Tag Archives: family

September 10, 2026 · 3:04 am

A Cane Mutiny

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

Some people do not care for canes, disliking not only the inconvenience, but also just the need for one. I don’t always need a cane, but when I do, I have always been very grateful.

My only complaint has been the fact that the cane mutinies every so often. If I brace it against a chair, it flops over, if I hitch it to a table, it always crashes and if I lean it against a wall, it invariably falls, forcing me to do another thing I can’t do: lean over to pick it up!

After my recent knee surgery, I have kept a couple of canes pretty close, and when I went on vacation, I brought them along; the mutiny-prone cane and a heavier, less flighty one that can be handy. The only time I really felt I needed a cane, however, was when we were in the mountains, where I can sometimes feel a little unsteady.

So when we climbed up to a walkway overlook near the Continental Divide, I brought the mutiny cane along. I was so impressed with the view, I thought I needed to get a picture, so I leaned the cane against the railing…the open-barred railing. Of course, the cane immediately slipped through the bars, bounced on its rubber tip against the rocks and disappeared in the brush below, completely out of sight.

“Oh dear!” exclaimed the wife of a couple who were on the walkway as well. But I was not bothered. That cane had mutinied one time too many. As far as I was concerned, it could get eaten by the bears. Served it right.

While I was thinking these things and writing the cane off as lost, the husband of the other couple suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, there it is!” And he pointed to a spot some distance from the walkway.

That’s when my husband mutinied. He went down to the lowest part of the walkway and began testing the railing, looking for a place to swing a leg over. I was horrified. He wasn’t really going to risk his neck over a cheap cane that wouldn’t be lost if it had behaved!

As he was scrambling over that railing like an Olympic athlete, I was quietly saying, “Roy, don’t do that. It’s risky. The cane isn’t worth it. I have another one.” I didn’t want the other couple to think I was an hysterical idiot, so I spoke calmly—I think.

But in my head, I was screaming, “What are you doing, you idiot? Are you insane? You’re going to break a leg and then you will just stay there. I’m not coming to get you, do you understand? I will simply leave you here for the bears and drive away!” That last was an empty threat; I’m terrified of driving in the mountains.

By this time, Roy had dropped to the ground and retrieved the cane. He set it up on the deck and then looked for a place to scramble back up onto the walkway. He tried first at the place where he had rescued the cane. He was going to do it, too, except just as he swung his foot up and over, it hit the post and knocked him back to the ground, much to our horror.

“That’s it!” my inner voice was shrieking, “He’s broken a leg or a hip or something and we will have to fashion a make-shift stretcher and rappel him down the mountain!”

By now, he had returned to the spot where he had gone over in the first place and was climbing on the rock and this time, got his leg over and climbed back on the walkway. I was furious!

“I won’t say thank you,” I snapped, “because you were crazy to do it.” The other man, who had hung around, I think, to see if he could be of help, turned away to hide a smirk. I wanted to hit him with the cane: After all, he was the troublemaker who discovered where the cane was and then couldn’t keep his mouth shut!

“Have we got any Band-Aids,” Roy asked next. And pulling up one pantleg, he displayed a long, bloody scrape on his leg.

“I knew it! I knew you would get hurt doing that crazy stunt!” I said, feeling righteously justified and marching off for my first aid kit.

For the rest of the trip, I will admit I used my heavier, more sturdy cane. I was too mad at the cane that had mutinied and caused all the trouble to trust it. As for the 70-something, Olympic athlete wannabe, I don’t have a spare husband, so I’m going to have to keep him. After all, someone has to drive us out of the mountains!

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September 3, 2026 · 2:14 am

Even Pilate washed his hands

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

Yes, yes, I know, Pilate was symbolically washing his hands of Jesus, but the Bible does say he washed his hands. And that gives me a good entry into the topic of my column this week; washing hands.

On a road trip recently, I was reminded of one of my pet peeves and that is people who don’t wash their hands—particularly, people who are using the public bathroom—you know, where there are signs everywhere that say, “Please wash your hands”?

I know I should be minding my own business in there, but it always raises my blood pressure when I hear someone else in a public bathroom who flushes the toilet and leaves the bathroom without washing their hands. Even worse, is the person who leaves the bathroom without flushing the toilet or washing their hands! Then of course, they proceed to touch everything I need to touch, starting with the bathroom door!

This happened on the road last week. I was in the bathroom stall, minding my own business, when the person next to me got up, with much audible sighing and mumbling, and left the stall and the bathroom. No comforting sounds of a flushed toilet and no comforting whoosh of water in the sink!

I finished, flushed my toilet, flushed the nasty one in the next stall and then scrubbed my hands at the sink. When I left the bathroom, having used the tail of my shirt to open the door, I refrained from standing in the dining area and bellowing, “All right, who is the farm animal who not only did not flush the toilet, but also left without benefit of soap and water on their hands?”

I did, however, after having gone through the buffet line, drown my hands with a pocket-sized Purel—one for each hand. One can never be too careful!

One of the first responsibilities I had as a child was to flush the toilet. Then, when I got old enough not to flood the bathroom with my efforts, I was left to wash my hands on my own. So I, and most people know what you are supposed to do. And we are so lucky.

Think about it: back in the bad old days, they didn’t have the option of flushing the toilet. They just sat on the bench and enjoyed the remains left by everyone else for the last few years. They also didn’t have toilet paper, so the outdated Sears Catalog did its outgoing duty, thus making their hands even more dingy. After that, you wiped your nose on your sleeve and went off to play, blissfully unaware of the germ cloud following you.

That cannot excuse the people today. I see modern bathroom fixtures being put into people’s homes. They should make flushing the toilet and washing your hands a pleasure.

Have I ever, in my own home, left the bathroom without washing my hands? Of course, because the phone and the doorbell always go off while I’m in there. However, I already know what bacterial communities are thriving in my own personal bathroom. And I know enough not to touch anyone until I have found some soap. It also explains my pathological need to constantly Lysol the phone receiver!

However, having said that, I am meticulous about washing up after I use the public bathroom. As for flushing, that probably explains why so many places are installing self-flushing toilets. Those do scare me a little; frequently they go off while I am still seated, making me wonder if I’m going to go down as well! But they do solve one problem.

Now, if they could install a device that blocks the door and repeats over and over, “No exit, without hands washed,” I would be happy. I imagine some people would sue for kidnapping, but washing their hands would be the only ransom they had to pay.

So, my sad little rant about washing hands now ends. But I do find it a little ironic that I am using Pilate as the poster child for washing hands!

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August 13, 2026 · 2:46 am

Deep thoughts on deep-cleaning

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I found a dead bug in the bottom of my stove this week.

But, I’m getting a little ahead of my story. Let’s go all the way back to the beginning. A long, long time ago…

As a teacher, I have been trained over the years, even in retirement, to conduct an annual, ritualistic deep clean of my house. I don’t know what there is about it, but the idea of returning to the classroom always seemed to spur me into making sure the house was in good shape…a cleaning that was to last the entire year and never be thought of again during the nine-month rush of lesson plans, corrected papers and gradebooks, and dramatic performances—on the stage and in the classroom!

I know what you’re thinking—one cleaning a year does not make for a clean house. I agree with you; but one true, deep cleaning a year is about all I can scrape together the enthusiasm for, since, as I have mentioned before, I’m not a cleaning fan and school duties did keep me very busy.

I have since ditched the teaching responsibilities, but the inclination or habit, if you will, to commit—I mean, conduct a deep cleaning of the house every August is very strong. The weather heats up and I’m looking at dresser drawers that won’t close and a freezer that won’t shut, and I’m thinking it’s time to do that thing we do every August. (I don’t even like to say “deep clean”.)

Now, when I say—that phrase—I don’t mean sweeping floors and dusting the furniture. Oh no, I mean cleaning out closets, defrosting the freezer and cleaning behind cupboards and appliances.

It has been suggested to me that at the hallowed age of 70, perhaps I shouldn’t be turning mattresses and dragging around heavy furniture in the August heat. I would definitely agree, but I can’t leave this sort of thing for my lovely housekeeper: one look at the frost buildup, confusing array of half-emptied frozen vegetable bags and tinfoil-wrapped packages of mystery meat in my freezer and my very fine housekeeper would quit! No, the deep-cleaning is the cross I must bear.

But I digress. We now come to the kitchen deep-clean this fall…and the bug. After wiping down cupboards and scraping the unidentified gunk off the refrigerator door, I was ready to face the stove. My stove is located in the middle of two counters and there is enough of a distressing gap between stove and counter to allow spills. The first time I encountered this, I had been in the house for several years when it finally occurred to me to clean behind the stove. The two were so glued together with food residue, that some of the molding around the counter had attached itself permanently to the stove. Now, I try to get to it at least once a year—during the deep clean.

So, as is my August habit, I pulled out the stove and discovered a year’s diary of cooking disasters, written on the sides of the stove and the counter.

The sides of the stove where they joined with the counter were a positive artwork of cooking dribbles and drab running all the way to the floor. The worst was a drooled sheet of red spaghetti sauce that looked like I’d been making blood stew for Dracula. And it was while I was scrubbing the months-old spaghetti sauce off the stove and floor (not happily) that I happened to notice the bug. It was lying in the spaghetti sauce and was glued to it on the floor. It was lying on it’s back and had all six legs sticking straight in the air.

Now, in normal circumstances I might suppose it had drowned in the spaghetti sauce. But since I am a little paranoid about my cooking, I thought its position suggested that it might have tried the spaghetti sauce and was poisoned. I quickly cleared away the evidence, but it might be a while before I serve spaghetti again!

Next year, during deep cleaning—Roy gets to clean behind the stove. He won’t care what killed the bugs, as long as they are dead!

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August 6, 2026 · 12:51 am

Letting It Hang

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

My husband and I are in agreement on a great many things. That probably explains why we are still married. However, I will admit that we are a mixed marriage on a small number of issues and this month I have been reminded of one of them. If Shakespeare were to state the problem, he would say, “To hang, or not to hang, that is the question.”

No, I’m not talking about an execution; I’m talking about the laundry. Roy insists that the smart and economic thing to do is to hang clothes outside to dry. I, on the other hand, from a very young age in Sunday school, have always believed that if God intends us to hang clothes out on the line to dry, He would not have invented the dryer! That is such a clear sign from above that laundry lines are evil!

It is obvious to me on several levels that Roy did not grow up hanging out the laundry. He had two sisters and a hard-working mother and laundry is clearly “women’s work.” That means he never had the pleasure of standing out at the laundry line trying to wrestle a sheet over that flimsy string in high wind. I still remember the time my father looked at the laundry after I had finished slapping on the clothes pins and remarked, “It looks like it was hung by an indifferent drunk.” He was half right: I was definitely indifferent!

The only time I remember getting in trouble in elementary school was when we were reading The Long Winter. When they described laundry day, I blurted out, “What? Are they crazy?” The teacher pursed her lips disapprovingly and told me that further observations on my part would not be necessary; in that way teachers have of letting you know that the next “observation” will be shared with your parents.

I shut up that day, but seriously, those people took clothes outside in the middle of a blizzard-after-blizzard-winter and hung them up in the freezing cold! Then, they brought in the frozen remains and hung them behind the stove so they could both thaw and then dry! Am I the only one that thinks this does not make sense? Just let me sit in the cold shed and twist hay into burning sticks—at least that activity had a useful purpose!

Now, I should state here that when Roy insists the laundry be hung outside, he is willing to do the hanging. But I am not willing to deal with the results. Let’s start with the towels. I don’t care how much the wind is blowing, towels always come off the clothesline with all the softness of a pan scraper! I went to take a shower the other day and I had to go down four levels to hit a towel that I had washed and put in the dryer.

I think we may have reached an agreement on towels, however. Even he can’t deny that a towel dried outside has all the desired textural comfort of sand in your shoes. I see that in his last round of laundry, the towels actually made it to the dryer and not the line.

And so we go on to the rest of the clothes. Now, on a personal note, I like my neighbors far too well to subject them to the sight of my bedraggled undergarments hanging on the line like dispirited and grungy flags. On top of which, we have the same texture issue. My sister used to dry them for ten minutes in the dryer and then hang them out. That might have taken care of the texture issue, but it didn’t take care of the “I’m way too lazy to do that much work” issue!

And that leaves my outer clothes. I will never be a snappy dresser, and I generally wear my clothes until they are pretty much falling off. But when Roy puts them on the clothesline, they come back with all the smoothness of an accordion. I am then left with two choices. I can either wear them as is and hope nobody notices, or I can iron them. Now, we all know that I am not going to go through the “sprinkle clean clothes lightly, roll them up and put them in the refrigerator (usually until they’ve picked up refrigerator odor) and then take them out and IRON them!” No thank you, I’ll just tell everyone the accordion look is in!

Until I am back to full strength from my knee surgery, Roy is in charge of the laundry, so the question of whether to hang the clothes or to conveniently throw them into the dryer which is right there, will continue to plague us. But nothing will ever change Roy’s mind that it’s more practical to hang clothes out, nor change my mind that laundry lines were meant to be seen and not used, so I guess we will remain a mixed marriage on this issue!

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July 24, 2026 · 4:10 am

Me and my Shadow…

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

Well, I have taken the plunge, so to speak, and had my left knee replaced. Now, this was a difficult choice for me, but one that I am assured–by everyone who knows–that I will be glad I did…after a while. I’m glad to be on the backside of the surgery, but it has had one unexpected consequence. I have acquired a new shadow.

One of the things you must have (other than a whole lot of ice) when you do knee surgery, is a walker. Now, I have no objection to a walker; I have indeed on rare occasion used one for a sore leg in the past and have been glad of it. However, this surgery has required that I take on a walker as my constant companion, for at least a few weeks.

This really doesn’t sound like that big a deal, I know, but it has required some adjustments. I have to remember each time I get up that I must bring along my four-legged friend. And usually, I am carrying something with me when I move, and this does not make my shadow happy.

“If you are going to carry that glass of tea, who is going to push me?” The walker will demand. “When you are operating me, I want all hands on the walker!”

I have learned the fine art of holding onto the walker and the coffee mug in the morning, both at the same time. Of course, I won’t say all the coffee makes it the whole way in the mug, but as long as I don’t splash the walker, it doesn’t complain!

I have discovered that the walker comes with a long list of demands. If I find a spot to sit in the house, the walker snaps, “That’s fine for you, but where is my spot? And don’t put me in the corner, like you did the last time, it’s so demeaning!”

Leaving the house is even more of a trial. Once I am in the car, what do I do with the walker? Should I put it in the back seat, like a second-class citizen or should I confine it to the trunk like so much luggage? By the time my shadow and I are loaded, it’s taken an extra half hour just to get started going anywhere.

In any public setting, the walker immediately becomes an issue. “Where am I going to sit?” it clearly demands, as it straddles the aisle, or blocks the seats behind it. Since folding it up and holding it in my lap is not an option, it means that wherever I go, my shadow makes it necessary for me to take up more room than usual. It makes staying home more and more appealing.

My walker definitely makes me feel bigger than I was before. By the time I have wiggled all six of our legs and the width of the walker, wrapped around my already considerable width, through a doorway, it makes me rethink that second doughnut I had for breakfast. I need twice the normal space to get around the living room, down the hall and into the bathroom.

While the walker may have problems with me, it has started an all-out war with the dog. She is not excited about my new companion and has attempted to play chicken with the walker on several occasions. So far, the score in that competition is Walker-10, Dog-0 and a well-stomped tail!

Possibly the greatest difficulty in my new shadow is that it does not automatically join me in my travels. Sometimes I forget that I need my mechanical companion and I take off on my own. Especially is this difficult when I wake up. I got up in the middle of the night and went to the kitchen for a drink. It was while I was reaching for a glass that I suddenly had that exposed feeling, like something was missing. That’s right, while I was having a drink in the kitchen, the walker was standing in the bedroom hollering, “Did we forget something…or someone?”

For anyone out there who is worried for me because of my knee replacement, you really shouldn’t be concerned about that. I am in very good hands. However, if you want to worry about the fact that I’m sitting at home having conversations with a walker, now that’s probably something you should worry about…

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July 17, 2026 · 9:35 am

A nurse I am not!

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

The medical world and its workers have always fascinated me. Imagine having that much knowledge of the workings of the human body! And it seems they discover something new every day. For an old hypochondriac like me, knowing that much about my body would be mentally unhealthy. I still remember being diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis and having my doctor say, “Ask the questions here…don’t Google it.” She had no worries: if I had Googled it, I would have just updated my will and lit candles to wait for the end because I have no clue how to interpret medical data and generally come up with the wrong diagnosis! I will leave it to the professionals.

And now back to these medical professionals. It just so happens that I have made a few observations about those in the medical world myself. A recent stay in the hospital caused me to note a number of phenomena which prove to me that I will never be in the medical profession, because I couldn’t make it.

For instance, in order to be a nurse, I would have to keep an orderly watch on any number of people, made excessively crabby by their infirmities. And I would have to do this with empathy and no slapping the whiners around.

For an example of duties, as a nurse or other medical professional, I would have to touch urine containers, feces containers and highly aromatic bags of vomit, and anything else which might emit from the human body. I can barely force myself to handle a coffee filter filled with used coffee grounds and these people are handling much worse with calm assurance.

Were I to go into the medical field and someone were to hand me bags full of vomit (as I did to nurses this week) my reaction would be immediate. “You’ve got to be kidding! What do I look like, waste disposal???? Empty that yourself!”

They also have to be the kings and queens of optimism. While I am melting down over having to walk or not being able to salt my food, they are following along behind me and my walker declaring, “You’re doing great; you’re looking just beautiful.”

I find this a particularly endearing and brave comment for them to make considering that they are making a statement like that and sounding sincere, while what they are most likely looking at is my bare behind sticking out of the back of my gown as I go limping along. That is positivity!

Medical professionals are required to look at you with a straight face as they inquire about your poop output, and the quality of your urine—and they must look as though the answers are not going to gross them out. They are required to check out our mouths, our ears, our eyes and other orifices less pleasant so they can draw their conclusions on our health. I am never more aware of things like bad breath and the otherwise unwashed condition of my body than I am when someone has to check me out. They must explain to a horrified patient where they are going to check for body temperature and then proceed to do it—quickly—before the patient has time to consider!

One of the things I find most amazing is their dealings with drugs (nothing illegal implied). They can look through my list and discuss medications with me that follow no writing or speaking pattern. They pronounce the names with skill, overlooking the fact that the words defy any phonics or any alphabetical rule out there. What’s more, they know what these drugs do and whether or not they play nice with other drugs. Unbelievable. “Ma’am, do you take ****** (word unpronounceable)?

“I don’t know,” I stumble over a reply. “Is that the one that controls my blood pressure or handles my indigestion?” They keep good records of that and it’s a good thing, because the medicines confuse me considerably—even if I could pronounce the names.

I think the thing I most admire—especially in the nursing staff—is their ability to maintain an emotional balance. They must operate somewhere between too much sympathy (Oh, is that making you upset?) and the attitude of a prison guard in the 18th century (Suck it up, buttercup, it’s only going to get worse.) The fact that they can be both practical and encouraging says a lot about them.

Knowing as well as I do that I am not going to make a good nurse, it only remains for me to thank the nurses, nursing assistants, doctors, ect., for being willing to take on the job for me. Without them, there would be no one concerned about the state of my bodily functions and certainly not a soul who would want to help me with that vomit bag!

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June 26, 2026 · 2:25 am

Through the Ages

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

Before you even read this, I will have turned 70. I have a hard time wrapping my head around that one, because as most 70-year-olds will tell you, SEEING 70-year-olds and BEING one are two entirely different things.

“Look at that woman over there, she looks so old! I bet she’s at least 70!” I overheard a young woman snicker to her friend. I paused for a moment in righteous indignation for the woman they were talking about but looking at the rest of the people in the ticket line, I didn’t see a 70-year-old around anywhere. That’s when I realized they were talking about me! Now aside from their bad manners, there was the problem of me looking 70 years old without having accepted that fact.

I decided to own that moment, though. I stooped a little bit, hobbled over to where they were standing in line and said, “Pardon me, but would you two lovely young girls mind letting an old lady in ahead of you? It’s so hard to stand on my old legs!” They let me in the ticket line ahead of them and I refrained from skipping when I left, (I couldn’t have anyway) having purchased my tickets before them!

I had a friend ask me, “How does it feel, turning 70?” That was a hard question to answer, because the real answer is that it feels a lot like it did when I turned 30…only with more arthritic joints. My mind is still a happy-go-lucky ten-year-old, but the body says, “Reality check, lady!”

Over the years, I have frequently written about my birthday, and recently, I did a search back to see when I started. The first one I can find that is me, whining because I am getting older, is when I turned 35. Now, I have read that column many times before and every time I read about what a “bummer” it is to turn 35, I want to go back and slap that 35-year-old right in her bummer! (Yes, I actually used the word “bummer” to describe getting older!)

It occurs to me that aging goes through specific stages. For the first 19 years of my life, birthdays just meant a cake, pictures and presents. Birthdays were fun! And they never came around soon enough. This was to change…

Between 20 and about 35 (when it becomes a bummer) birthdays come around with great frequency, but I don’t think we pay as much attention to them. We are busy, establishing a career, taking mates and raising children if we wish and we accept the passing years with a great deal of passivity. It’s when we reach about 40, and we’re letting the children out the door and the dogs in, that we begin to think, “What is that twinge in my back and when did my knee start hurting in the weather?”

It’s between 40 and 50 that birthdays become less fun. Yes, we are celebrating that we have made it one more year, but we are also noticing that we don’t run as fast as we used to (or at all) and some of the signs on the road are written in awfully small print! But still, life is busy and pretty good.

By 60, we are starting to wonder how that birthday comes around so fast every year. People begin to wonder what to give us for presents, because we already have what we want and usually the cake has to be gluten, sugar, and fat free and I would just as soon let the candles burn it up, in that case.

And now, we have arrived at my 70th birthday. “We need to do something special, to celebrate your 70th,” my children told me. Please, at my age, getting out of bed without my back and three other joints going out is pretty special! My hair is thinner, but that’s okay, because it’s also going gray so no one will notice. My eyes keep needing bigger print and if you want me to hear you, an airhorn might get my attention!

Still, it really isn’t so bad achieving 70 years. I’m pleased with so many of my accomplishments and I still feel like I have some things to contribute. So, to my 35-year-old self: I would say that 70 birthdays have made me much more appreciative of life’s joys than I ever understood as a 35-year-old.  Bummer for you, huh?

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June 19, 2026 · 7:10 am

Cooking Gone to the Dogs

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

So, it’s come to this. After years of deprecating my own cooking skills and proving time and again that I probably don’t have any, vindication may have arrived. I might finally have a fan.

Only trouble is, she has four legs, a tail and lacks the ability to brag about my culinary arts. That’s right: the fan of my cooking is Josie, our golden retriever.

Now, Josie and I have had a rocky relationship over the years. It’s no secret that when it comes to human companions, she prefers Roy…and I’m fine with that.

But it is also true that she has a hankering for people food. Occasionally, if I forget to put the top on the butter dish, I will walk into the kitchen to see a cleanly licked butter platter and a supremely satisfied dog.

There is also the time that we were sitting in the living room when we were struck by lapping sounds and a metallic tapping on the kitchen counter. We discovered the dog had helped herself to half a chocolate pie—that was all she could reach. I’ve heard that chocolate can kill a dog, but Josie has consumed at least a boatload and she’s still going!

But about my cooking. Josie had a tough time a couple of weeks ago. She went through several days where she could not keep anything down and she just laid around, not moving all day. She lost all interest in any food, including the popcorn she usually gets from Roy in the evenings. When she refuses that, you know she’s sick.

We watched her struggle for a couple of days and then we couldn’t stand it. So, we bundled her up and went to see the friendly local vet. The people at the vet clinic were so good. They checked Josie over and gave her a shot for nausea. Then, the vet said, “Maybe, instead of dog food, try some scrambled eggs or something that might be easier to keep down.”

Interesting suggestion. The vet was suggesting I cook for the dog. As that was sinking in, I looked at Josie and I knew just what she was thinking: “Please, I’ve seen her cooking. It’s inhumane to expect me to eat it. At least give me another nausea shot!”

As unenthused as she might have been, it suddenly struck me that I had reached a new  low as well: I had been reduced from cooking for unenthusiastic humans to cooking for a dog who wasn’t keeping much down.

It did occur to me, however, that there was some additional pressure: if that poor dog were to die after eating my food, my inadequate cooking skills would graduate to killer status.

Nevertheless, do not let it be said that I did not rise to the challenge. I got out my pan and my eggs. The dog watched me with no enthusiasm. She had no hope, but I knew I could do this. I scrambled the eggs—I even used butter—and holding my breath, tipped them into her pan.

At first, she just sniffed it. Finally, she took a small bite. Then, a little more and a little more. She never “wolfed” it down as they say, but within the half hour the dish was empty—and she held it down!

We decided two mornings of scrambled eggs would be good, just to get her over the hump. By the third evening, we filled her dish with regular dog food. She looked at it and then at me as if to say, “What is this garbage? Where is my freshly cooked meal?”

She abandoned her dish and came and watched Roy and I consume our ham and potatoes. She drooled a little. After the meal, she stood in the kitchen and watched me pack all the leftovers into the refrigerator.

Then and only then, with the air of Joan of Arc headed to the stake, she went to her bowl and ate.

“What was that all about?” Roy asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I replied. “The dog is a fan of my cooking.”

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June 12, 2026 · 1:02 pm

Wanda and Me

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

We were sitting in the living room the other night when suddenly, from the stairs leading to the lower level, came what my grandmother would call, “an unholy racket.”

“What is going on?” Roy, startled from his reading, inquired.

“That’s nothing,” I replied, “it’s just Wanda.”

“We have a woman named Wanda rattling metal in our basement?” he said, astonished. “Why did no one tell me?”

“Wanda! Knock off the noise!” I hollered. “Don’t make me come down there!”

But I was just posturing. Wanda and I both know that when she is making those noises, I’m going to have to go down eventually and slap her around a little. It happens every time.

You see, Wanda and I have known each other for about ten years now. That’s how long she has lived in my basement, washing my clothes.

“Wanda, since you don’t seem to know, is our washing machine,” I told Roy in a rather superior voice.

“You’ve named the washing machine Wanda?” He seemed neither entertained nor surprised.

“When you work as closely as Wanda and I do, you get personal,” I explained to him.

And it’s true. Wanda and I have been together long enough to understand each other. We share more secrets and quirks than coffee klatch buddies.

For instance, I understand that if I want my underwear to not end up wound around the base of the washer, I will wash it on a gentler cycle. That way, Wanda won’t sling it around like she’s a stripper on a pole and twist it irrevocably into the inner workings of the washer.

When I put clothes into the washer, I understand that Wanda is a delicate and well-balanced flower. Therefore, I must lay the clothes in the washer with the precision of a master brick-layer. Because if I don’t, Wanda gets out of balance and throws a very noisy temper tantrum.

Wanda knows that when she does do the “jump and shout out of balance dance,” I will be down to jerk her back into place with a few choice words of my own added. To tell the truth, I think she enjoys my temper tantrums because I often think I see her hiding a smirk in the laundry soap bubbles!

And that brings me to the biggest argument between Wanda and me (outside of “what did you do with the other sock this time?”). We can’t agree on a laundry detergent. She favors the big jugs of liquid, the more additives the better.

I have tried everything (to avoid that). I even went to the pods, but she would chew them up and spit them back on the clothes so that nothing short of a hurricane could get them off. Finally, I thought, “Well, let’s try one of those environmentally friendly sheets or tabs. That should be good.”

Wanda scoffed in disdain. “I’m sorry, but did you mean for me to use that excuse for laundry soap?!” We have ultimately agreed to disagree—meaning we do it her way.

Roy has finally recovered a little from me giving the washing machine a name. “It’s a good thing the dryer is new, you haven’t had time to get hostile with it,” he joked.

“Dougie the Dryer? Oh don’t get me started! He eats so many socks, he makes Wanda look like she’s on a diet…”

If you see Roy at the laundromat, tell him Wanda and Dougie say hello.

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June 5, 2026 · 1:50 am

Rat in a Trap

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

It should have been so simple. I mean; most problems I encounter have simple solutions; if only I stop to work them out. Then, no problem, right?

But on the particular occasion in question, I couldn’t (okay or didn’t) do that. And consequently, the problem quickly became complicated.

My cousin was out of town but had graciously offered me the use of her house on the occasion of my needing a place to stay for a couple of nights. She is so sweet, and her lovely house was just the place for me to crash at night.

She gave me the garage door code and after my usual struggle with any technology, I was able to enter. I spent a relaxing and comfortable night and was so very grateful for the hospitality. Then, it came time to pack up and leave.

I had no key, so I couldn’t leave by the front door with its deadlock. I also couldn’t leave by the back deck door and lock it from the outside. This was a real pickle. How did I exit this beautiful home and lock it with no key?

Don’t worry, I found the perfect solution. I would just outrun the overhead garage door and get out that way!

Now, nobody has told me and I have never learned on my own, that you can actually close a coded garage door by simply stepping outside of it and punching in the code again. The door will then shut and everything’s locked up tight.

But since I didn’t know this, the neighbors were entertained by watching me hit the opener switch by the house door in the garage and then run for all I’m worth, trying to get under the door as it closes and not get caught, making the door automatically go back up again. It didn’t work. The door re-opened every time! I couldn’t leave with the garage door hanging open. Now what?

No problem, though. They have a side yard. I went out the back garage door carefully re-locking it, of course, and went around the outside of the garage. That’s when I discovered that when my cousin and her husband installed a high wooden fence, they enclosed ALL of the backyard–including the space on the sides of the house. I returned to the back garage door. Yup, I had locked that thing up tight.

I was boxed in and locked out. It was ridiculous! I couldn’t be trapped! But I was. I considered calling out, but what do you say?

“Can anybody hear me? I’m trapped in the backyard of this house that doesn’t belong to me! Could you help?” Talk about alienating the neighbors. They would be avoiding my cousin for years after that, telling each other that her relatives were nuts!

What to do, what to do? I should be able to reason it out. There were some supporting rails running horizontally along the inside of the fence. For one wild minute I considered climbing over the top, but I didn’t like my chances getting up on the backside, let alone surviving the sheer drop on the other side.

It was while I was on the back deck looking through the windows at the inside of the house like a stray cat, that I finally faced the fact that I was going to have to call the police and hope they believed my story and didn’t arrest me for trespassing. And it was at about the same time I remembered that my phone was in my car…on the other side of the fence.

Now I got out of that backyard on my own power, but I would rather not tell you how, because I want you to still think of me as a person of reasonable intelligence–and no prison record.

But I will tell you this: An overhead garage door will both open and shut by using the code. I can be taught!

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