Category Archives: Current events

How I Got Scammed

Posted on by
10

No excuses, but it was early and I was just beginning my coffee. I was checking my mail, my social feed. Checking to see what was new, and then I saw a post about an investment project by none other than Mark Carney, whom I happen to respect. Now I will admit that I skimmed rather than read it carefully, that my mind had immediately thought war or savings bonds, that type of thing, and what a good idea, thought I, and since I’ve been feeling especially patriotic in the last months on account of you-know-who (haven’t we all?) I clicked, and long story short, I was led to believe it was exactly as I’d supposed. And before I knew it I had joined the club and given my credit card number in the amount of $250 (U.S. I noticed later). I was passed from one person to another to “Patrick”, my personal minder, I guess you could call him. As soon as I gave up my number, I got a cell ping from my credit card company with a warning, and there were a few other red lights flashing by now, but to every fear and/or objection I raised came assurances as smooth and confident as maple syrup.

When “Patrick” asked my name, he exclaimed that, wow, his wife had just read my book, something about a hidden thing, right, an Amish story, right? “Mennonite” I said, still quite friendly, even though I was beginning, yes, to have doubts about everything. Half my brain told me he had simply googled my name and come up with this information, but the other half was, I’ll be honest, flattered, even kind of excited at this amazing coincidence, because his wife thought it was such a great book; she simply loved it! And somewhere along the way I must also have indicated that it wasn’t greed for returns that motivated me but patriotic idealism, for I had enough to live on, and by this time, I can also assume in retrospect, he calculated my age and thus knew I had some money in the bank. Worth fishing for.

Long story short, as I say, I did realize I’d been hooked for something that wasn’t what I thought it was, and now it was too late to get out of the credit card transaction. Shortly after, I wrote and said I’d felt pressured, I wanted out immediately. With apologies and cheer I was informed that yes, of course, they hadn’t meant that at all, and the next day I would find my deposit returned in full along with what I had already gained in one day. Which was truly there the next morning, with $100 “earned” on my “investment.” Wow, good returns, eh? But by now I knew they were just upping the bait. At any rate, I locked my credit card (and later cancelled it).

When “Patrick” said he would call the next day, I said he should do so at 11 a.m. I arranged to go over to my son’s place for that time (he was working at home). Ashamed, embarrassed, I explained the situation. He confirmed its scam-ishness. Then the phone rang. “Patrick.” I said Hello and handed the phone to my son. He gave “Patrick” a thorough scolding, for leading his mother along and all that. If he exaggerated my capacity (lack of, that is) a little, so be it; his vigorous defence of me felt good.

Although it ended well enough, there was still the mess to clean up. Once the transaction moved from “pending” to paid I did the dispute process,.The credit card assistant reminded me that I had freely given my number, but fortunately the transaction was successfully reversed. It may seem that I scammed the scammers, for technically I got back all I gave and more, but it’s not quite true, for my bank has bracketed that transfer and it will be investigated by their fraud department, so neither the bank nor I will be liable for receiving fraudulent funds. And it was such a huge hassle, cancelling my credit card, changing all my passwords, taking various other precautions, and my stomach was in turmoil for a couple of days until I felt innerly strong again.

I asked my son not to tell anyone about his mother’s foolishness and he agreed, but several days later he said, “Actually, you should talk about it.” He’s right. So I took his advice and have been compelled, like the penitential Ancient Mariner, to tell my tale to others. Sharing such stories and one’s vulnerabilities can be a mutual education. In the process I’ve heard of others’ follies and gained from their lessons.

But now I’ve told “the world” on my weblog so maybe it’s enough.

Otherwise I’m having a lovely summer, being extra careful on all fronts, no impulsive clicking, and the local hydrangea flowers are at their most glorious and the blackberries are a-ripening.

Living in this moment

Posted on by
14

This year, I’ve resolved to show up here at least once a month, say that I’m still alive, what’s on my mind and all that. I am alive, reasonably so thanks, and what’s much on my mind is this moment. “This moment” is often used to particularly position ourselves — right now I’m sitting at my round table in the living room, the sky is grey, moving branches tell me there’s wind, I’m talking via a blog post, getting a little hungry since it’s near noon, for example — but more recently it has come to mean the situation we collectively find ourselves in because of what’s happening in Washington D.C., in Ukraine/Europe, in Gaza/Israel, in tariffs/Canada. Say “in this moment” and most everyone knows exactly what is meant without further elaboration.

I confess that I engage a lot, perhaps more than I should, eyes on what’s there, sometimes reacting, looking for hope. Honestly, I’m afraid. For the future. For the world on multiple fronts. It takes some wilful energy these days to keep strategizing my inner position and, especially, talking back to my fear, or better said, letting scripture and wise people, past or present, talk back to it. I ask myself, is there something I can do about it? I can shop Canadian and possibly add my name or body to a protest or write a letter to an official, speak up or affirm someone else with a “like”. Generally, however, for those bigger problems there’s next to nothing I can do except pray (yes, as a way of pleading on behalf of others, as a way of turning to Power greater than myself). No, generally there isn’t much except keep alert to the macro but live in the present, in the micro level, where my feet happen to be.

A kind of grief as well

I’ve been noticing in conversations with people in my generational cohort (so-called Baby Boomers) that, for us, there’s a kind of grief in this moment as well. Unbeknownst to us, we entered the world after the end of the Second World War. With the war over, it was a buoyant time, one in which we benefitted economically and educationally. We eventually learned what preceded us, of course, we read Anne Frank and Elie Wiesel and Victor Frankl. We read fiction and non-fiction about what had happened, we saw TV and movies, we visited places like Auschwitz and Mauthausen when we travelled, and, speaking for myself, the horrors of the Nazi regime and the Holocaust lodged deeply within and I truly believed “never again.” Actually, again speaking for myself, I could not grasp how it happened even though I knew, for a fact, that it had.

And, although Boomers have been accused of trying to be young forever and making everything about themselves, many participated in and pushed for progress in the women’s liberation movement and the civil rights movement and the anti-war movement and the LGBTQ movement and anti-acid-rain. There was progress. Much, much more to be done, yes, for sure, but what is so grievous and troubling now is that far from moving forward on human rights issues and the propagation of democracy, even those past hard-won advances seem to be in jeopardy. Naively, I suppose, we figured the momentum of our decades on earth would continue to be forward. We’re realizing instead that a great big pendulum seems to be swinging back, that people in the western world are bitterly divided, that horrors can happen again, are still happening again, not to mention the onward march of climate change. So there’s disappointment layered into our reactions to this moment.

The necessary “but”

So this, I guess, is where I should take a turn and say “but.” There are buts, even if I refuse to speak them in caps; there are good things too, and there’s hope, and I’m grateful. Pulling this moment into the personal particular present I see, at this very moment, a gleaming part in the clouds and I stopped to have lunch and it was delicious and since I made enough Spanish rice to last for one meal of it every day this week (that’s how I cook nowadays) I’m set for more deliciousness and there are friends and family, books, music, jigsaw puzzles. Prayers to pray, enough things to do where my feet happen to be.

Waiting

Posted on by

I sit on a log at the bay, seek words for a strange and unexpected time. I’ve resisted words until now, words on paper, that is, — real or virtual — for there are many words already. Into a new kind of silence, a constant bustle of noise. It’s like everyone is talking at once. News, zoom meetings, invitations to Ted talks and re-configured choirs and spoken poems, virtual museums to visit, prompts for writing, prompts for art, tips for productivity, soothing reminders that productivity is not required. Words for information, words for grief and uncertainty and craziness.

The daily cacophony of pot-banging and honking and shouting at 7 p.m. seems about the truest we can do, word-wise. And the constant true refrain: we’re in it together.

Except that this is hard to believe. We can’t touch. We veer away from others’ breath. We’re in it together, we say, but each of us is keenly, separately Body now and our individual skin aches for contact and disbelieves assurances of together.

The tide is out. There are people on the mud flats. Putting floaters into distant water. Walking dogs. Everyone careful in their social-distancing zone. I step on to the flats, walk water-ward too. I have new shoes, grey Skechers with pink laces, blissfully comfortable, no breaking-in necessary, and then I notice their imprint in wet black sand and suddenly I notice many marks of other shoes. (Bare feet too). Crisscrosses, vertical lines, circles. Each brand unique. Who knew the underside of shoes had such variety? For a while I am thoroughly absorbed in the moment.

But eventually one needs to find language for the moments we’re in.

Waiting, that’s the word. That’s the sum of it. No wonder it’s hard to read or write with any kind of focus. The kind of waiting you undergo in a waiting room, like maybe the doctor’s office, some place where you have an appointment and you pick up a magazine and browse, listlessly, for you can’t concentrate, you’re alert to your name being called and everything is running late and it’s a watchful waiting laced with anxiety.

For about a week, I wasn’t well. I was afraid then. The inspiration of well people irritated me then. In my fear I wondered what I needed to still do or say. Just in case. Do: nothing. Say: a note in my journal to my children and grandchildren. I’m halfway embarrassed about it now, halfway ashamed. I was tested for Covid. The test was negative. In retrospect, I had an ordinary flu, an ordinary migraine. This time is strange and unexpected and I couldn’t see my ill-health clearly for what it merely was. I was continuously conscious of my breath. All I needed was air in my lungs, and I had it, but what if I lost it?

I’m surprised now how desperate I was over the possibility of not having it. Haven’t I considered myself a person of equanimity?

Waiting. It’s not the present that disappears, but the future. The main question on our lips is when?

C98DFCF3-3910-4E3A-AF6E-FC84E4C107A9_1_201_a

With the granddaughter. Before Covid.

The nine-year-old granddaughter texts: “COVID-19 is a nightmare, it is the worst thing in the world I’ve ever heard of. [Weeping emoji] But I’m somehow surviving it all. [A cluster of happier emojis.]” In her short world, definitely the worst. No school, no playdates. Yes, I say to her, the worst thing in the world.

But I’ve lived longer. I make myself read, make myself think into the past. If the future is failing us, or the assumption, at least, that the future is ours for the taking, perhaps I can be wiser, more robust, about the past. I read Katherine Anne Porter’s novella Pale Horse, Pale Rider, set in the time of the terrible influenza plague after the First World War. I finally read Steven Galloway’s The Cellist of Sarajevo, and think, that was worse, a siege so long, and hatred woven into it. Hatred and killing is worse. I have to find my reading among the unread books on my shelves, so I also finally read Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Buried Giant and I’m touched by the old couple Axl and Beatrice and their tender love and the courage it takes to remember. The courageous necessity to remember. 

The lives of we two in our apartment aren’t, ultimately, so very different than before. We haven’t lost jobs, don’t have a house lively with children to teach and console. Nevertheless, we’re in it, we too, even though our skin, scrubbed clean more often than ever before, aches and finds it hard to believe together.

I remember Holocaust survivor Victor Frankl’s words and they orient me: “It did not really matter what we expected from life, but rather what life expected from us.”

And these, encountered in an interview at Paris Review with Marilynne Robinson: “One thing that comes with the [religious] tradition is the idea that you’re always being posed a question: what does God want from this situation? It creates a kind of detachment, but it’s a detachment that brings perception rather than the absence of perception.”