Tag Archives: writing

April 24, 2026 · 8:44 am

Goliath Awakens

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

It had to happen. My peaceful, lazy existence over the past few months had to end sometime and this weekend was apparently the start of a new era at our house.

Between some health issues and a busy work time, Roy has left household projects pretty much up to me for the last few months. And I will admit that those “projects” have consisted only of the things I had to do. I like to call my attitude laid-back, but in reality, you’d probably label me lazy. Knowing that about myself, perhaps I should have searched for a lazy partner, but I like my choice—except when he decides to do a project. And even worse, when he decides I need to help.

That is how this weekend went. I have stacked, piled and otherwise mis-located the materials from three rooms of the basement. I had to do that in order for some work to be done in the laundry room and the two bedrooms. However, now the disorder is clogging up the family room and even worse, the weight room. Roy’s sensibilities are offended by this disorder, but up until now, he really wasn’t up to doing anything about it.

I believe the expression “Goliath awakens” had new meaning in our house. Roy had put up with the mess in the basement as long as he was willing to. He appeared in the bedroom doorway where I was contemplating the quiet and considering how many hours I could spend doing nothing.

“I want to do some work on the basement and I need your help,” he announced.

“Oh sure. I have a million things to do, and you think I should just drop everything and help you,” I snarled.

He looked at my prone position on the bed and my empty hands and replied, “I think I can live with myself.”

So down to the basement I stomped. And he was clearly determined to start a fight. His first question was, “What do we have down here that we can throw away?”

In my house, those are fighting words. Obviously, everything I have down there…for instance the three boxes of papers that came from my father, aunt and grandmother (all deceased for some years) is very important. Perhaps, among the old receipts, empty bank books and long-paid bills, there could be the deed to a forgotten gold mine. I can’t throw those things away!

He gritted his teeth and put them on the storage shelves. Then he picked up two garbage bags. “Are these both just garbage?”

One bag contained the remnants of the quilt my grandmother made me as a girl. Someday, I’m going to reconstruct it. I snatched that bag away and made a grab for the other one.

“You said this dehydrator hadn’t been used in years and might not even work anymore,” he said, holding onto it. “Or did this belong to your great uncle Harry and can’t be touched.” Sometimes he can be so ridiculous. I don’t even have a great uncle Harry!

It was a long afternoon. Instead of relaxing and enjoying the peaceful atmosphere, I was in a death battle with a man determined to throw away things like the crumpled remains of a Halloween decoration I haven’t put out for Halloween in 20 years. When it was over, the storage shelves could once again hold everything we were saving and he could use his weight room without having to squeeze past the Christmas decorations.

He was in a much better mood, but I wasn’t. He interrupted my favorite activity—doing nothing—for my least favorite activity—throwing away junk I have accumulated over the years. Goliath had truly awakened, but that in turn had awakened Hera—the most vengeful wife in mythology!

“I’m going to walk the dog,” he said, “you want to join us?”

“No!” I snapped. “I’m very busy right now. I have a column to write.”

He didn’t ask what it would be about!

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April 11, 2026 · 3:51 am

The Beauty of Beauty

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

When I was much younger and stewing about whether or not to try applying makeup, I remember my grandmother saying, “Even if you put lipstick on a pig, underneath, it is still a pig.” I understood that she wasn’t trying to call me a pig, she was trying to say that my looks (be they perfection or the portrait of Dorian Grey) ultimately didn’t depend on what I wore for makeup.

I always thought that this clever saying was hers, but I have learned over the years that “putting lipstick on a pig,” is a popular saying, meaning you can’t hide things with some elaborate cover; the lipstick isn’t going to fool anyone.

This attitude, however, has stuck with me over the years. I will never be a raving beauty, and I’m good with that. I don’t know if I’ve always felt this way, or if I just started to develop this attitude the older I got and the more I looked at the worship of beauty in the world.

You are looking at a woman who personally flunked the “tissue test.” My teeth are not as white as a tissue, but then, I don’t hold tissues in my teeth, so it’s probably all right. I don’t have a skin regimen to perform for hours nightly. I splash a little soap and water on my face to remove the excess sweat and dirt, and I call that good.

I was never any good with makeup. I tried mascara when I was young and by the end of any given day, I resembled a raccoon with a snub nose. Lipstick (when I did try to decorate the pig) came off in splotchy patches the first time I drank anything and getting that greasy stuff off of my dishes dampened my enthusiasm for it. Besides, I always used the wrong colors and had a kind of “here comes Jackie’s lips,” motif going, so eventually, I chucked the lipstick tubes and the mascara brushes.

As for wrinkles—facial or otherwise—I have ‘em and I have no idea how to stop them, so I just tell everyone my face is full of character. I went to college with a girl who woke us all up in the middle of the night, crying because she had gotten hemorrhoid cream in her eye. As we were flushing her eyes with water, it occurred to me to wonder how she had gotten hemorrhoid cream there (it just seemed like a long way to miss the target.)

When I asked her, she stared at me in shock. “Well, it’s a well-known treatment to prevent wrinkles, didn’t you know?”

No, I really didn’t know. In fact, I still don’t know what the philosophy was for putting a medicated treatment intended for the lower regions of the body on your face. I didn’t ask any more questions and I have never learned the theory behind it (pardon the pun), but I have spent some hours awake in the night with my imagination working on the problem. I’m sure it couldn’t be as fantastic as I imagine!

Put that together with the question of why a girl that age was concerned about facial wrinkles and it seems like she might have gotten an overdose of worry about her beauty. I would say you’d make a fine start on the wrinkles scrubbing that cream off your face!

Then we come to “inner beauty”. Now, I’m a firm believer that some people look a lot prettier on the outside than they sometimes are on the inside. However, I also know that no matter what I look like on the outside, I am not always so pretty on the inside, either. Occasionally, I have the inner beauty of Belle, from Beauty and the Beast. Other times, however, I’m just the beast—everywhere!

I’m not really sure where I am wandering with this particular train of thought. It just always amazes me what we can do to enhance our appearance, but whenever I see a carefully and attractively put together woman, I always think of another saying my grandmother used to repeat to me, “It is not always necessary to gild the lily.” I like that—I’m a non-gilded lily!

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April 3, 2026 · 2:27 am

Except for the pain

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

Before I begin, I would like to state in no uncertain terms that I am grateful beyond words for the fine medical care available in Miller. Not only the doctors, but the long-suffering hospital nurses and aides who have to put up with me the most—especially when I am in pain! Thank you all!

And my pain is the topic of my column this week. Not that there’s anything funny about that, but sometimes my adventures with it bring their own comic relief. Without that, it would really be…well, a pain!

My medical woes come from an unpredictable, incapacitating pain in the joints. It’s never brought on by any trigger; just a random, happy notion that can hit anywhere from my jaw to my toes. Its favorite target, however, seems to be a knee or a hip—either one on either side will do. Just so my leg is immovable without a considerable amount of bad language and pain.

Now, these attacks appear to be random, but I don’t think it’s such a happy accident that they like to hit late—after medical office hours and especially long after Roy has gone to sleep.

I’ll wager some of his least enjoyable moments in married life are when I pull him from a sound sleep with the loving words, “Roy, wake up; I’m in terrible pain!”

“What shall I do?” comes the sleepy voice from the dark.

“Take me to the emergency room or shoot me; right now, I don’t really care which you choose!” I lied. I do care, but I always like to make sure he has options.

Then comes the whole procedure of getting me to the car…down the front steps and into a vehicle…hopefully without bending my leg too much. He has learned that there is no possible way to do this gently, so he assists the best he can and when necessary, bends the leg for me. I’m always glad when he does that. “Oh! My Lord! D**m it! Thank you so much, dear!”

Now one of the first things I ever noticed about Roy was that he is always very dapper in his appearance. He’s always dressed appropriately and neatly for whatever errand he is on. That’s why it has to be so hard for him to take me to the hospital in the middle of the night, because my nightwear is not exactly designer and I am not inclined at those moments to get changed.

Mind you, at that point, I don’t care if I walk in dressed like Lady Godiva; I just want to get there. But Roy does care and he knows I will care later, so he tries to drape my pajama rags around me as best he can and away we go.

Once we get to the emergency room, his job kind of slows down. He knows from vast experience that the medical people are going to take good care of me and that once I stop screaming that “somebody please for the love of heaven do something about the pain or hit me in the head,” (I wonder how often that appeals to them) he can relax.

The problem, of course, is now, he’s up in the middle of the night, with a day’s work ahead tomorrow and he has to sit around and wait for me to finally decide that I’m going to live yet another day because the aforementioned fine medical care takes care of the problems.

A lot of times he’s a little out of what has happened. This last time, they asked if I had vomited. At the same time, I said, “Yes,” and he said, “No.”

I turned to him showing him my gown and its suspicious stains and said, “Stay away from the small wastebasket in the living room. You won’t like it.”

He cares so much. He is so diligent about getting me there, but he is also in need of his sleep. However, I don’t worry about him so much anymore. The first time I was in, he sat in a very comfortable chair near me and just as I was really freaking out about the pain and keeping him up, I distinctly heard a snore come from directly behind me! I was getting what I needed, and he was getting what he needed. That’s fair.

Every time I have one of these midnight adventures, I pray it’s the last one. I’ve learned enough about the problem, though, to know it might not be; and that’s okay, I guess. After all, I have the best ambulance driver in the world and the best care for the problem. I think I’ll live to fight another day!

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March 13, 2026 · 12:22 am

Saving Daylight–Bah Humbug!

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I’m sorry if I am a little grumpy this week, but I am definitely missing sleep and it’s all the fault of whoever decided to save daylight – or steal it, as the case may be!

Now before some well-meaning soul attempts to justify the theft of this time by explaining why daylights savings time is important, let me tell you that I know all about the reasoning behind it and I still continue to insist: my body doesn’t buy it.

You wouldn’t think the theft of one hour would be such a big deal, but it throws everything else off: instead of going to bed at 11 pm, I’m now trying to go at 10 pm—or is it12 midnight? I am so tired, I can’t work it out. In any case, when I get up in the morning after this yearly raid of time takes place, I know that my morning light is gone and my body is grabbing for the covers, lobbying for one more hour in bed!

The first evening of the switch is also disconcerting: “I want to remember to watch my favorite Sunday night show. It will be on at 7:00,” I tell my husband.

“It WAS on at 7:00, that was an hour ago,” he replies.

“What? It can’t be! The sun is still up! Darn it! There’s nothing good on at 8:00,” I whine.

“I’m glad you feel that way, because it’s already 8:30.”

“I do NOT like this sudden evening light,” I proclaim. “There’s evil in it. God wouldn’t want me to miss my favorite shows.”

“Well, don’t worry, it will be black as pitch when you get up in the morning, so there’s your darkness,” he really means to be comforting.

“First, they keep it light so long in the evening, that I miss my television show and now you’re telling me that I’ve lost my morning sun (isn’t there a song about that?). There is just no end to the bad news. And it’s all because of the nefarious one-hour theft of time.”

Roy goes back to his reading—without the aid of a lamp. He’s heard all of this whining and complaining and drama before, so he recognizes the futility of continuing the conversation.

It does offer one benefit: I can say to anyone who asks: “Yes, I was going to get that room painted, put in some time at the gym, finally clean that closet that is spilling out into the hall, get my life together, etc., but someone stole the hour I was going to use for that, so, those things will just have to wait.”

It’s a sure thing that for the next week, I will be dragging and tired and grumpy as my body struggles to add one more brick to the wall of reasons why I don’t get a good night sleep. By the end of the week (which is Friday the 13th by the way) I will have adjusted somewhat, and I may even start to like that extra light time in the evenings, but the abrupt theft of time is still traumatizing.

There really ought to be some sort of compensation for having to go through this. They should set up stations throughout the country containing soothing aid for those going through the daylight savings change. Maybe they could have coffee and cookies and dare I suggest—extra naps for the first few weeks? Just something to acknowledge how hard this is on the citizenry. Maybe I would be more receptive to the change if I was holding a glamour cup of coffee and a few sugar cookies—and some chocolate chip cookies—oh, and maybe a brownie or two! Yes, I very much like this idea; perhaps someone could suggest it to the legislature?

I know this column has been very bizarre, but living through the daylights savings time change is also just a little bit bizarre. Isn’t this sort of like time traveling? People like my husband just don’t understand it—they adjust so seamlessly, but not me. And the worst thing Roy should have done right now is try and cheer me up about it.

“You know, you get this hour back when the fall comes and we go back to regular standard time,” he observed during the worst of my ravings.

“What! They can’t! By then, I’ll be used to a lot of light in the evenings, and I won’t be able to adjust! Why are they doing this to me????!!!!!”

Happy Daylights Savings Time everyone. By this time next week, I might even mean it!

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March 6, 2026 · 10:35 pm

In the year 2525…

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I will admit that I have always looked on home communication systems (AI systems) as a challenge: What can I possibly do to mess them up?

“Hey Siri, what was my nickname in the seventh grade?”

“I am sorry, I do not have enough information to answer that question.”

“Uh huh, not as smart as you thought, are you, Siri?”

“I am sorry, I do not have enough information to answer that question, Red Top.” I will admit that one was a little unnerving! I’m glad I didn’t ask it how much I weigh or what the nuclear launch codes are—a couple of things, I wouldn’t want it to go looking for!

Climbing on my usual soapbox, I profoundly object to the fact that we are working on machines to not only dry our hair and cook our food, but to anticipate our every wish and answer questions that we did not necessarily intend for them to even hear.

I have been in homes in which the Alexa or Siri or whatever AI systems, have been installed. Okay, it’s nice to be able to tell it to turn off the lights, because I am getting too old and arthritic to want to do the “clap on, clap off” thing any more. But when I step in something unidentifiable and shout, “What the heck was that?” I am not really looking for Alexa to give me a list of vivid possibilities, “Milk, mashed potato, cat pee, feces….”

I’m uncomfortable with any device that can engage in conversation with me, but now I’m told they can actually drive me to the store and then comment on which dress looks nicest on me; that is a little too far. That is when I start singing that old 60s song, “In the Year 2525.” We’re getting there!

This week, I saw an advertisement for an AI system that will literally insult you if you ask it to. Truly! That is the limit. We have rampant hunger, disease and war in the world and you think the biggest problem is that I need help with being insulted! As my husband said, “Then what am I good for?”

It’s probably jealousy on my part, but I hold the hand phone responsible for a lot. You can pay for anything with it, order movies with it, start your car with it, make lists and calendars on it, check your mail deliveries and know just when packages and food will arrive at your door. Considering I spend half my time looking for mine, this could be a problem!

My favorite of all the recent innovations, however, is the camera that is in the doorbell. Now, for the past 30 years, I have struggled to find a way to make a doorbell work in my house. We have tried system after system and we still find ourselves telling people, “You may want to knock—that’s where you rap your knuckles on the wood—our doorbell is taking the week off.”

BUT if your doorbell works properly, you can attach a camera that, with the proper set-up, will show you your own front step! I suppose this is intended so that we are able to watch what’s happening around our property when we are miles away. We will know about but can’t help it if the outdoor cat gets sprayed by a skunk or it rains on the shoes we accidentally left outside. I think it would be most useful, however, for telling you if someone (or something) undesirable is outside when you are at home.  It could sound some sort of alarm telling you to stay away from the door!

For myself, I don’t need the camera, since when I’m away, I don’t want to worry about the house, and when I’m home, I have few enough callers that I never contemplate not answering the door…except for the time the guy was standing outside my door with an ax. I admit, I didn’t answer that call, but then again, I didn’t need a doorbell camera to tell me that!

I know, I know, these things are the wave of the future, but I will admit, I’m not all that impressed. I went shopping for a new stove recently. I saw stoves that adjusted their heat, could be set to turn on at a specific time, and had burners for boiling and burners for melting and burners for frying. There were stoves that told you when the bread is done and how many minutes they suggest for a good casserole. But me? I went looking until I found one with four burners, four knobs to turn them on and without the ability to utter a word when I’m cooking! It would be wrong for an appliance to swear!

How do you like them apples, Siri?

“I am sorry, I do not have enough information to answer that question, Red Top.”

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February 27, 2026 · 7:18 pm

Not Making It

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

Don’t worry, this isn’t some comment on my mental health. That remains as it always was—a little crazy. No, “Not Making It” is my official declaration on the state of the beds in my house.

Somewhere, far back in time, I imagine some uptight prehistoric woman. She was tidying her cave one morning, when she decided, “The furs in our sleeping nook need to be laid out straight.” So every morning after that, she spent ten minutes tugging and pulling and smoothing to make the furs look neat. And that was ten minutes less she had to spend on skinning whatever was for dinner.

A few millennia later, the lady of the castle looked at the bulging, billowing feather and straw mattresses and said, “You know what, the maids don’t have enough to do. In addition to the covers on those beds, let’s add some smooth undergarments that we can shove the mattresses into to make them look neater.” And so sheets were born.

And if I could touch a stone and travel in time like they do in Outlander, I would go back to both of those eras with one simple question: Why?

Also, where in our country’s Constitution does it say, “We the People (Women) in order to form a more perfect bedroom, must each day “make” the bed.” And I’m not perfect on the Bible, but I don’t remember it being in there either that while Moses was parting the Red Sea, some woman would be back in the tent, making up the bed so the Pharoah wouldn’t think they were slobs!

If you come to my house on any day where people have spent the night, you may not want to look in the bedrooms if the sight of rumpled bedding upsets you. I’m willing to bet most people in charge of the family’s housework won’t mind a bit! And while we’re being candid, the beds are more than rumpled. You’d be lucky if all the blankets and sheets were still on the mattress!

When I am truly distressed, I will have nightmares. The most traumatic dream is one in which I have been locked in a 20-story hotel and I can’t leave until I’ve made all the beds! The worst part is that when I wake up in a cold sweat from this nightmare, I realize I’m going to have to change the bedding. More trauma!

Perhaps the most heinous crime of all was the invention of the “fitted sheet.” Now, when it comes to putting them on the bed, I get it. It makes it easier to keep it in place. But when it has to be untwisted from the dryer and folded, it’s a little like hanging curtains in a high wind—there aren’t enough hands to do it! Everyone has their own method; mine consists of starting to fold, getting frustrated and wadding up the sheet and cramming it in the closet. This works for me!

And then, there are those people who think I really want to do these things; I just need some instruction on how to do it. They are wrong. I once read an article that said making the bed was easy if you just woke up in the morning, and before you got up, you used your toes to straighten the bedding. I tried that once; I put out both hips and got cramps in every toe. The beds stay unmade.

The day I read that it is actually healthier to leave the bed unmade for a time to let it air out, I celebrated for a week—the approximate time I left the bed open to “air.” Think about it: this is a great out. If someone comes and your bed is unmade, you just tell them, “Oh, I’m thinking of my health and letting the bed air out.”

I have decided that it is time for me to write some instructive articles on bed making myself. “Leave it open to air in the morning. Remove all lumpy objects: coffee cups, cracker crumbs, books, etc. That night, wrap yourself in the quilt and fall into the bed, it will have aired enough by then—it’s safe.”

And so I say to the overly enthusiastic cave girl and the ambitious lady of the manor—handling beds is very simple: I’m not making it!

I’ll sleep so much better tonight—and the blankets won’t be smooth!

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January 30, 2026 · 7:13 am

Queen of the Kingdom

Jackie Wells-Fauth

She was a rescue, I guess you’d call her, but Haruka, named for her people’s respect for the Japanese culture, never saw herself as being rescued. More like, she was the one doing the rescuing…of people who obviously needed her to come and take care of their home.

When I first met Haruka, or Haru, as I was permitted to call her because I didn’t master her full name very well, she was already comfortable in her new home. It never occurred to this cat, who had excitability issues, that there was anyone in charge at her house other than her.

She permitted people to visit with commendable patience and grace, but it was always clear that she was granting you a boon to visit “her people.” And her people were devoted, which gives you some idea of the personality that is this cat.

My favorite view of her is always of her sitting at the top of the room on her cat tree shelf, staring down her somewhat stubby, feline nose at the occupants of the room. Sometimes, she permitted petting, but it was always on her terms.

She claimed her share of the bed before anyone else climbed in and considered it a painful accommodation when company came. I still remember the morning I woke up; her owners having given me their bed. I opened one eye and I could see a funny-looking blur at the end of the bed. When I put my glasses on, it was Haru, sitting at the end of the bed with pointed patience and a twitching tale.

“I’m so sorry,” I found myself apologizing to a cat, “I will just get out of here and leave you to your morning nap.” She waited until I had smoothed the covers and then she very regally marched to the head of the bed, arranged herself, gave me the stink eye out of one feline peeper and promptly went to sleep. She had made her point.

She loved close, quiet places and nothing pleased her more than when she could get into the towel cupboard in the hall—so much so that her owners eventually made her a particular place there. They also turned the coffee table into a tent and she loved the sanctity the place provided.

She was a snuggler, with her owners; when she wished, but much of her time was spent patrolling the house or resting in a place where she could observe what was going on in her dominion.

She had some odd tastes. I remember the first time I saw her owners feeding her watermelon. I thought it was a terrible waste of a piece of watermelon to let her lick it, but she didn’t just lick it—she lapped it up. Turns out, she was a fruit junkie who loved watermelon best!

A little while ago this queen of the cats developed medical issues. She visited the vet, underwent all kinds of tests, but in the end it was clear that Haru was coming to the close of her reign. Her people gave her all the love and support they knew how and with grief in their hearts bid her goodbye. I don’t know if another cat will come into the house, but I do know that there is no way for Haru to be replaced. She was truly, “their girl.”

With all of the grief in Minnesota this week, it was too hard to write something lighthearted right now, but I did want to note the passing of Haru with respect. While this is probably not the greatest tragedy in a city in turmoil, to those who loved Haru best, it is a critical blow.

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January 16, 2026 · 4:00 am

Big Brother is Watching

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I saw an interesting video on the Internet the other day that may forever stick in my mind. It was a group who were demonstrating a robot equipped with a head, arms and legs—all machine-like. They had a human working with the robot, getting the machine to mimic their movements. The human punched out with his left arm, then his right and moved on to kicks and the robot aped everything he was doing. Until, for a reason unclear from the video, the robot kicked the man in the spot where men least like to be kicked (I think) and doubled him over.

This video is a visual representation of what AI and the whole technology industry are doing to me metaphorically. Everyone knows I’ve never been a fan of technology (even though I acknowledge there is some help in it) and AI (standing for artificial intelligence; think about that for a minute) is not generating any love in me either!

I find those home information systems to be just a little scary. I will turn off my own lights and check with the thermometer outside for temperature myself, thank you. I think I decided against those systems after my niece described her experience. “I got up one morning and everyone else was already gone. I stood in the kitchen and said, ‘I wonder where everyone went?’ The machine answered—and it was right!”

AI is everywhere today, whether I like it or not, and I’m starting to think it is the “Big Brother” we have all heard about in George Orwell’s writings. I was complaining bitterly one morning about all of my aches and pains and how I can’t remember anything and getting old is hell. Within hours, Facebook was flooding my feed with advertisements for assisted living and nursing homes! Who was listening and drawing their own conclusions?

I’ve been blaming my computer for that and have started religiously turning it off, but it seems to make no difference. Someone told me, “Oh, your phone picks things up as well, and you have that with you all the time.” Just so you know, my phone and I are discussing divorce, and I presume that means a whole new flood of information on good divorce lawyers!

Even the simplest things are being turned over to AI. If I call a large company, an artificial intelligence decides whether I get to talk to a person or not. Ever been hung up on by a machine? It’s a daunting experience!

I was sitting in a doctor’s office the other day, when I was approached by a tall machine, lit with blue lights and humming away. As it approached me, it stopped suddenly, corrected its trajectory and moved around me. I am really hoping this is a gigantic version of a Roomba, because otherwise, if that is what is going to handle my examination, I think I’ll pass, thank you!

Even in writing this article today, I am plagued by AI. Programs are all over the computer, offering writing assistance. They will write whole letters on various topics, which I guess makes me superfluous. But what’s annoying is that when I am writing, it starts second guessing what word I want to use next. I’ve become very petty about that. “No, AI, I am not going to use the word green; I’ll just make it blue instead!” I’ve sunk to the level of arguing with a computer! Even as we speak, there is a little symbol at the side of my copy, moving up and down with me and offering every couple of minutes to take over. Very creepy.

The thing I least like to do, though, is talk to an AI entity. I am not a logical person, and I object to talking to something I can’t gossip with or share a secret. Although that’s probably out there too, I just don’t want to think about it. I still remember the first time I encountered talking AI. I was in a bathroom. I washed my hands and threw the towel in the garbage. The garbage can said, “Thank you!” I don’t want to talk to my garbage can, but that might just be me!

I love Facebook, because of the connection with other people, but Facebook, based on the articles it presents, apparently knows that I’m older, nervously contemplating knee surgery and I love history. So, after everything is said and done, George Orwell was right. Big Brother really is watching!

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January 1, 2026 · 9:04 am

History Humiliation Game

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I am reminded this week of that old saying, “Sometimes I think I am smart enough to conquer the world, and other days I try to get out of the car without unhooking my seatbelt.”

Most of us, me included, would like to believe that we are at least of average intelligence. I can’t calculate the subversion of PI in my head or anything, but on most days, I can read a label or follow the weather report on television.

However, years ago, I stopped playing the board game known as Trivial Pursuit because I always felt stupid not being able to answer sports or science questions and even some of the history questions, which should have been easy for a history major like me, tripped me up because they were just too…well, too trivial!  I don’t know when binoculars were invented, but I know it was before the Titanic; everyone knows the ship sank because they didn’t have theirs! That should count for partial points, right? It didn’t!

My confidence in my own intelligence isn’t so great that I could take the blows caused by not knowing which of the planets is the hottest (hint here: it’s NOT Mercury) or who owns the Miami Dolphins (No hint here.) So, I put the Trivial Pursuit at the back of the closet and felt better about myself—living in my little false world!

Then, this Christmas, along came Trivial Pursuit – History Channel version. Now I will admit that I only actually heard Trivial Pursuit “History” and all my old bias against Trivial Pursuit collapsed. I am a historian, let me show you how brilliant I am!

Except that Trivial Pursuit is Trivial Pursuit and after I nagged everyone to play, I discovered that it contained the history of Culture, People, Geography, Science and SPORTS. Oh lord, just shoot me now…into the rough…miles from the putting green. (See, I know sports!)

So, I heard questions like: ‘What play is West Side Story based on?’ or ‘Which famous painter founded Impressionism?” Easy questions for me…except these were the questions other people got. When my turn came around, I got questions like ‘What is the most common element in the earth’s atmosphere (kids, stay awake in science class, I beg you) or, ‘In what decade was the Rugby Football Union formed in London?’ (Hint, the answer is not ‘Who gives a damn?’)

I protested, I shouted, I cried, but the questions kept on coming. I got the Culture category right away because I knew that Anne Frank nicknamed her diary Kitty. From there on out, it was a sea of sports trivia and me figuratively trying to get out of the car without unhooking my seatbelt!

I am positive the game was rigged: my daughter and son-in-law are neither one a sports fan. What were their questions? ‘What is the center of a target called?’ (In frustration, I shouted out a suggestion, but it was rejected and I can’t print it here.)

‘What does the NBA stand for?’ (I could have answered that one, but my son-in-law beat me to it.)

Now it was my turn. The question? “What substance do sumo wrestlers spread in the ring during a match?” (It wasn’t baby oil, what do I know about sumo wrestling?) and the one I finally fell on the sword for? ‘In cricket, how many runs are scored if the ball is hit over the boundary without bouncing?’

“National Basketball Association!” I shrieked. They all looked so sorry for me. But not as sorry as I felt for me!

I have only three things to add: 1) If you really want to try Trivial Pursuit and you don’t mind dumpster diving; you can have my game. 2) I made up the subversion of PI thing—I don’t really think that’s real. And 3) When did crickets start playing ball????

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December 26, 2025 · 3:48 pm

A Matter of Time

Photo by Andrey Grushnikov on Pexels.com

Jackie Wells-Fauth

My basement stairs were pretty dirty, so I finally hauled out the “big-guns” vacuum to take care of it. I was crawling down, hanging onto the railing with one hand and trying to manipulate the vacuum hose with the other.

Roy came along and watched me for a few minutes. We’re at the stage of our marriage where he doesn’t have to ask why I’m doing something—I’ll usually explain it. In fact, the more bizarre the thing I’m doing, the more likely that I will volunteer an explanation of why.

“I don’t want to fall on the basement steps,” I shouted over the noise. He nodded, that seemed reasonable.

“I could die, if I fell to the bottom, so I’m hanging on,” I continued. He nodded again.

“If I’m going to die, I don’t want to be vacuuming the basement stairs,” I concluded. This was as clear an explanation as possible, but now he looked puzzled.

I shut off the vacuum. This was an important point and I didn’t want him to miss it. “I read a book about ghosts. It said that if someone dies suddenly, they are likely to return as a ghost and keep doing whatever they were doing when they died.” He walked away shaking his head, but I am very serious.

It’s all a matter of timing. If I’m going suddenly, I want it to be from a massive systems failure while I’m stuffing myself with cookies and reading books. I could haunt a library or a sweets shop, but I’m not spending eternity sucking the cobwebs out of this stairwell!

I try to take the passage of time into consideration for a lot of things. I think it’s important to always be prepared. I love a smoothie in the morning. Therefore, I must always have a blender to make it. What if a morning dawned and my blender died? This would be unacceptable, so, in my closet, I have a brand new blender, still in the box, ready to go if my old one cashes it in mid-smoothie. It should be noted that along this line, I also have a brand-new microwave sitting on the shelves in the basement on the principle that someday, the microwave I have will cash it in. The “new” microwave is now officially four years old, but someday, it’s gonna come in handy! It’s just a matter of time.

Now, if you think my philosophy is a waste of time, you probably might have been joined by Roy in this thinking. It isn’t possible to plan for everything and sometimes, the timing is going to be off. However, I believe we might have made a believer out of Roy.

My morning is never complete without a cup of coffee. When I was teaching, the students knew that it was better to approach me with a problem after I’d had coffee. It’s all in the timing you see.

So, it was a bad moment for me when I managed to drop a cup (which didn’t  break) and shatter my coffee maker—the only one I have—on a late Saturday night. Where was my planning for time? Now, Sunday morning, I not only wouldn’t have a cup of coffee, but I’d have to wait until stores opened, to get a new coffee-maker. Why, oh why, did I not plan for this! What terrible timing!

I was in mid-meltdown over my loss of coffee time, when I looked up to see Roy standing in the doorway of the kitchen, with a sheepish grin and holding a brand new coffee maker. “Merry Christmas,” he said, handing it over to my astonishment.

Just like that, Roy understands my issues with timing. I don’t think he could have come up with a better moment to deliver my Christmas present than at the exact moment I needed a new coffee maker. Now that he understands that, I think I’ll go out and buy a new wash machine and dryer, just in case, and maybe I’ll get a new television as well…you never know!

And meanwhile, I am going to keep hanging out in tea shops and libraries, cause you know, it’s just a matter of time!

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