How Would You Like Some Free Life Insurance?

How Would You Like Some Free Life Insurance?

 

                    The Morning Mail

Here’s a letter from my bank that arrived today. They want to know if I’d like $1,000 of “free” life insurance.

I’m not biting.

The reason is - I'm wise to this. The payoff likely requires an actual dismemberment while on a “common carrier.”

FYI: My car would be “un-common.” 

So - if I ever called to collect - I'd expect a scenario something like this:

                This Call may be Monitored.

“Hello.” That’s the live operator after I’ve gone through 30 minutes of automatic menu options and having been told that “this call may be monitored.”

Seriously?

OK, me talking now  - “Yes, hi, I’m calling because I recently lost an arm when my driver side power window squeezed and then sliced into my bicep as I was riding through town trying to impersonate a cool guy from the 1950s and I accidently pressed  or leaned against the up-button.”

Insurance official - “Was your car leased from either a major airline or a bus company or were you by any chance traveling through the Large Hadron Collider(LHC)?

Me - “Well I own the car. Plus we rolled down windows in the '50s, ... so ...”

Official - or maybe I've been switched to a Recording - “I’m sorry I do not understand. 

In a few words, can you tell me the reason for your call."  

Me again - Huh? Wait – who is that talking?  Is this a recording?  Am I cut off?

Recording - “To repeat the menu options press 9.”

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

So it goes.

            Am I on the FBI's List

 

Yes, truth be told, I actually fell for the old “free insurance” scam thirty years ago. But I discovered it just recently while inquiring about a $2.50 monthly charge on my bank statement.

It's was a bright fall day and I was at the bank, with time to spare.

Here are the details:
After asking to speak with someone I'm directed to a sitting area. Minutes go by. Finally an officer approaches.

"How can I help you," he says. 

"Could you tell me what this is?" I say, pointing to the $2.50 charge on my statement.

The officer takes the statement, walks back to his office. "Come in," he says. He sits at his desk and keys information into the computer.

He raises his eye toward me. “That’s accidental death or dismemberment insurance,” he says.    

“What?”

“Accidental death or …”

“Yes I know, but how did I get that?”

He goes back to the keyboard, keys in more data.

Approximately thirty minutes (OK fifteen) pass here. The whole time, the bank officer stares at his computer screen, typing what I imagine are updates to bad marks on my record. The look on his face varies – from sternness, to abject dumbfounded-ness to … Whoa!!! You’re telling me that this man is number 1 on the FBI’s most wanted schizophrenic list?

I wait patiently. Time to spare today.

Finally I'm told, “You bought the coverage in 1981, from Chatham Town Bank.”

I snicker. The year now is 2011. 

                 Thirty-Seven Banks Ago

He mentions Chatham Town Bank because he knows that was thirty-seven banks ago and any guilt on his part comes under the seventeenth century invasion-of-America-law-rule, which means: Long ago. Does not count! Not it!

Something like that.

My memory comes back. I remember being offered free insurance – yes – it was back around the time of the Declaration of Independence, but today, being a modern day sear of sorts, I put two and two together. Centuries may pass but bank account numbers remain, so that free insurance I got? 

 

It was, in fact, free, but for three months only. After that a $2.50 per month deduction kicks in. That's $30.00 a year, $300.00 a decade, for a total of $900.00 for three decades which is the amount that I have paid to insure myself against the equivalent of death from collisions in the LHC (Large Hadron Collider).

Darn!!!

My Novel

My Novel

A few years ago I bought a real basketball goal - weighted base support, stanchion-pole, backboard, rim, and net. It's the kind that is currently a requisite in every kid's driveway across America. I bought it for Emma, Eddie and Johnnie. At the time I was concerned that the project was a bit premature as Emma, the oldest, was but six. Then there's Ed at four and John, one-plus.

Not exactly a dribble-ready crew.

But I got it anyway – Grandpas can’t wait. Then I lugged it home and worked from noon until dark, struggling mightily to bolt it together. Still I didn't come close to finishing that first day.

As usual, I became concerned that I was spending all of this time, the whole day, and now a second day, on the BB project. I had so many other things to do. Then I thought about it. If this was my last day on earth what would I have rather done - put up the basketball rim and backboard or pretend to write the great American novel?

I’d take the former. That's my novel.

Such is life for me, a blessing.

. 

I recognize the blessing of children, as giving meaning to one's life, but what about those without children? I have to think that they can still find as strong a love, but then I'm not in their shoes. Truthfully, I don't know. What I do know is that love for one’s children is a unique blessing in that it reveals love in the ideal, unrequited form, and it’s forever – unconditional. 

 
As for a basketball goal at my own home, not the grandchildren's, I searched the town for a bushel basket, which I found at the plant store. I strapped it with bungee cords to the tree out front bordering the street, thereby re-creating an original "basket" goal from the “birth of basketball” era. I tossed a light weight ball to Ed and Emma and watched them dribble around and take various shots. It brought a smile to my face and a feeling of real accomplishment.

Call it my second novel - or short story maybe?