Another scam out there

 A month ago I got a letter from the Department of the Treasury saying that my social security benefits would be cut if I don't settle a medical debt before August 1st.  I figured it was not legit, so I threw it away.

This month, they persisted, another letter.  An itemized bill that included three different providers, but strangely 25 sessions with Joe, the physical therapist, all in the month of September 2022.

I called to check on it.  (Jan said never call these people!)

They wanted my social security number and a credit and my $955 payment immediately so as not so interrupt my social security benefits.  "I'll call my insurance company and check it out," I said--and she said, "no, don't call them.  They can't handle this kind of issue after 3 years." 

Jan has been researching scams and she assured me this fit the bill.  Blue Cross agreed.  

Just wanted to warn you.  

As Jan said, these scammers are getting more and more sophisticated and they have a lot of our data.  The three providers on their list are actual doctors of mine.And their letterhead and pages of legal words looked official.  

Suggested Reading if you're in the "second half of life."

Just back from the airport--delivered the Pritchetts to begin their two week summer trip to Greece and Italy, Nathan's graduation present.  He's always been interested in Greek and Roman history, and in particular the mythology and warfare of antiquity.  

I'm reading two  books this week:

The Fifth Season: Creativity in the Second Half of Life by Mark Nepo

Hagitude: Reimagining the Second Half of Life by Sharon Blackie

The subtitles and content of these two are almost identical.  Both well written. 

Earlier I included a third book with a promising title (The Creative Act), but it's going back.  

Making As Meditation (even, sometimes, medication!)

Decided last night to upgrade my world--by paying for ad-free You Tube.  What a difference--to watch tutorials without having to stop and watch AI-generated commercials for a salt-cure that will melt pounds away, presented by the magic of AI by a young Oprah.  Or so-called doctors advising you on gut health and gadgets galore.

Even if you never plan to bind a book, if you want a meditative experience right in your own bedroom, with or without a dog to cuddle, check out Mr. Agassi binding books.  In a beautiful Italian-looking book-bindery, this man--who grew up binding books with his father--has no frills, no music, no mass-produced tools.  His tools are as authentic as his teaching style: brass bars for weights (I use large soup cans); simple knives, and a genuine antique book press any book binder would almost-die for.

He takes his time.  No rushing, no speed-ups.  It's all done in real time.  You simple sit back and watch his hands do magic while he explains what he's doing.  A true master of book-craft, Ido Agassi is precise in every move, a generous teacher.

Sea Lemon is one of several Asian book-makers.  Their hands move like dancers.  They are not forever dropping the needle on the floor, as I am.  With soft music in the background, no words are necessary as you just watch the smooth movements of needles moving through beautiful paper until, voila!, a book is complete.

If you're feeling stressed or exhausted by news and noise and traffic, watching book-makers make books is great medicine!

Monday Night

I should go to bed.  It's almost midnight. 

But there is so much to do still!  It's been one of those happy place days.

Charlotte and Kate and I had a little potluck brunch at Janet's to have one more chance to be together before Janet gets the call that her first grand baby is here, to welcome her into the club of grandmothers.  I would post a picture, but my blog is still not posting pictures for some reason.  

Day will fix it when she gets time.

I've been struggling with a tech problem for weeks--not knowing how to put printed words in a handmade book.  I emailed the heads of the Handmade Book Club and they didn't know how either.  Just when I was about to give up, Day called and made me a template on Google Docs (don't know what that is) and sent me instructions and templates in five minutes!

My brilliant daughter can fix anything!  

She's going back to teaching this year, so excited to be back with students after being an academic coach.  Soaking up every minute of making things before school starts, she's made a model of her glass shack, an actual architectural model!  I couldn't do that for any price.  

She's also into painting shoes and adding embroidery to an old chair. Here I really wish I could send you pictures--two pair of tennis shoes transformed into delightful colorful shoes!

So I went to the quilt shop and got some Pellon to make some more book cloth, then came home and made some book covers out of a plaid skirt I'd bought at Boysville.  I'll send you a picture when Day fixes the bug in my blog.

Then we joined Jan and Carma for our nightly walk.  I'm over-the-moon grateful that I can walk without pain.  It's changed my life!

So closing in on sleep, of course, I watched reel after reel of Dachshund and Corgi videos--while my actual Dachshund-Corgi-whatever burrowed under the covers.  I added a new reel category, one called The Asher House, a series of films about a man who adopts hopeless dogs and turns them into healthy animals again, the kind of stories you cannot possibly watch without tears. 

When Luci saw me get up to write this, she asked if she could go outside. 

"Sweet Darkness"--a poem by David Whyte--came to mind.  How this girl loves going outside in the dark, fearless and brave, being a wild thing!   The night is her time to run and pounce and growl at imagined trespassers.  The night is her time to return to her roots, to do the things of her unknown ancestors, not governed by rules or domestication, out of sight of all humans.

When she comes back in, hoping with all her heart for a slice of turkey, I can tell she wants to tell me what she met out there. 

Nothing can lighten the load of the world's unspeakably grim news than the company of a little dog who lives entirely in the moment.  To watch an animal being its pure self, never holding a grudge against its people, or to watch a good man love one back to life no matter how long it takes--these are  reminders of the goodness we have to do everything in our power to be sure comes out on top. 

Playing School

A sandbox could be a house, roots on the dirt, a sheet draped over chairs or a table.  Any enclosure.  

Populated by dolls, a house could be a family. 

If playing house with a friend, we might say, "You be the daddy, I'll be the mommy."  

I've never quit playing house.  I love cleaning it, organizing it, changing the arrangement and decor.  

The very shapes of houses intrigue me.  I have quite a collection of miniature houses found on road trips and craft shows and flea markets, even one small pink house I found in Venice. 

After and while playing house, we played school.  "You be the teacher, I'll be the student." If you were lucky enough to be the teacher, you got to tell the student what to do. You were lucky if your student happened to be a younger brother who thought you were smart. 

I loved school.  Organizing school supplies and taking notes.  Learning for the sake of learning. Making good grades. 

In second grade--because my mind wandered during arithmetic, my teacher told my parents I'd grow up to be a writer.  It gave me a goal.  It set me on a course of reading, keeping a diary,  and making up stories.   

"When the student is ready, the teacher will appear." 

I've had mediocre teachers, a few terrible ones, and too many excellent ones to count--sometimes in school. 

Life is a teacher; mistakes are teachers; accomplishment and mastery are teachers.  

My best classroom teachers were professors in graduate school--in part because they were exceptional, in part because at 32,  I was a sponge hungry for learning. 

Today, I play school.  After making a career of schooling (teaching sixth grade to college) and then leading writing groups for years, I'm now taking a class in making blank books.  The variety of types of books!  I never knew there were so many ways to fold and stitch and glue papers.  

I turn off my phone most mornings.  I need focus and quiet to concentrate on the plan for the day.  It's so satisfying to set my own goals and find exactly the teachers I'm looking for.  

It's a bit like kindergarten, too--as naps are factored in as needed! 

The beauty of septuagenarian school is that you get to be both teacher and student, and nothing is more fun than homework--which is quite a lot like continual recess with no bells. 

Love my neighborhood!

After another almost all-nighter as a rookie book-maker, Luci and I got a late start walking.  On our walk, we met potential friends and one dog even smaller than Luci. 

I love my neighborhood!  

No matter what our yard signs may have said during voting season, we are all united around the death of little Kellyanne.  

Eva and George have spent the week doing recovery at the Guadalupe.

Tyler and his girlfriend moved into a corner house two days ago, catty-cornered across from Kellyanne's family.

Phil and Patty have an adorable little silky terrier named Lily.   

Another Phil, an immigration lawyer, with a dog named Marfa.  

Also ran into Nathan who works for ESPN--and who communicates regularly with my Marcus for whom that is a dream career.  One of his daughters was in third grade with Kellyanne. 

When I first met Nathan two years ago, and when I learned that he works for ESPN, I asked him for a favor--to reach out to Marcus and talk sports.  He did and they do!

Best of all, of course, Jan next door and her family visiting from Austin. Last night I was the lucky recipient of the best chalupa ever made by Jan and a watermelon pizza slice made by Makken--a triangular slice of melon topped with green yogurt with blueberry eyes on its face. 

Good people all around!

When I come home, I write down their names and addresses to help me remember.  

Book Binding Hours

 Last night I lay down around 11, intending to sleep like normal people do.  But around midnight I woke up and remembered the book that was frustrating me to pieces!

This little book starts out with a large sheet of good paper, and collaging  all over it, then cutting it into signatures.  After making a cover (gluing handmade paper onto book boards), I thread SIX needles and follow the instructions for stitching them together.  

A few years ago I might have thrown it all in the trash, but now I am persistent.  I don't stop until a book emerges.  At 2:00 in the morning, with no phone ringing, no dog wanting in or out, this baby of a book was born!  It wasn't actually finished until about six this morning, but the link stitch finally made sense.  

The book I now hold it my hand is an imperfect treasure, and I will soon make another while muscle memory serves me. 

As the elder I now unquestionably am, I've learned that the hours of the night are my most productive, even sometimes exhilarating.  When Luci emerges from her burrow under the covers, I say, "Hey, Luci, look at this!"

She's not impressed.  Few, if any, humans would be impressed.  But what I do these days is not contingent on anyone's being impressed; it's all about the process of learning so many things in one tiny structure.  The Ethiopian stitch that connects the pages to the cover; practice with thread tension; what kind of paper works best; and keeping six needles in play from cover to spine!

The temptation is to go to the thrift store and pick up some more vintage books for my upcoming project of turning an old book into a new book.  Or the art supply store to get a chisel.  Or organizing my art supplies and cleaning off the dining table.

All the tempting distractions are almost as much fun as making an actual book, but on this Saturday morning--after I go back to sleep for a bit--I'm resolutely avoiding them and preparing to start a very different book.  

Luci--probably, a Dachshund Corgi mix, is a funny little creature.  Having observed her for four and a half years, I've been intrigued with her desire to please and her penchant for healing.  So I'm now doing a little "research" on Facebook reels--which is how I've guesstimated her DNA.

I subscribed to two groups--Corgi Lovers and Dachshund Lovers--and they post the kind of videos that sometimes make me laugh out loud.  Except for the loud and frequent barking of those breeds. Luci combines so many traits of both. 

Like a  Doxie, she has stubby legs, a sausage body, and gives me the side-eye anytime my actions don't match her lofty expectations.  WHY don't you want to go to walk again or throw my toys?  WHY don't you see that that steak you're eating is my favorite thing?  WHY do you disturb my slumbers by getting up at night and playing with papers?  

Also, there's very little she can't reach by jumping, and her 14 pound furry self takes up three-fourths of my bed.  When I watch a movie in bed, she burrows deep under the covers. Whether I'm gone for two minutes or two hours, she dances and jumps with delight when I come back.  Jan says that she frequently complains to her that I have abandoned her--again--but she doesn't hold it against me. 

Like both breeds, she's a fast runner.  But her favorite activity is observing and getting love from friends and strangers.  

Her body shape may be Doxie, but her coloring is pure Corgi.  Her big fan tail comes from who knows where?  Some observers have seen strains of Papillon.

Meek.  Undemanding.  Opinionated. Grooms herself like a cat.  Never asks for anything--unless you count the intense eye contact she gives me as she stands under the treat drawer. 

She understands English that applies to her.  "Do you want to go to walk?" sets off a routine of going to her toy basket, grabbing a celebratory toy, and running around the house in glee. 

Why, when I have the real deal, do I so enjoy these doggie reels so much?  Not just to explore her possible pedigree, though that's very entertaining.  Mainly because, while Luci's sleeping, I want more of her, or more like her.  If I had more energy, a bigger yard, and someone else to help, I'd get her one of those as a playmate, maybe two. 

She and Carma love each other in their way, but their personalities are very different.  Carma is exuberance personnified--or doggie-fied. Her tail is a wonder to watch, a veritable windmill of pleasure. 

Carma has one speed: full on joy in motion.  

Luci is moodier.  Maybe just the tiniest bit neurotic in her separation anxiety.  

Carma eats anything--and I mean ANY thing.  Luci is a delicate picky eater who turns up not only her nose but her whole head when she loudly resorts to chomping kibble if nothing better is forthcoming.  As she chomps--that's when I get a certain disapproving look.  "You have no idea how much I hate this food!" 

Today we stopped in at the Green Door Thrift Shop.  I could hear the clerks saying to each other, "Luci's here!" and then they all gathered around.  One picked her up and put her on the counter.  For about 20 minutes, two 80-something regulars pet her and hugged her and cooed like little girls getting to pet a puppy.   No wonder Luci likes thrift shopping! 

"Everybody's Girl"

Walking past the house of Kellyanne's family, Jan and I noticed that large green bows had been wrapped around the trunks of trees in their yard and in the community garden across the street--a take on the "yellow ribbons around the old oak tree." 

We'd just heard from two sources that two of the eleven still-missing girls had been found in a tree in Comfort, miles from the camp--a story we were about to learn wasn't true.  Improbable as it was, we were so hopeful for those few minutes. We could picture the family coming home intact, seeing the neighborhood wrapped in Cambridge Elementary green.  

The two women (friends of Kellyanne's mother) were moving down the street, wrapping more trees. When they saw how moved we were by their project, they  gave us each a green plastic tablecloth from the Dollar Tree, so that we could wrap our own.  

Jan shared a comment a woman at her church had made: "Kellyanne is now our girl, our daughter, our granddaughter."  

What if she's safe? what if she comes home? what if we can now get to watch her grow up? 

 

She's everybody's girl. 

Every day in Gaza, in Ukraine, and in war-battered places all over the globe, children die, starve, disappear, and suffer in ways we can't even imagine. 

What if we had the capacity to feel that every one of those children are "ours"? 

No human mind is capacious enough to hold them all. But what if?  

When the worst  happens, it's human nature to imagine our daughters, our granddaughters, in the same peril. 

To see our girl's father on the news, searching desperately through rubble and saying, "She's got to be here!" how can we not weep?  He's one of us, he's our son, broken in the worst possible way. 

Two weeks ago, I passed a house I walk past every morning.  I'd never met the people who live there, but on that morning I watched a festive cluster of people outside taking pictures--parents and three little girls.

In each window of the van, a name was scrawled with shoe polish.  

The three girls were posing, each under the window with her name on it.  

I slowed my gait to watch the simple ordinary moments of a family getting ready to go someplace, three little girls dressed up like Easter morning, their parents calling their names.  Hurry up, nice, stand there, stand by your name.

I only remember one of the three names, Kellyanne. 

We exchanged no words, only smiles, but I kept thinking about them, as if storing the whole happy tableau for future reference.  

I would likely not have recalled any of this except for today's tragedy.

As I walked Luci late this afternoon, I spoke with a neighbor who told me more of what I already knew about yesterday's  flood that had caused the entire Camp Mystic to be evacuated.  "Over 700 girls had been camping at the church camp when the Guadalupe rose too fast for anyone to escape," he said.  

Jan had told me earlier that 23 little girls were still unaccounted for, and one of them lives on our street.  Her first name--Kellyanne. 

If I am this gutted after only seeing Kellyanne that one morning, I can't even imagine the devastation of all who love her and are still holding out hope that she's alive.   Her young parents, her two little sisters.  Her teacher and classmates at the elementary school at the end of our street. 

The continuing rain today, the grey skies, Mother Earth weeping.

Little baby gratitudes

I believe that what most people want is to have someone value whatever it is we have to give. 

If it's food, we want those we share it with to love it.  Same with flowers, a scarf,  or even a story we have to tell. 

While we can't fake it, (sometimes what another has to give isn't our cup of tea), we'd all do well to find at least a kernel of delicious or good or worthy in the gifts we are given from other people.

But we're maybe too tired to remember to tell the giver that we liked.....fill-in-the-blank.  The dinner, the pie, the story, the song.  

Years ago, traveling to Georgia, I left my car unlocked with my pocket book in it--just to look at something a few steps away.  I don't remember what.  

I saw a kiosk, a black woman inside selling cokes, and realized I was thirsty.  And so I ordered one, only to realize that I had no money on me.

"No problem," she said,  "I'm giving it to you."

I protested--my car was just there, I could go get a dollar, be right back.

She looked at me with a look of mock-reproach and said, "Girl, don't take away my blessing!"

My good fortune was to find a drink, but her good fortune, or blessing, was the joy of giving something away.  I should have said--and ultimately did say--just "Thank you!"

"Corruption, Cruelty, and Chaos" Joaquin Jefferies, July 3, 2025

The passing of Trump's Big Ugly Bill undermines the best of America and will cost millions of lives worldwide, but what does he care?  Americans picked a creepy reality show guy who doesn't give a damn. Even most legislators who privately claim not to like it voted for it for fear of losing their Big Ugly Jobs and Big Ugly Money. 

I used to be goosebump patriotic.  Not for the bombs bursting in air part, but for the amber waves of grain part.  

I used to be religious.  Not the fear of hell part but the love and generosity part. 

Today I can't align my deepest values with the kind of religion co-opted by the most fundamentalist branches. (I am glad to have grown up in church before it married nationalistic and self-serving patriotism.)  July 4th rah-rah doesn't do anything for me since Trump happened. I'm embarrassed that our country has sunk so low in the eyes of the world. 

The religious right today (not all religious people by any means, but the loudest of them) are doing everything they can to shove their evangelical beliefs down the throats of the country, posting The Ten Commandments in classrooms while withholding food from needy children in those classrooms.  

The very word, patriotic rankles, suggesting a loyalty to the "father" land.  I deeply love this country for its beauty and its potential, but until it's true, I can't say the words "liberty and justice for all."   

This Maga-Mega-Bill may be the most disgusting move yet--though it's hard to rank Worst in Nothing But Ugly when there's something new and cringeworthy every single day.  

The Trump Supreme Court, the Trump cabinet, the Trump Republicans in Congress, the Trump voters--all are culpable :

Withholding funds for food and medicine from people who won't survive without it.

Dumbing down education.

Ripping away reproductive freedoms.

Appointing and electing criminals--including the recent Justice department appointment of one of those convicted, then pardoned, for January 6th. 

Privileging the already privileged and impoverishing the already impoverished.  

Closing of rural hospitals and clinics.

Refusing to continue to provide life-saving vaccinations and AIDS medicines to those who need them.

Dismantling USAID--which has been doing good work for 60 years.

ICE agents attacking innocent people at their jobs to deport them. 

The damage of this Big Ugly Bill will be felt for generations--and all of this will flow from the Big Ugly Magic Marker of the current president of the United States.