Tag Archives: love

September 25, 2026 · 6:38 am

Insecure Security

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I have done quite a bit of traveling in my life, mostly with Roy. I very much enjoy all the places we go (well, maybe not the campgrounds) but I will admit there is one thing I will not miss when my traveling days are through: security checks. Whether it’s into a building or across a border, I admit those uniforms and badges make me nervous.

Now I want to make it clear that I am not smuggling guns or drugs (although I think my picture is on the Crest wanted posters for trying to smuggle an illegally large tube of toothpaste through airport security) but there is something about security points that bring out the worst in me.

I’m a nervous joker. When I am uneasy, I make jokes at the worst possible times—like in doctor’s offices or during a job interview. I’m uncomfortable, so I make a remark about an embarrassing rash or I talk to a prospective employer about how I might have left my last job due to an unfortunate shortage in my cash box at the end of the day. They are jokes and the people I make them to usually realize they’re jokes, but it tends to make them wonder about me.

But the worst is when I am in a security line and they are all looking at me. I try hard not to make jokes about bombs in my handbag and I smile and hope I don’t look like the sort of person who would be smuggling a kilo of cocaine in my sock. But I am nervous nonetheless.

My first time going through JFK Airport in New York City, my briefcase caused quite a stir. It was my dreamed-of trip to New York and I had really gone heavy on the souvenirs. As my briefcase went through their scanner, it set off alarms all over the place, and suddenly, there were armed guards standing over me calmly demanding that I open the briefcase. I was so rattled, I couldn’t unlock it! At last, frantically sweating bullets, I got the locks undone and opened the lid to reveal…my souvenir mugs. They put their guns back in the holsters and I put my heart back into my chest and we all went our merry ways. No jokes necessary.

I feel bad for border guards. They have to determine within a few questions and observations if you are a simple tourist looking for a good time or whether you just look  like a simple tourist so you can smuggle drugs, weapons and assorted terrorists into the country. On our recent trip to Canada, the border guard made the decision to search our trunk. I don’t know what motivated him to do this, but what he got was a trunk full of my hand-washed underwear, laid out in the trunk to dry. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I know he did not linger back there!

And then of course, there is the time I unintentionally propositioned a very nice border guard in Ireland. Last year I was in an airport in Dublin and as I went through security, I nearly hanged myself trying to take off my jacket without removing my shoulder bag first.

“One thing at a time, love,” said the security guard in a heavy Irish lilt.

Flustered by the line, the foreign system and his very Irish voice reminding me I was far from home, I answered, “Thanks! What else do you want me to take off?”

Now, before your mind goes to the gutter, I was actually thinking about things like shoes, but I will admit that the astonished look on the guard’s face was rather memorable. And it was my only time (I hope) that I will accidentally proposition a security guard.

I should have just made the joke about the bomb in my handbag, right?

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August 20, 2026 · 2:27 am

What happens when therapy gets physical

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

You know those round, silver disability buttons you can push to open a door? Those are a remarkably handy invention. And it’s one I always thanked heaven I didn’t have to use. In fact, I thought it would be kind of a lazy act for a person who can perfectly well open a door to push those silver buttons. Hold that thought.

After the rigors of having my knee replaced, I was passed on to a process known as physical therapy. Everyone told me, “Oh, just you wait! Physical therapy is also known as torture. You are in for a horrible experience.” Well, I’m still waiting for that myth to happen!

Now, I don’t know how many of you have been in the physical therapy section of our local hospital, but I have spent enough time there lately to consider myself a bit of an expert on the topic. In fact, I have learned several truths about physical therapy.

For instance, they don’t mind at all if you whine. I go in frequently (early in the morning usually) and I always feel like I’m sacrificing myself by going. After all, that’s a lot of work and my knee is sore, and I’m tired, and I’d rather go out to breakfast. As I said, they don’t mind at all if you whine. They also don’t listen. They have heard it all, and they further know that in order to get me past the whining, they are going to have to (as my grandmother would say) turn a deaf ear.

Now, that’s not to say they are unsympathetic. They are extremely sympathetic and they work hard on their facial expressions to keep it sympathetic. It’s just that if they listen to all of my complaints, and all of my whining about the machines being too heavy and my knees being too delicate, they know that in a few months’ time the machines will still be too heavy and my delicate knees will not have improved at all. And that is not the point of my being there!

Second thing I learned: there are some words they don’t know the meaning of. For instance, they seem not to know what “can’t” means. “But Kayla, I can’t stand up without using my arms.” “No Marissa, I can’t walk over those little track hurdles of yours.” “Forget it, Bobbie, I can’t bend my knee that far.” “You must be joking, Tim, I can’t go upstairs with a walker.” They apparently don’t have a definition for “can’t.” They continue to stand and look at me until I move.

And upon reflection, this part might be my own fault. After telling them I can’t do something, it is not good training for them if I turn around and do the very thing I said I “simply can’t do.” This behavior gives them the idea that I was just whining, and since I have eventually done all of those things, then I most certainly can do them! How did they know?

When you are in physical therapy, it is important to keep your eye on the therapist, because they are kind of tricky. “Why is it so much harder to move that forty-pound weight today? I could do it last time!” I will grouse; certain I have gone backwards. “That’s because I put up the 60 pound one today,” will come the answer. I never saw that coming.

And that brings us to my biggest observation: the ankle weights. They insist on having me do some of the exercises with an ankle weight. In vain have I told them that I will not be wearing ankle weights in normal activities. And there again, you have to keep your eye on them. “Wow, this five-pound weight is heavier than I remember.” “That’s because it’s ten pounds today.”

The biggest observation I have made about physical therapists is that they have to have a tremendous amount of patience. They have put up with my whining, changed my bandages, pushed me farther than I ever thought I could go, and because they did it all without strangling me, I have a new knee, and I am on the road to taking full advantage of it.

And that brings me back to those silver disability buttons to open the doors. I normally don’t use them, because they are for those who truly cannot open doors. However, after a good physical therapy session, I always push those buttons; not because I really need to, but because I figure that on those occasions, I’ve earned it!

Want to feel better in a real hurry? These guys have the answer. Thank you, physical therapists, I couldn’t have done it without you!

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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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September 25, 2025 · 6:57 am

A great lady passes

Jackie Wells-Fauth

When I got married, I supposed that I would find my mother-in-law, Millie, to be irritating or at best, tolerable. We aren’t supposed to be all that crazy about our mothers-in-law, are we? That is a normal attitude towards mothers-in-law.

Except my mother-in-law was not at all what I expected. She was, at first, quiet and demure and she did not interfere at all with my marriage. I appreciated her hands off attitude, but it soon became apparent that this was not at all what she was really like. She was not necessarily quiet and demure; she was so sweet and a whole lot of fun to be around.

Her support for me in my marriage and her unwavering friendship have been of great value to me. She loved my children as well with that quiet, always supportive attitude and they grew up appreciating her kindnesses as well. Stefanie wanted her name to be Crystal–she complained to Grandma and the next thing you knew, Stefanie had a T-shirt from Grandma that had Crystal, written in sparkly crystals, across the front. Stefanie was delighted and wore it out. Tracie didn’t care so much for rhubarb kuchen and told her grandma she thought chocolate chips would be better. Grandma quietly made chocolate chip kuchen just for her (nobody else wanted it) and Tracie was charmed.

Nothing she did was splashy. She would come to my house and stand doing the dishes after a meal. That made me nervous, because she was a much neater housekeeper than I. She never said a word about my housekeeping, although I was amused to see her surreptitiously wiping the tops of the cupboards or swiping quickly behind the faucet, places I never got to—but she did it quietly and automatically and without critical remarks and attitudes.

She was a beautiful seamstress, making clothes for the girls, including when she and my mother collaborated in the construction of Renaissance dresses for my daughters.  She also altered just about anything. When Roy had a project, he would say with confidence, “Mom can do this.” She always did. When I could not figure out how we were even going to begin on the wedding dress Stefanie had chosen, I took her with me to Stef’s for a weekend and by the end of that time, just like that, a wedding dress was underway.

She was also a dynamite cook, with a real talent for kuchen. She once made enough for an entire wedding reception, no mean feat, I can tell you! Watching her prepare meals in her spotless kitchen was always an experience. I told her once that I had used her work–fixing and presenting a meal–to my classes as an example of visual artistry. She laughed so hard at that, as she continued to so gracefully stir and bake and boil and peel in her seamless, graceful way of presenting a meal. She once told me that she was not a very good cook, and it was my turn to laugh uproariously. She never thought of herself as talented or skilled, but she was in so many ways.

She was a wonderful painter. On one of our last conversations together, I told her my girls—who both have paintings and many pieces of artistry from her themselves, were having a lively discussion over who would get the paintings she has given to Roy and I.  She responded,  “Oh, well, that’s nothing to bother about. Once you don’t want them anymore, they may not have space for them anyway!” It was amazing that she really didn’t realize that I would lock my children out of my house before I would willingly give up her art works while I’m alive and my daughters will clear anything they have on their walls to hang her creations.

She loved to travel and was still agile at the age of 84, when she determined to climb to the top of the Statue of Liberty for the second time in her life. She made it, too, while I gave up about three quarters of the way and then cursed her for making me look bad. She just laughed and kept on going.

Millie passed away this week, and did so right where she wanted to be, in her own home. Roy and I had just landed in Amsterdam at the start of our long-planned trip to Europe. So, we began our trip by sitting in a Dutch airport, crying copiously in front of strangers. We continued the trip because so much had gone into it and I think Millie would have been sorry to be the reason we ditched and went home, but she was with us the whole way.

 I will miss Millie so much not because she was my mother-in-law, but because she was my friend, my confidante and the most human person I have ever had the privilege to know.

The world is a little poorer now, because a great lady has passed.

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September 19, 2025 · 9:27 am

Talk of the Town

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

“I need to get the clothes started in the wash early, because there are a lot of them. I wonder where the dog is. She was just here. I need a new pair of shoes; these are so worn out.”

This was the conversation I was having this morning and it’s pretty normal; just what anyone would talk about…except that I was alone and talking to myself. Go ahead, try and convince me that you’ve never done that! I talk to myself all the time.

“Mrs. Fauth, who are you talking to?” a student would come into my classroom and ask. “There’s no one else in here.”

“I’m talking to myself,” I would answer defensively.

“Don’t do that; it makes you look crazy,” they would chide.

“I love talking to myself,” I told them proudly. “I am the most sympathetic listener I have.”

I’ve always mumbled to myself, so it isn’t a symptom of old age, but my students and my grandchildren definitely think it could be otherwise. I was mentally arranging the things I had to do for the day in my head as I moved around the kitchen during a recent grandchild visit.

“Grandma are you talking to me?” asked my loving grandchild.

“Oh, no, I’m just answering the voices in my head,” I said, trying to make a joke. I’m not sure he got it and I’m also not sure he didn’t contact his parents that afternoon, asking them to come rescue him from the crazy lady!

The fact remains, however, that I have whole conversations with myself and they are usually the most satisfying! I can solve all of my problems and some of those in the world, just with a quiet conversation with myself over a cup of coffee in the morning. “If they would just put a stoplight on that corner, we would have no problems, you mark my word,” I observed one morning.

The dog, who was lying on the deck beside me, picked up her head and looked around for other people. None were there, however, and she is too used to my mutterings to be too worried about it. She went back to sleep while I continued, “I don’t know what to do about that bush. Should I trim it back, do you think? No, that would ruin the looks of it.”

Someone told me once that talking to yourself is not a sign of being crazy. However, if you answer yourself, then you have a problem. So, I have a problem. Because I answer myself all the time. Even worse, I get into arguments with myself…and occasionally, I lose them!

“You need to get that window cleaned, it’s filthy,” I will tell myself.

“I’ll clean that window when I’m darned good and ready and don’t tell me what to do!” I count that as an argument that I won.

Talking to myself in the confines of my own home is one thing, but I have been known to carry on conversations with myself in public places. If you see me out for a walk, I’ll usually be having a lively conversation, complete with hand gestures.

I don’t always know that I’m doing this, but occasionally, I will look up in some public place and see someone giving me a very odd stare and I’ll know that they were in on the conversation I was having about the best pain reliever to buy. Me, myself and I haven’t come to an agreement on that, so we argue it in public a lot.

The other day, I was driving the car down the street (I frequently compliment myself on my driving). On this day, however, I was having a heated argument with myself, and I don’t even remember the subject or which of me was winning. However, I was chattering away and as I raised one hand for emphasis, I noticed the person waiting on the corner for me to pass so they could walk. I quickly paused and indicated that they should go ahead. For a moment they looked at me and then turned around and walked the other way.

“Well, that was odd,” I told myself.

“Oh, I agree. What was their problem?” I answered.

Life is fun when you are the talk of the town!

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