New Tool in the War Against Robocallers and Phone Scammers

I'm not posting this as an advertisement. I'm posting this as sweet revenge against telemarketing scammers (TMs) and robocallers. And there's something new that's FREE. Since I work at home writing, researching, and catching up on your latest Facebook news, interruptions from illegal TMs have driven me crazy, despite being on the Do-No-Call (DNC) list. Now they're starting to call cell phones, so dropping the landline is not an answer. TMs ignore the DNC and use fake caller ID numbers.

 

I've tried taking advantage of Verizon's call management to block specific numbers from TMs and annoying "surveyors." I posted a complaint on Verizon's community bulletin board, which, at the time, they only allowed up to 10 blocked numbers, a very silly limit with millions of illegal scam calls out there. There was a storm of agreement in public comments. Soon afterwards, they raised the limit to 100 numbers. Using that, aside from wasting my time, cut the number of robocalls in half, but it did not stop them. They change their fake numbers frequently.

The federal government has received hundreds of thousands of complaints over violations of the DNC. So, they sponsored a contest to reward the first company to come up with a better idea using technology. The winner was this company, Nomorobo. Dozens of landline, wireless, and internet phone companies are participating, including Verizon, AT&T, Xfinity, Skype, etc. And the great thing is, it's free. It should be. The phone companies have failed to stop TMs.

I installed Nomorobo this morning. It's easy if you can access your phone management on the web. I tested it and I'm ready to see what happens. I'll let you know in a couple of weeks how it's working.

A Caution Against the Stumbling Stone

    I have a cautionary tale, especially for writers who store their creative works on their computers. I'd like nothing more than to cover up my failure so that no one ever knows what an idiot I am today. However, Kahlil Gibran had something to say about this in his literary masterpiece, The Prophet. He wrote:
  
   And when one falls down, he falls down for those behind him, a  caution against the stumbling stone.
    Ay, and he who falls down for those ahead of him, who though faster and surer of foot, yet removed not the stumbling stone.

 So indeed, I did stumble. The tripping stone was my system of backups for my novel. I had decided to rewrite some chapters, or, at least, rework the narrative and dialogue. I had a very productive three weeks and felt I had greatly improved my story. Of course, I do save my files frequently; I have the latest virus and system check software; back up my files to three external hard drives; and keep a copy in the Cloud. The day will come when my computer displays the blue screen of death and I want to be prepared.

However, I got so busy and involved with my work, three weeks slipped by without an external save. Of course, I was clicking on "Save" to update my Word file. My stumble did not come from a crashing computer. In my decades of writing, since the first day I had access to a computer, through countless magazine columns, blogs, letters to the editor, love letters, nonfiction books, short stories, and a trilogy of novels, I had never made the mistake I made over the weekend.

 When I took action to save my files to my external drive, I copied what I thought was the latest changes on the book to overwrite the old external backup. Instead, I copied the old file to overwrite the new file. What a stupid screw up! I know how it happened, but the details aren't important.

Somehow the screens got switched. The file directories at the top of the screen do not specify which is my C: directory on my computer and which is the E: directory of the external harddrive. Afterwards, I looked at the dates of the external directories and compared it with the file dates of the dates on my pc. Why were they both the same and three weeks old? They should have had the date of the previous day.

 After I gasped for breath, suppressed a scream, and withheld a string of profanities, I did what any writer should do--I panicked! I tried every method I could think of from my experience with computers to undo the mistake. Word is supposed to save automatic restore points. At least two weeks of the mistake were mercifully recovered from the restore point, but there were still consequences for my stupidity. Word should be automatically making recover copies more frequently, but for some reason it didn't. No one in the Microsoft community could explain why that feature is not working, other than I am using an old version of Word that has otherwise worked fine for me.

 Here I sit with thousands of words and a good number of work hours shot to hell. I will have to start over with the chapter rewrites. At this moment I'm sympathizing more with Hemingway being driven to drink. I guess you could say I had a bad day. I'll get it back and somehow find the creativity to reboot, but not today. Properly self-flogged, I will just move forward on Monday. Carol says she had a similar problem losing an entire short story, but her rewrite ended up being published. Knock on wood (my head, for example) that my new rewrite will be better than the last.

 So, authors, screenwriters, composers, artists, and photographers, heed my cautionary tale. There are 50 ways you can screw up your latest creative work. This is just one of them. Make sure your backups are fail safe.

 

The Tragic Death of Margaret McQuade Bunyon

 152 West 124th Street, Harlem, NYC (behind tree), 

where Margaret McQuade Bunyon died at age 27.

Often, stories to be told can originate from within your own family. Novelists often borrow from their families and friends to create characters and stories. For years, I've been looking for traces of information about my mother's Irish branch of the family that settled in New York City in the late 1800s. It's not easy to sort out vital records in America’s most populated city. Little or nothing found its way to the pages of Manhattan newspapers. There were just too many people a century ago. You had to be wealthy or notorious to be deemed worthy of so much as an obituary. My family was neither and a chance at wealth was passed up in the name of love. My McQuade and Bunyon ancestors were just immigrants struggling to make a living in Irish Harlem at a time when Irish Catholics were not welcomed everywhere. 

This was 126th St. at 7th Ave, NYC,  in 1910, two blocks from the apartment building where 

Joseph and Margaret (McQuade) Bunyon lived with my grandmother Helen until she was 7.

In 1919, my protestant grandfather, Fred J. Davis of Altoona, was recovering in a military hospital in New York City for months after being wounded twice on French battlefields during WWI, the second time a machine gun cut him down. He would have lost a leg had he not threatened the life of a surgeon who was all too eager to amputate. It was at the hospital in New York where he met and married my Catholic grandmother, Helen Bunyon. Helen was a young nurse, not yet 17 years old, helping seriously wounded soldiers transferred from Europe. When my grandfather awoke in the hospital, Helen was standing over him in her white uniform. My grandfather told my mother he thought he had died and Helen was an angel. She was very beautiful, with hair down to the middle of her back when it wasn’t tied up in a bun. I can’t even imagine the grief when my grandmother died in 1933 at age 30, of a staph infection following an operation for a thyroid tumor at an Altoona Hospital. In the middle of the Depression, after years of being denied benefits by the Veterans Bureau, and with five children, my grandfather loses the love of his life and the woman who brought him back to life following the war. Their love story is an excellent basis for a novel some day. 

They married soon after Davis was discharged from the hospital. To my Welsh Davis family, after five generations in Maryland and Pennsylvania, a Protestant marrying a Catholic was not a big deal. But, to native Irish Catholics, fleeing hunger and war with Protestants in Ireland, it was a very big deal. Helen's parents were both dead, her mother when she was 7 and her father before that. Helen's aunt, who raised Helen, according to family oral history, is said to have married into a family that owned a chain of jewelry stores around New York City. When Helen married my grandfather, she was disinherited. Love has a tradition in my family of coming before money and I’ve never sensed any bias against any religion in my family. In fact, few people know that I was confirmed in the Catholic Church, but it’s a long story as to why I am not a practicing Catholic. Perhaps if Helen had remained close to her family's religious beliefs, she wouldn't have married my grandfather. That would have erased everyone who followed—my mother, me, my children, grandchildren, etc. 

Because my grandmother died when my mother was 5 years old, repeating history her mother suffered as a child, much was lost in learning more about the Bunyons and McQuades. Then yesterday, after discovering the City of New York held family records in its archives, I received the 1910 death certificate of my great-grandmother, Margaret McQuade Bunyon after 20 years of searching. "Chronic Alcoholic Gastritis," the coroner concluded. She was 27 years old. What that means is, whether from stress, an infection, or excessive alcohol consumption, she most likely suffered a painful death from a bleeding ulcer. Life was tough in Harlem for a poor Irish immigrant mother raising a young child and trying to make ends meet. The circumstances of Margaret’s death were never known until this past week, so it was a shocking revelation as to how she died so young. In family history, I've learned not to judge or make comparisons to subsequent generations. I will never know what life was like in the context of early 20th century in an already crowded city and being an ethnicity among the unwanted. I see Margaret as family, just as if she was alive today. In a way, when we research our families, our ancestors do live again. For a writer, every document, clipping, photograph, or oral tradition is another chapter in their tale. Imagining the rest is left to our own ability to visualize the past as best we can. 

There is still little known about my great-grandfather, Joseph Bunyon. Oral tradition traces him back to the grandfather of John Bunyan (1628-1688), author of one of the most prolific books in history, The Pilgrim's Progress. Bunyan, a nonconformist and a writer, both personally familiar traits, encourage me to believe the link could be true. Like Bunyan, who was imprisoned in England for preaching the "wrong" religious doctrine, having the attitude we'd rather go to jail than compromise our principles, is intrinsic on all sides of my family tree. However, any connection has yet to be documented. That gap should be closed as soon as I find records on Joseph. My cousin believes she’s found records on Joseph. Joseph was in the Army during the Spanish American War and was discharged a month before he married my great-grandmother. The Bunyan family tree has been extensively researched over the centuries. Plugging in my branch to the right tree is yet to be done, but centuries of stories wait for confirmation. Finding Margaret’s grave will also be difficult. She was buried at Calvary in Queens, the primary cemetery for Catholics in 1910. There are three million burials at Calvary. Online grave finders list 67,000 Calvary burials, at most, but not my great-grandmother. 

Because Margaret’s death certificate recorded that she died at home, I now have the 1910 home address for her and my 7-year-old grandmother, Helen—152 West 124th Street, Manhattan. Most of New York City has been photographed by Google Maps. Sure enough, the original apartment building is still there. Today, it’s a five-story, rent-controlled co-op with a leaky roof and directly across the street from the loading entrance of the African American Studio Museum in Harlem. When I look up at that building, I don’t see just another meaningless, red brick building. I see the ghosts of my family locked in a struggle with life and tragedy. [see photos]

Praying to St. Julia Child

Yesterday felt as though there was bad mojo in the air. You know, on those days when I seem to drop everything and my day is like one foot nailed to the floor. No, I'm not losing it. I've been like that all my life. Most days are great, things go smoothly, and I feel like I accomplished something. But there are days once in a while when I feel like a complete bumbling fool.

When little annoying things go wrong for Carol or me, we can usually make troubles seem small by injecting a little humor and laughter into the moment. For example, picture me dumping my hot lunch yesterday--Salisbury steak, potatoes, gravy, cheesy covered broccoli and all--all over the floor, table, and my chair in the sun room. Carol and I giggled like school children as I cleaned up the mess. 

It's also helpful for me to recall classic moments in Carol's history, particularly one day early in our marriage. At the time, Carol was working in a bank, a job she hated, and one of her co-workers had gotten on her nerves. She held her bad day inside her and prepared dinner. She was opening a bag of uncooked rice when it accidentally tipped over and dumped its contents into a silverware drawer that was open. There it was a drawer full of rice. It might it as well as have been gunpowder. That's when the force of her bad day caused her to explode into the most unbelievable tirade of profanity and stomping feet I had ever seen. It wasn't really the rice in the drawer, it was that woman at work who made her day miserable. 

I had a good day, so I was able to weather the moment without reacting negatively. Instead I worked to calm her down sympathetically as she explained why she exploded. I sat her on a chair and in my best impression of her, reenacted exactly every moment of her outburst--stomping feet, fists flailing in the air, all while loudly repeating her profanity. The gamble paid off. She screamed with laughter. I love it when I'm her favorite comedian. Making her laugh at herself at that moment was priceless. We hugged each other and realized that we just didn't want the rest of our world to define our moods and let others get to us. 

Yesterday, after lunch, as Carol returned to teach her kindergarten class only a mile from here, I was responsible for cooking a whole chicken in the slow cooker for dinner--nicely seasoned with lemon, paprika, and rosemary. As it simmered for its scheduled six hours in the slow cooker, I continued away from the kitchen in the sun room, putting the finishing editing touches on my short story. Carol had a writing workshop class last evening, so having a nice dinner ready before she leaves the house is helpful for her schedule.

Thirty minutes before she was to arrive home, I checked on the chicken. WHAT THE HELL??!! The cooker was completely off. I had no idea what time it had turned off or why. So I did what any normal person would do. I panicked. Instead of a clock finish, I turned to the meat probe that comes with the cooker, inserted it into the chicken through the lid, set the heat setting to high, and to look for 180 degrees F., the recommended safe temperature to tell when chicken is done. The probe read out on the cooker was 140 degrees...just right for salmonella. When Carol arrived home after work, I reported my progress as the temperature read 152. I'm happy to report I was not beaten for my incompetence. lol. We decided to take a walk and laugh it off as I secretly prayed to St. Julia Child for a miracle. Twenty minutes later, we came back and the temp had reached 178. Yay! Two minutes later, it was done.

I had recovered from a bad day as soon as the sun set, like a hapless vampire whose powers are weakened by daylight. The chicken was delicious, by the way, and Carol's laughter with me instead of at me is appreciated. Oh, yeah, and the short story is ready for my editor.