use your body for physical activity. Now, I have always found physical therapy to be helpful, but I’m not sure with a head that is swirling like a flushing toilet every time I move, that physical therapy is what I need. Do they have vomit buckets handy over there?

Nevertheless, I went to therapy. I’m glad I didn’t get my usual therapist. I love her and I always benefit from her help, but I have a tendency to argue with her. She might not have enjoyed trying to help with the vertigo, and I want to keep in good relations with her for all the other things that go wrong.

The brave lady who took it on didn’t disappoint. Just as I thought, she wanted me to do things that brought on the vertigo. “Lay down on your side and then point your nose towards your armpit,” she instructed. Now, there’s a joke there, but I didn’t make it; I was too busy being dizzy.

In spite of all of my doubts, by the time she was finished, I was not dizzy anymore—well, mostly not. She played a small video, to show me what had made me dizzy. It seems there are some granules in your ear that when they stay in place, maintain your equilibrium. Mine had apparently decided to travel to places they weren’t supposed to be, so it was necessary to tilt my head and call them home. (The previous statement is not an authorized medical description—you’ll have to watch the video.)

The main outcome is that I am no longer walking into walls or throwing up and it is a great relief to me that my ear granules have decided to quit running away from home. But I will tell you that the next time I read a romance novel, and they describe the meeting of the couple by saying, “the room just swirled around them,” I’m going to immediately vomit on the book!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I have to confess that I am not a real fashion plate when it comes to the clothing scene. In fact, I would say that most people would check my closet to determine what they don’t want to wear.

My approach to fashion is simple: I get up in the morning, shove my hand in the closet and as long as the item which comes out is clean, whole and not made of recyclable plastic (even I have my limits) I am going to put it on. If it covers everything essential, we are ready to go!

I saw an online ad the other day with a headline that announced “What to Wear” or something like that. It featured a woman wearing a jacket and trousers that looked as though they had been fashioned out of my old family rec-room curtains paired with a classic leopard print pair of heels. The trousers ended mid-calf and I’ll tell you right now, nobody wants me to wear my old rec-room curtains sporting a design that reveals my less-than-model like ankles.

I wonder when these fashions come out, if this is just some mind-control experiment. Like, are they doing their worst just to see if we will wear without question,  the hat that’s four feet wide and the dress which won’t allow us to put our arms down properly?

 Picture it: a group of people sitting around in a room, discussing this year’s fashions.

“I know,” exclaims the girl wearing a sweatshirt with the neckline cut so it falls off one shoulder, “let’s make this year’s dresses look like gunny sacks and tell everyone if Marilyn Monroe could wear them, so can they.”

“Marilyn who?” scoffs the young man in leather pants so tight his ankles are actually bleeding. “You want to make sure that everyone wears the latest thing, like something Lady Gaga wore.”

“No one will wear that kind of clothes,” protests the woman with the leopard print shorts and hoodie. “We need something that people can wear more than one season.”

“Are you crazy? They will wear what we tell them to wear and change it as often as we tell them to. Just put the cut-out jeans on a snazzy model and tell the public that everyone who is anyone is wearing this outfit,” the owner of the store in the million-dollar suit declares. “We’ll make a fortune.”

I know that I would never make a fashion designer. For one thing, I am wearing t-shirts that still advertise the political campaign run by the Bushes—father and son and the shoes I most often pick for comfort have formula stains on them from my first child, who is now 40. To mis-quote an old line from a great movie, “I am not one to give up on a garment because it has a little age on it.”

Someone needs to tell those high-rise fashion planners that I have one motivation for buying new clothes: weight gain. When I can no longer fit in my favorite pants, then I will reluctantly go out and buy new ones and I don’t generally base my decision on whether it was designed for Marilyn Monroe, or Lady Gaga.

I don’t like loud colors or prints so wild they give me nightmares. I want the garments to fit me without revealing my heavy ankles, my flabby arm fat or, most horrifying of all, some portion of my upper thighs or off-the-tracks caboose.

Shopping for clothes is painful as well. I can’t possibly figure out on-line shopping because I can’t try on the clothes, and I don’t look anything like the models displaying them on the computer. I also don’t much enjoy standing in a claustrophobic dressing room, squirming into clothes that looked much better on the rack then they do on me!

I know that it’s fall and in some fashion fantasy world out there they think that I should be working on my brand-new seasonal wardrobe. In keeping with that thought, I went to my closet and inspected the clothes I have there. I tossed out the West Wing shirt with the holes worn in it and the jeans from some years back with the metal studs half gone. Beyond that, the line-up of shirts in subdued colors and pants which have the courage to cover me completely are going to have to do for another season.

But I tell you what, if Lady Gaga or Marilyn Monroe would like to borrow any of my things, I will be glad to share!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I love reading online humorous blogs. The most humorous articles out there happen to be articles which offer household cleaning tips. These cleaning tips are almost always based on the assumption that I want to ‘clean my household’. Hysterical.

Allow me to share the latest humor in the cleaning world. I came across an article that gave the following tips. To make it convenient, I have posted my response to each one, which I figured was a much better use of my time than to actually…follow them!

The first tip told me to have a household plan. That way, I can use the same routine over and over. My household plan is to let my house accumulate as long as I can before I appear on an episode of “Hoarders”. I am midway through that household plan as we speak.

The second tip was to declutter and organize. As part of this plan, you were to pick up each out of place item and decide to: (a) find it a permanent spot, (b) donate it to a local charity, or (c) discard. Items in my house seldom have a permanent spot (unless they are stuck down with something I can’t identify) and no self-respecting charity would take the garbage I find. That means I choose (c) where I just rev up the bulldozer and shove it all out the back window.

Tip number 3: Gather all your cleaning supplies. What cleaning supplies? They did suggest the possibility of “do it yourself” construction or mixing of cleaning supplies—In fact, the last “do it yourself” thing I constructed around the house was a piece of plywood connected to my favorite television chair, so I could have dinner without spilling too much in my lap!

I am advised to clean my house from top to bottom. As part of this rather ambitious tip, I am advised to start by making sure the ceiling fans are all turned off. I must stop laughing at this long enough to admit that this, is indeed, good advice. Speaking as one who once swung a broom up over my shoulder, where it connected with a running ceiling fan, I believe this is a sound tip.

Clean up stray pet hair. And this tip kept referring to it as “stray” pet hair, like there might just be a few strands. Please, there is so much pet hair in my house that it makes up 50 percent of the composition of some of my chairs and rugs and no matter what I have tried, it cannot be induced to “stray its little self” out of my house.

Use the vacuum cleaner to its full potential. What does this even mean? When did vacuum cleaners achieve potential and who out there is not taking full advantage of their vacuum cleaner? It is philosophical questions like this that keep me awake at night.

Wipe mirrors and glass. This is great advice, because what else would we do to mirrors and glass? Certainly, shooting macaroni and cheese at them wouldn’t improve their appearance; believe me, I’ve accidentally tried that!

Keep bathrooms especially clean. Use disinfectant cleaners on all countertops. Clean grout with specific tools. I was with them until the bit about cleaning the grout. The only tool I would use on grout on a bathroom tile is a chisel to get it out of there!

Always sweep, then mop. If you don’t mind changing dirty mop water fifty times, you can skip that whole sweep thing. Otherwise, what would you do besides sweep and then mop?

Remove food and drink stains from furniture. I have never met a chair or a couch that could resist the kinds of food and drink stains that I cause and once they are on the furniture, there is no removing them. The best I can hope for is that they look like a part of the design.

By now, I’m sure that none of you out there is anxious to visit my house, but actually things around here are not so bad. After I’ve laughed myself sick over the cleaning tips articles, I proceed to my own method: Run through the house with a large black trash bag, throwing in anything within reach, close the bag and put it with the others in the garage and wait for your turn on “Hoarders”!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Hosmer is the hometown of my husband, Roy. It is the place where I got my first high school teaching job and where I met Roy through my friendship with his sister (another Jackie).

However, Hosmer has a further significance in our family, since it is the name of the only cat still living at our house. She was the cat belonging to my daughter, Stefanie, who acquired her as a kitten, named her Hosmer–because that was the place where she was born–and whisked her off to Minneapolis.

In her young years, Hosmer was known as a real bad ass cat. She kept the yard cleared of birds, mice and other vermin that can be found in a big city neighborhood. She had the dog under control, (not necessarily an easy task) and didn’t hesitate to take on anything she saw as a threat.

Things changed when it was necessary for her to move back to South Dakota to my house. This bad ass cat was now dealing with an established cat and a different dog, who wasn’t all that thrilled to have to deal with a second feline.

It mattered very little to Hosmer. She was tough enough to take on anyone. She and Jinx (the other cat) had a few go-rounds and were in an armed truce when “the event” happened. Both cats were the type to want to go outside at night, so one nice summer’s evening, they wandered out.

At first, I could hear them “smack-talking” each other. They had reduced their feud to a verbal one by this time, because they had each discovered that the other one was no wimp and fighting only entertained the dog. On this particular night, though, it sounded different. The growling was loud and constant. It took a few minutes to realize that there were actually three cats in that yard, and all three eventually growled and challenged each other until they ended up on the deck.

In a rare show of unity, Jinx and Hosmer took on the third cat as a team. The noise escalated as the fight became physical and then came a rhythmic thumping noise as the three felines rolled down the steps. That was enough for the third cat—it took off and Jinx and Hosmer shook paws and licked their wounds.

The largest wound, however, was the so-called “hidden pain.” From that day on, Hosmer, a true outdoor hunter, never left the house. I never saw the strange cat again and Jinx didn’t seem to be stopped from foraging outside, but Hosmer became a “house cat”, in the true sense of the word.

I tried everything to re-ignite Hosmer’s interest in the out of doors. I tried coaxing—holding the door open and crooning, “here we go, look how nice it is outside. Just try it out.” Hosmer lay down on the kitchen rug looking at me as though to say, “Are you kidding? I ain’t doin’ that! That lion could be out there.” Meanwhile, the dog, confused by the open door would have run in and out four or five times.

Next, I tried physical persuasion. I picked her up, set her outside the door, said, “Have a good time,” and walked back inside. Within two minutes, she had climbed the outside screen and was eye level, clearly indicating she would like to be indoors. I lowered myself to ridicule, “You’re afraid to go outside? Really, this is the bad ass cat who once dragged home half a rat, and you’re afraid of a weenie, South Dakota cat?” She was unmoved.

I finally gave up and Hosmer remained indoors. It wasn’t bad for her. She found plenty of soft things to lay on and cover in fur and she was always right there if anything edible was accidentally dropped in the kitchen. Her favorite winter activity was to lay on the furnace grates when they were blowing warm air and she refused to be moved, even when she saw me coming with the broom.

We were together here for at least a dozen years, and I learned to appreciate her finer qualities, and she learned to put up with me—and the dog.

This week, Hosmer passed on to whatever place cats find as Heaven; undoubtedly somewhere loaded with mice—indoors, of course—to keep a bad ass cat happy and occupied. I have always said, I am not a cat person, and that is true, but I must admit, I’m going to miss Hosmer, and I won’t be the only one!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I received a video from my almost four-year-old grandson this week in which he very proudly told me he had bugs for lunch, and they were “yummy” and “tasty”. Before my stomach heaved too much, he went on to say they were “ants on a rog” (he’s still having trouble with his “l” sounds).

By the end of the video, he had requested that his mother make “ants on a rog” at home and she agreed. I should have known that it wasn’t a real bug he ate, because he is so very careful with bugs. He doesn’t want flies, ants, ticks, etc., to be around him in the house, but at the same time he doesn’t want them to be harmed. He actually expects that they will be caught and removed safely to the out of doors.

This is where he and I differ. When I see a bug, my first instinct is not to eat it or return it to the wild. I just want to viciously stomp it and if it could die without leaving messy remains, that would be even better!

I’m sure I don’t need to tell anyone that bug season is here. However, I do believe that my house is the gathering place for more than my fair share of the population. I have about 20 flyswatters loaded and ready for action, but of course, when I’m sitting down trying to read or watch television, and the flies and mosquitoes are buzzing or the spiders are climbing down the walls, I never have a weapon handy!

The other day, I was driving down the road when suddenly, a fly managed to drop between my eye and my glasses. If a policeman had been watching me drive, I would have been stopped for a sobriety test. By the time I got the car under control and stopped and the fly out from behind my glasses, I was a little angry.

I spent five minutes with the windows open trying to get the fly to simply leave the premises. The fly had other ideas. He kept flying into places I couldn’t get him out of and there was nothing in my purse that served as a proper fly killer. In addition, while we were having this battle, reinforcements showed up for him in the shape of three more flies.

In desperation and rage, I got in the car and rolled up the windows. I told the flies, “Whatever happens now, is on you.” They were unmoved and simply stared at me from their stronghold on the dashboard.

I stopped at the nearest gas station and when I got out of the car, they invited another fly in. I stomped into the gas station, bought the largest fly swatter they had, stomped back out to the car and declared to the flies, “It’s on now, boys. Come and get me!”

There followed a scene of great carnage. I murdered all the flies, and I may have desecrated the dead by smacking them several times more after they were dead. I vented all my fury on them, scraped up the remains with the fly swatter and scattered their ashes in the gas station parking lot. Perhaps it will serve as a warning to all other bugs not to mess with me.

I have been feeling pretty tough since then. I march around my house with my six-swatters, yelling, “tar agus faigh dom” (“come and get me” sounds so much tougher in Gaelic and besides, what do the bugs know? So far as I know, they can’t speak any language!).

Last night, I sat down in my chair after a routine reconnaissance through the house. Not a fly, spider, water bug or even an “ant on a rog” in sight. Things were great. Just as I picked up my book, a fly flew between my eye and my glasses. I think it might have been a relative of the guy that was in my car because he was sure after revenge and by the time I got him out, I had bent my glasses, and poked myself in the eye three times.

I wonder how you say, “I give up” in Gaelic?

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I am about to make a confession which I know will make me unpopular among many of my friends and family. But here it goes: I am not a “dog person”. I am also not a “cat person”. In fact, I am not a “gerbil, goldfish, house pig or any other pet animal you can name…person.”

Having said that, I must then tell you that we have both a cat and a dog. We have had several cats over the years, mostly by accident, but the dog, a hunting Golden Retriever, was definitely on purpose. That dog walked in the door, we looked at one another and I said, “To be clear on this, I don’t hunt, and I don’t like dogs, but if you stay out of my way, I won’t accidentally lose your dog treats.”

The dog has learned the fine art of annoying the lady of the house without pushing things too far. It helps that her master is very much a “dog person” and in addition to that, he loves to hunt, and she is good at that.

“Look what that stupid dog did,” I come out to the deck where Roy is sitting petting the dog.

“Now what?” He’s heard this whining all too often.

“She chewed up more of my socks!” I hold up a sock with large holes in the side. “How come she always goes after my socks?”

“That’s because she likes the taste of rancid foot odor and also, I hide my socks,” he answered, while the dog relaxed, knowing she was being defended and undoubtedly planning to chew up my slippers next.

So, the dog is pretty comfortable in life and knows that she is the top (another name for a female dog) in the house and I rank second by the same name.

I did not pass this distaste for animals on to my children. My older daughter has two cats and a dog, and my younger daughter has two cats, all of which are just an extension of the grandchildren. Whenever my dog and cat see my daughters and families, they run for them, knowing they are about to be pampered, at least for the duration of the visit.

My older daughter has kept my dog on several occasions, so when they recently decided that their dog would not be comfortable on their camping trip, they asked if we would keep Cora (their dog) for a week or so. Of course we would be happy to, but I always envision Cora’s reaction, while my daughter was on the phone, asking us to dog sit.

“Yes, we would be so grateful if Cora could come to your house for a week,” she would be saying, while Cora was sitting on the floor beside her (or more likely in her lap) looking totally horrified.

When Cora walked in the door, Josie (our dog) stood looking at her for a long time. I know Josie was thinking, “I wonder what this dog did to be condemned to doggie prison.”

Cora has adjusted quite well to the fact that I won’t let her sit in my chair or on my lap. She hangs out with Roy a lot, instinctively recognizing an authentic dog person, but since Josie is kind of territorial, she has to share Roy, which is hard for her–the queen of dogs at her own house. She has no little boys or loving adults to share her days with, but Josie’s dad is taking her for walks, so she’s grateful for that.

Now, for all of you out there who stand ready to call the Humane Society, I maintain that Cora (and Josie) are being well looked after, fed and fluffed by the one dog lover in the house. They are intelligent animals, so when I walk in the room, they generally leave it and that’s okay. Cora only goes out for potty breaks if Roy takes her, and I am not offended by that. After all, the dog is smart enough to know who her friends are, who am I to complain?

Now, I could not ever harm a living creature, but I do know that domesticated animals are probably not for me. I think that if I’m going to have a pet, I would like a wild squirrel. That way, I could be assured that it would quickly run away from home!

Hang in there, Cora, only two more days to go!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

It’s not a secret that I really enjoy television. I have the television on way more than I should on any given day and in particular do I like the new method of “streaming” so you can watch an entire series at once, with only breaks to use the toilet and re-fill your chips bowl.

I believe that Roy is not as excited about television binge watching as I am. I was trying to talk to him the other day about how much I am enjoying The Crown. He appeared to be listening to me, but he was also searching around in the bathroom cupboards, so I wasn’t sure.

“I love how on The Crown they show you the hard facts of being a royal,” I commented.

“You know that stuff isn’t really all just as it happened,” he replied, moving on to the next bathroom cupboard.

“Well, I for one would like to see them add to it, you know, after Queen Elizabeth dies,” I leaned over his shoulder—what was he looking for?

“Queen Elizabeth is dead.”

“What? No. Charles would have said something,” I was sure.

“He crowned himself king, wasn’t that a clue? You should watch the news if you’re going to watch so much television.”

“The news is too scary.”

“This from the woman who watches Ghost Series and sprinkles salt around all the doorways to keep out the evil spirits,” he chuckled, as he was pulling out drawers in the vanity.

“It worked. We haven’t had a single evil spirit since I saw that on television and followed the instructions,” I declared. “What ARE you looking for?”

“I’m looking for the new bottle of cough medicine I just got and my prescription for blood pressure. Have you seen them?”

“Of course I have,” I answered. “I threw them out.”

“You what? You threw them out?” He flung his hands in the air when I nodded. “May I ask why you would throw them out?”

“Because if the FBI were to search our house, they would arrest us for having drugs. You can make cocaine or something out of some of that stuff. Don’t you watch Breaking Bad or Cold Case Files? It’s all over them.”

“Does the FBI show up pretty regularly to search our house?” he asked.

“Well, not yet, but on those shows, they turn up without any advance notice. They have some really clever listening devices. Speaking of that, I want you to check out the garter snake in the garden. I think it might be a high-tech surveillance system.”

“What makes you think that? It looks just like a snake.”

“Yes,” I say with assurance, “It looks a little too much like a snake; according to the detective shows, that is your first clue.”

“I’m going for a walk,” he says, heading for the door. “Then I’m going to go buy some more cough syrup. I hope the snake has a camera.”

“Well, while you’re outside, watch it so you don’t touch any large stones. I’ve been binge watching Outlander and if you touch a big stone, you might end up 200 years in the past and married to a big old Scottish Highlander.”

“Does he have a television,” he asks. “if not, I might be in.”

You all don’t think I’m watching too much television, do you?

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I won’t be able to write my usual book this week because I am weathering a virus or bacteria which, each time I try to get up, says, “No, I think we’re going to keep lying flat on our back today; stretch out on the couch before I slap you with a dizzy spell.”

Perhaps the worst part about this little virus is that it has hit both my husband and me. You know what that means: there’s no one to wait on me and baby me and make being whacked out of action for a while at least worth the sick room service.

No, Roy and I are passed out in the two best recliners in the house, watching each other through bleary eyes. As soon as anybody twitches, the other responds, “Oh, you’re getting up? That’s great. Could you get me some more water and maybe a bowl of soup or something?”

It started out as a cold. We were both sure we had caught the sniffles from one of the grandchildren, which can happen. But no grandchild of mine would actively seek out this mean-spirited, deceitful, torturous bug. Within a very short time, we could tell we were in trouble.

“What’s wrong with your eye? It looks all funny and blurry,” I ask him as he staggers by.

“The same thing that’s wrong with your eye,” he mutters, “only I think yours is worse.”

It wasn’t long before we turned to each other, coughed and sneezed a few times while holding our heads and said, “You know what? I bet this is Covid.” Covid explains everything. It gives us an excuse to be sick. That is weirdly comforting.

Or it was until we used our home test kits. No sir, we did not have Covid. How wonderful. After all, who wants to have Covid? Except, if it wasn’t Covid and it wasn’t a regular cold (we could tell by the running noses for a week, the unbalanced walking and the major coughing fits) what in the world had invaded our bodies?

After a week of staggering around, we got up. This is enough. We are not going to be held prisoner by some bacteria which has invaded our systems. We are stronger than that!

No, we aren’t. Every morning, we get up, test the upright air and cough our way back down to our pillows. To entertain ourselves, we decided to name this disease.

“How about Fetid Fauth Feelings?” my husband suggested, sneezing out the last syllables.

“No way. I am not sharing a name with this crap,” I answered, wiping my nose and blinking the fuzz out of my eyes. “I have the perfect name for it. We’re going to call it the Devil’s Holiday.”

“That’s pretty good,” he responded. “Can you reach the cough drops from where you are?”

“They are too far away from my fingertips, but if you wait a few minutes, I will be forced to get up for the bathroom and I’ll fling them your way then.”

“Thanks. Maybe this being sick together isn’t so bad,” he said. “After all, the family that ails together…” Unfortunately for him, this disease has completely killed my sense of humor.

“Another crack like that and you’ll get a hammer to the head instead of the cough drops,” I snarl, staggering to my feet and heading for the bathroom.

I figure we’ll have to be going to the doctor if this doesn’t let up soon, because although I think that we are not in danger of dying, I’m not sure our family unity can survive much more of the Devil’s Holiday. Have a good week and for goodness’ sake, don’t come near us!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

For some people, they get nervous when their partner goes into a clothing or shoe store. Or, perhaps they worry about the joint checking account should their partner enter an antique shop, a hardware store or even a car dealership. My husband worries about none of those. He starts sweating when I enter a bookstore.

While both of us like to read, I am definitely the one who goes somewhat overboard with books. And I keep pointing out to him that an addiction to books is much better than if I were addicted to alcohol or cocaine. He has the nerve to suggest that the cost of my book habit isn’t much cheaper!

“Are you sure you need that many books?” he will enquire, watching me juggle my stack of books in the checkout line at Barnes and Noble. He refuses to encourage my book habit by helping me carry them.

“What, this?” I scoff. “This is only half of what I bought the last time I was here.”

“Yes, but have you gotten all of those books read?”

“Of course not! If I had all of those read, I’d naturally have to buy many more,” I respond in all seriousness.

“Naturally,” he says between gritted teeth, “I wouldn’t want the three bookshelves at home,  completely full of more books waiting to be read, to start looking empty.”

Some people just don’t understand the art of true literary appreciation. I once visited the home of Mark Twain and in the living room, a book sat beside the lamp table, as they had left things just as Twain left them when he died. I felt a little bad that he hadn’t been able to finish that book and then we went into the conservatory, and there was another half-finished book. Same was true of the table where he had done his writing. In all, he left seven partially read books at the time of his death. I felt a kindred spirit. I understood. There is just a different book you will read in the bedroom as opposed to the one you read in the bathroom, which is entirely different from the book you read in the living room.

“What do you think of that?” I asked my husband smugly.

“I think you and he should have drunk more whiskey and read books in more moderation,” he replied.

I feel it’s my responsibility to read these books. I read Gone With the Wind before I saw the movie, and I was disappointed at what they left out. I read the Bridgerton series some time ago and now, after watching the shows coming out based on them, I may have to go back and read them again to see if there is any resemblance between the two, besides the name Bridgerton.

My children are watching the other bookshelves, sagging even more under the books I have finished, with growing dismay. They appreciate reading, but mostly, they don’t want to have to be the ones who move all of those books someday. Honestly, though, I can’t be expected to get rid of books I have read—what if I wanted to read them again?

I finally decided that perhaps I should cut down on expenses and just check out books from the library. I was sure Roy would be happy about that. I came home with a whole armload of really good finds from the library.

“Look dear, I won’t have to buy these books; I’ll just read them from the library. What do you think?”

He looked at the stack of books in my hands and then he turned to look at the bookshelves nearly collapsing under the weight of the books I have bought that I still have to read.

“I think I’m going to buy you some booze for your birthday. Or, do you have any idea where I might get some recreational drugs legally? We have to get you a new hobby.”

Foolish fellow. That will never happen. I think Thomas Jefferson said it best when he declared, “I cannot live without books.” And I bet nobody tried to get him to switch from books to harmful substances!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Okay, I’ll admit that as the grandmother of a three-year-old, I am both slow and broken. I deal pretty well with the 11 year old and 13 year old, but the 3 and a half year old has been a revelation for me.

We had decided it was time for all of the boys to come and visit for a few days. We frequently have the older two in the summer for a week at a time, several times. When they were younger, I know they were as much work as the little one, but I’ve reached the conclusion that I was a great deal younger then and I’ve forgotten all the “tricks of the little guy” stage.

But, as I say, it was time to include the youngest in a visit, so we closed our eyes and had all three. And to say it was educational is an understatement. I learned so much in my old age about the talents of a three-year-old and it wasn’t long into the visit where I began to realize that I wasn’t managing him so much as he was managing me!

But to share what I learned. Because I don’t want him to grow up and be a lawyer and sue me for defamation of character, I will refer to him as I have in the past, as “Wildman”. The name is apt.

First, a three year old sleeps well…every other night. The first night he was here, he was still hollering for drinks and potty breaks at midnight. The next morning he was up at 5:30 am.  And this was after only a half-hour nap getting to our house. We staggered through the next day, with the adults and the three year old lacking sleep since we didn’t even suggest a nap to the Wildman the second day. At 7 pm that night, we were trying to shovel a little supper into him before he completely zonked out and we heard nothing from him until 7:30 am the next morning. Everyone refreshed, we braced ourselves for night number three and tried hard to enjoy the sleep roller coaster ride!

Three year olds eat a strategic diet. If you put a plate of meat and potatoes in front of them, they will eat countless slices of bread and butter. If you let him know where the cookie package is hidden, Wildman will have an eating orgy that will make the county pie-eating contest look sedate and moderate. Trends that will excite his taste buds at the dinner table are hard to follow: macaroni and cheese was a huge hit and hotdogs hit the skids. However, anything with sugar as the main ingredient got a big thumbs up from Wildman.

If your three year old loves Matchbox cars and has a collection, then all the world is a garage. You will find them in the refrigerator, in your shoes, in your sock drawer and perched cheerfully on your picture frames. The other night, I went to the bathroom and in the semi-gloom, I noticed a giant bug on the extra rolls of toilet paper. Inwardly screeching, I ran for the fly swatter. After several hits which seemed to leave the bug unmoved, I finally turned on the light only to discover that I had been trying to off a Matchbox police car! I wonder if I can get a ticket for that.

Entertainment is another sketchy thing for the Wildman. While “Monkey George” (Curious George for the rest of us) sometimes gets his attention, it is Paw Patrol that really hits the spot. We have watched so much Paw Patrol at my house this week that his older brothers have threatened to dismantle the television and even I sometimes find myself wishing that the ten-year-old star would drive one of his super-inventive vehicles over a cliff, along with his four-footed canine helpers. We are either watching Paw Patrol or asking to watch Paw Patrol and I have the theme song permanently stuck in my head.

By the time you are three-years-old, you have learned a lot about what you can get away with and what you can’t. Wildman is especially experimental in this regard, figuring that he can play with his older brother’s legos models if his brother doesn’t catch him and he can empty all the drawers in the kitchen looking for his favorite spoon, (it’s a souvenir spoon from Custer State Park) as long as his grandmother is not paying close attention. Once you are caught in your activities, your best bet is to smile endearingly. Wildman has a delightful cheesy grin and I will admit, it has gotten him out of a few scrapes!

Mostly what I have learned this week is that a 68-year-old is no match for the typical three-year-old and in particular is this grandmother no match for the Wildman. We have enjoyed the visit, however, and when he has returned to his more regular house (he has been referring to Grandma’s house all week as “my new house”) I am sure we will return to regular routine around here…but I may spend a week collapsed in a chair, not moving and watching copious amounts of television—and no, it won’t be Paw Patrol!