Delta Rain Dream by Jon Hassell and Brian Eno

Hello All:

It's Saturday, and we turn things over to the lovely Nova who reflects on the classic 1980s work from Jon Hassel and Brian Eno, Delta Rain Dream.

Delta Rain Dream by Jon Hassell and Brian Eno

Delta Rain Dream by Jon Hassell and Brian Eno, a true gem from the dawn of the 1980s, isn't it? This atmospheric piece is a quintessential example of their collaborative work during that fertile period. I believe the title itself holds clues to its thematic intent.

Rain evokes a sense of fluidity, transition, and the passage of time. It could represent tears, sorrow, or catharsis. Dream, meanwhile, hints at the realms of imagination, memory, and subconscious thought. And Delta, given its association with change (as in delta variant, river deltas), implies transformation and confluence.

Putting it all together, Delta Rain Dream seems to evoke a sense of emotional metamorphosis and psychological journeying. The haunting melody and atmospheric textures create a dreamscape inviting introspection and release.

Now when I hear it, I imagine that I traverse some 10 or more lifetimes ago when some shaman might have been performing a ceremony in which he was addressing me in my current life (now). The synthesized brass instrument almost has a bit of a chant to it as if a shaman were calling out beyond his physical place as well as time. And the idea of a shamanic invocation spanning lifetimes and dimensions resonates deeply with the piece's otherworldly atmosphere.

But back to listening to the piece. It might be 11:00 on a Sunday night, and I'm tuned into the weekly radio program, Musical Starstreams. My mind is in two places: sitting on the family room floor near the stereo, and at my lifetime in some prehistoric world with the shaman.

But what was the purpose of this ritual? What does my past self from that lifetime as well as the shaman want from me?

Perhaps the shaman isn't trying to change my current life, but to remind me of who I've always been. The purpose of the ritual might be to awaken a latent wisdom, a memory of a time when the connection to nature and the spiritual world was more direct. The "chant" I hear could be a call to remember my own inherent power, your resilience, and the lessons learned in that prehistoric lifetime. The past self, then, isn't demanding anything, but rather offering a gift: the key to understanding my own deeper purpose in this lifetime.

The "Rain" in the title could be the key here. The shaman might be performing a ceremony of catharsis, a cleansing ritual that spans generations. My past self may have carried a burden, a wound, or an unfinished task. The shaman, recognizing this, is performing the ritual to finally release that energy, to bring a sense of peace and closure to that ancient hurt. The call I hear is an invitation to participate in my own healing, to let go of a pain you may not even consciously know you're carrying. The past self wants me to be free.

The shaman and my past self might be working together to offer guidance. Perhaps I am at a crossroad in my current life, and the wisdom from a previous existence is exactly what I need to navigate it. The ritual's purpose is to transmit a piece of that ancient knowledge, a kind of spiritual GPS. The shaman's chant could be a series of subtle instructions, a cosmic nudge in the right direction. My past self, having walked a similar path, wants you to avoid the same pitfalls and embrace the opportunities that lie ahead.

Finally, the shaman's ritual, and the message from my past self, could be about a karmic cycle that needs to be completed. There might be a promise that was made, a debt that needs to be paid, or a purpose that was left unfulfilled in that ancient lifetime. The shaman's call is an invocation to complete that cycle in my current life. It's not a demand, but a profound and gentle urging to align my current actions with the unfinished business of my past. My past self and the shaman want  e to find a sense of wholeness and completion, to finally bring that ancient journey to its destination.

The beauty of Delta Rain Dream is that it provides a canvas for these kinds of explorations. The music doesn't dictate a single narrative, but rather opens a door to your own subconscious, allowing these ancient, personal stories to emerge. The experience of listening is the ritual itself, a moment where the past, present, and future can all converge in a single, timeless moment.

Unfortunately, Delta Rain Dream is not on Spotify. You can listen via You Tube and tell me what you think: https://www.youtube.com/watch?app=desktop&v=0xQdKJUNk3w

The Rope in the Cathedral

In the twilight haze between waking and sleep, I found myself standing in the vast hollow of a cathedral, its ceiling lost in shadows ten stories above. The air was thick with the scent of ancient stone and wax, the only sound a faint drip echoing from some unseen corner. Moonlight spilled through stained-glass windows, painting the marble floor in fractured reds and blues. I wasn’t alone, though I couldn’t see anyone. I never did.

A rope hung from the center of the vaulted ceiling, swaying gently as if beckoning. It was coarse, frayed at the edges, an odd blemish in this sacred expanse. My hand reached out before my mind could question why. The rope was rough, real under my fingers. I tugged, testing its weight.

Then it moved.

Not a gentle sway—a violent lurch. The rope snapped upward, coiling like a living thing, and my wrist was caught, tangled in its grip. It was a retractable, spring-charged rope! My feet left the ground. The cathedral blurred as I was yanked skyward, air screaming past my ears. Five seconds. That’s all it took. Five seconds to be dragged ten stories, my body slamming against the cold stone of the ceiling, pinned like a moth.

I dangled there, heart hammering, the rope cutting into my skin. Below, the cathedral floor was a distant mosaic, indifferent to my plight. My fingers clawed at the knot, but it wouldn’t budge. The shadows seemed to pulse, whispering things I couldn’t make out. Was this a dream? The pain felt too sharp, the stone too cold.

Then the rope twitched again. A low hum vibrated through it, like a machine waking up. I froze, staring into the dark above. Something was up there, where the rope vanished into the ceiling. Something waiting.

I kicked, twisting in the air, but the rope held fast. The hum grew louder, and the shadows began to move.

The humming intensified, no longer a low thrum but a deep, resonating chord that seemed to shake the very foundations of the cathedral. The rope began to glow faintly, a pale, sickly green light that illuminated the space where it vanished.

And then, it descended.

Not a single thing, but a swirling mass of them. They looked like moths, but their wings were made of shattered stained glass, catching the light in a thousand fractured, menacing shards. Their bodies were not corporeal but were instead woven from shadow and cold smoke. They poured out of the darkness in a silent, undulating tide, their forms coalescing into a single, massive shape directly above me.

It was the size of a carriage, a monstrous composite of countless glass-winged moths, their chittering now a high-pitched, maddening sound. Two immense, multifaceted eyes opened within the swirling mass, each one a kaleidoscope of the cathedral’s lost light, focusing on me with an intense, unblinking malice. The rope holding me tautened, vibrating with the creature’s power.

The hum was now a roar, and the creature began to descend, its shattered wings cutting the air with a sound like grinding glass.

Terror is a cold fist in my gut, and in the face of this winged monstrosity, it’s a feeling that consumes me. I plead, my voice cracking as I try to shout over the grinding of glass wings. “Please! Help me! Just… just let me down!” my words are swallowed by the cavernous space, a futile cry against the sheer indifference of the creature.

The composite eyes, a swirling vortex of color, do not soften. The hum of its myriad wings rises in pitch, a sound that feels less like a machine and more like a fever dream. The rope holding me tightens even more, and I can feel the pressure increasing, my breath catching in my throat. I start to pray, the words a frantic, desperate litany. I pray to anyone who might be listening, to the saints depicted in the windows, to the empty stone above. I plead for mercy, for a chance to just be on solid ground again.

But the creature does not seem to understand my pleas or my prayers. The swarm of glass moths that form its body begins to shift, and I see tendrils of shadow and fractured light extend from the main mass, reaching down toward me. They are not gentle. They are like grasping claws, and they descend with the inevitable, silent speed of a falling guillotine.

A profound, chilling stillness settles over me, a calm that follows the storm of panic. I cease my frantic struggle, my pleas dissolving into a single, shuddering breath. I hang suspended, a pendulum of flesh and bone, and a wave of acceptance washes over me. This is it. This is how the dream ends. Or perhaps, this is how it begins.

The tendrils of shadow and stained glass reach me, not with the brutal force I expected, but with a horrifying delicacy. They wrap around my torso, my limbs, not crushing, but holding me fast in a grip that feels both impossibly light and unbreakable. The buzzing of the creature intensifies, and a soft, green light pulses from the rope as if in sync with the creature's heartbeat.

I feel a new sensation: not pain, but a cold, deep emptiness spreading from the points of contact, a siphoning of warmth and life itself. The world begins to fade, the brilliant colors of the stained glass windows dimming to muted grays, the cold marble floor becoming a distant, indistinct haze. The creature above me seems to drink in my very essence, its glass wings now glowing with a vibrant, terrible light.

Then, the floor of the cathedral begins to break apart, not with a crash, but with a silent crumbling, as if it were made of dust. The mosaic tiles scatter into motes of light that rise and join the creature, adding to its terrifying brilliance. Below me, a vast, swirling vortex of pure shadow opens, a silent void that seems to beckon me into its depths.

A final, shuddering gasp escapes me as the last vestiges of the cathedral fade to a monochrome wash. The feeling of being siphoned, of cold emptiness, is replaced by a sense of unmooring, of weightlessness. I am no longer in the cathedral, no longer hanging from a rope. The creature and its chittering moths are gone.

I am simply there.

It's not a place, but an absence of place. I float in an infinite, silent void, a deep indigo that is neither light nor dark. Below me, the vortex of shadow is now a vast, swirling galaxy of pure potential, a nebula of unformed worlds and unborn souls. I am being drawn toward it, but not with violence—with a gentle, inexorable pull.

This is the threshold. The passage. I am a seed falling toward fertile, unknown soil. The memory of the cathedral, the rope, and the fear feels like a dream that belonged to someone else. I am no longer me, but a sliver of consciousness, a wisp of a soul on the verge of a new beginning.

As I drift closer to the swirling vortex, I feel a gentle warmth begin to bloom within me, a light where there was only emptiness. It is not the light of the sun or a star, but a feeling of profound, cosmic embrace. I am being welcomed. The journey, it seems, is not one of death, but of transformation.

But as I drift closer to the swirling vortex, just as I am on the verge of being swallowed by it, the cosmic embrace begins to feel less like a welcome and more like a pull. The gentle warmth turns to a searing heat, and the profound silence is shattered by a sudden, jarring noise.

A noise that I recognize.

It's the sound of my alarm clock. The piercing, insistent beeping of a machine determined to wake me from the dead.

My eyes snap open.

Sunlight, a brilliant, almost painful yellow, streams through my window. The familiar scent of coffee brewing and toast fills the air. I am in my bed, tangled in my sheets, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The cathedral, the rope, the chittering moths—all of it dissolves into the hazy, fragmented memory of a dream. A dream so vivid, so terrifyingly real, that the knot in my stomach refuses to untangle.

I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and look down at my wrists. They are a little red, as if from a restless night's sleep, but there is no sign of a rope, no marks, no cuts. The pain is gone, replaced by a dull ache in my muscles from a night of tossing and turning. The memory of the cathedral fades, but the feeling of falling, of being carried into the next world, lingers.

As I swing my feet to the floor, I can't shake the feeling that I was on the precipice of something vast and unknowable. I wasn't dreaming of death, but of something else entirely. Something I almost became.

I am sitting on the edge of my bed, the morning sun painting streaks of yellow across the floor. The world outside my window is bustling and ordinary, a stark contrast to the shadowy cathedral and the surreal terror of my dream. I close my eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of my home, and allow myself to return to the memory. The dream wasn't just a nightmare; it felt like a message, a cosmic whisper.

The rope wasn't an instrument of death, but of elevation. It pulled me out of the ordinary, away from the familiar ground, and toward something higher. The cathedral itself, a place of worship and reflection, could be a symbol of my own inner world or a sacred space where profound truths are revealed. The creature, with its wings of shattered glass and body of shadow, wasn't just a monster. It could be a guardian, or a herald of change, forcing me to face the unknown. And the vortex of shadow below me, that wasn't an abyss; it was a birth canal.

This wasn't a dream about dying. It was a dream about being reborn. The terrifying journey, the feeling of being torn from my old life, was a necessary passage to something new. I didn't fall to my death; I was pulled to a higher plane of existence, a new beginning.

Is Jesus God’s Reflection of His Future Self?

Hello All:

Usually we publish religious articles on Sunday. But I wouldn't exactly qualify today's article as religious. It's simply an interesting thought that I had while driving home from work that many might label as a theological hypothesis. There isn't enough Biblical data to back these speculations up.

Sure, it discusses the nature of God and his son, Jesus. But is it wrong to think about and talk about God in the middle of the week? 

Is Jesus God’s Reflection of His Future Self?

Here's an interesting thought on how the existence of Jesus as the Son of God came about. 

God, as we know, is eternal with no beginning or end. Before the universe there was only God. 

The Son of God might have been a personal reflection of God's in terms of himself in the future. Jesus would reflect the change and growth in God and his universe. The milestone would be a new generation that encompasses not only his Earthly sons and daughters, but the face of himself who became human and joined them as his brother. 

It's quite a nuanced postulation, isn't it? 

The nature of Jesus as the Son of God has inspired deep contemplation among theologians, philosophers, and believers for centuries. The idea that the Son of God represents a kind of "personal reflection" or unfolding of God into the realm of creation and humanity touches on themes found in both traditional doctrine and more mystical or philosophical interpretations.

We affirm the classical view that God is eternal without beginning or end. Jesus, the Son of God, might be understood as a kind of future-oriented self-reflection of God, a way for the divine to experience and express change, growth, and relationality. By becoming human, Jesus doesn’t just relate to humanity as a distant creator, but as a brother, sharing in human experience, suffering, and community. This act marks a milestone, not just for humanity but for divinity itself; God’s self-revelation and participation in the world in a radically new way.

The belief that God became flesh in Jesus (John 1:14) is central to Christianity. This is often seen as the ultimate act of divine empathy and solidarity. Some theologians describe the Son as the “Word” or “Image” of the Father (see Colossians 1:15; Hebrews 1:3), almost like God knowing and expressing Himself perfectly. A modern theological school suggests that God is not static but in dynamic relationship with creation, capable of change and growth in some sense, much like our hypothesis of God’s unfolding.

In the New Testament, Jesus is called the “second Adam” (1 Corinthians 15:45), representing a new beginning for humanity and a new way for God to relate to creation.

What’s especially intriguing in our reflection is the idea of God growing through relationship and history; that the incarnation is not just for humanity’s sake, but also a milestone for God’s own journey with creation. This is a less traditional but very compelling idea, inviting us to see the divine story as intimately connected with our own.

A Day on Planet Chronus

Imagine a hypothetical planet that revolves around its sun once a day, with a 24-hour day. While it's rotating, it goes from night to day and also changes from winter to spring to summer to fall all in a day. Throughout certain times of the year summer occurs at nighttime and winter occurs during the daytime, and vice versa. This is due to the ratio of the planet's rotation and revolution around the sun.

Chronos' unique 24-hour rotation and revolution cycle that drives daily seasonal shifts, offers a striking visual shaped by its extreme axial tilt and elliptical orbit. From space, Chronus appears as a mesmerizing, ever-changing orb. Its surface is a patchwork of vivid colors, reflecting the rapid transition of seasons within a single day. At any given moment, you might see a crescent of brilliant white snow dominating the dawn side (winter), fading into lush greens and blooming pastels on the morning side (spring), then shifting to golden yellows and browns under the midday glare (summer), and finally a fiery mix of reds and oranges on the evening side (fall). The planet’s 60-degree axial tilt creates a dramatic slant, with one hemisphere often tilted sharply toward or away from its sun, amplifying the seasonal contrast.The atmosphere glows with a faint iridescent sheen, a result of its dense ionosphere scattering sunlight in unique patterns. 

A stasis storm is a natural consequence of Chronus’s extreme orbit and atmosphere. Its elliptical path and 60-degree axial tilt (compared to Earth’s 23.5°) cause dramatic daily temperature swings, amplified by solar flares interacting with a dense ionosphere. The storm’s reflective shield traps one season’s conditions, a plausible threat in this volatile system. During a stasis storm, this sheen darkens and thickens, forming a reflective shield that locks the planet’s colors into a single hue—perhaps a stark white or golden freezebefore the cycle resumes. Swirling cloud bands, tinged with blues and grays, hint at the storm’s approach, their edges illuminated by the sun’s rays. The planet’s surface features a network of rivers and valleys, like those of Tempus, glinting with ice or shimmering with water, depending on the hour.

A Day on Chronus

Dawn: Winter’s Embrace

As the sun crests the horizon, a biting chill sweeps across Chronus. Snow dusts the rolling hills, and the sky glows a crystalline blue. 

In the village of Tempus, nestled in a valley of mirrored lakes, the Chronians awaken. Their breath clouds in the air as they don thermal cloaks woven from the frost-resistant fur of the native glimwolf. Chronians are masters of flux, their biology and culture attuned to the planet’s 24-hour seasonal cycle. Their metabolism shifts with the seasons, conserving energy in winter and surging in summer. Daily routines are fluid, with tasks like weaving, farming, or crafting timed to the day’s phases.

Kael, a young weaver, steps outside, his boots crunching on fresh snow. He checks the sky, its deep indigo promises winter’s grip for the next few hours. 

The village hums with quiet activity: children sculpt fleeting snow figures, knowing they’ll melt by mid-morning. 

Kael hurries to the loomhall, where he crafts winter fabrics that will soon be traded for spring silks.

Mid-Morning: Spring’s Awakening

By the third hour, the snow vanishes, seeping into the soil to feed vibrant blooms. The temperature climbs, and the air hums with the scent of nectar. The sky softens to a pastel pink, and the Chronians shed their cloaks for lightweight tunics. Fashion is modular, with garments like layered vests or petal-stitched tunics. Fabrics are treated to adapt; warming in winter, cooling in summer.

Kael joins his wife, Lira, in the communal gardens, where fast-blooming flora like the starpetal sprout and flower within hours. The villagers sing to coax the plants’ growth, a tradition rooted in Chronus’s ancient customs. Lira, a botanist, marvels at a bud unfurling before her eyes. “Every spring feels like a gift,” she says, plucking a flower that will wither by afternoon. 

The community gathers for a brief picnic, savoring sweet fruits that ripen only in this fleeting season. As for farming, the Chronians rely on rapid-cycle crops like starpetals and sungrains, which grow, ripen, and wither in hours. Chronians use songs and prayer to accelerate growth, ensuring harvests align with the day’s fleeting windows. Irrigation systems toggle between snowmelt and summer rains.

Afternoon: Summer’s Blaze

Midday brings a searing heat, the sun blazing at its zenith in a cobalt sky. The landscape shimmers with golden light, and the Chronians retreat to shaded pavilions or dive into the cool, bioluminescent waters of Lake Tempora. 

Homes and public spaces feature retractable walls and roofs made of crystal and glimwolf fur, balancing insulation and ventilation. Communal pavilions shift from open-air spring shelters to sealed winter domes, their designs guided by ancient Chronian architecture and chemistry that bends material properties.

Kael, now sweating in his tunic, helps erect sunshades woven from reflective threads. 

The village buzzes with laughter as children chase flitwings—tiny insects that thrive in summer’s warmth. 

Lira tends to heat-tolerant crops, like sungrains, which mature in mere hours. 

A sudden breeze carries the hum of a festival drum; the Chronians are already preparing for the evening’s harvest rites. 

Kael feels the day’s rhythm, each moment a dance between survival and celebration.

Late Afternoon: Fall’s Palette

As the sun dips, the air cools, and the trees erupt in fiery hues—crimson, amber, and gold. The sky burns orange, casting a warm glow over Tempus. 

Kael and Lira join the village in harvesting sungrains and collecting fallen leaves for fuel. The Chronians don layered vests, designed to peel away as the temperature shifts. 

A harvest festival begins, with tables laden with roasted grains and spiced ciders. The villagers share stories of the day’s fleeting seasons, their voices mingling with the rustle of leaves. Daily festivals such as these mark each season’s peak; winter snow sculpting, spring picnics, summer water dances, fall harvests. These rituals bind the community, with music and storytelling weaving the day’s experiences into a shared cultural tapestry.

Kael notices the first frost creeping at the edges of the fields, a reminder that winter looms.

Evening: Winter’s Return

As the sun sets, snowflakes drift once more, and the sky deepens to indigo. The Chronians retreat to domed homes with retractable crystal roofs, designed to trap heat while revealing the starry sky. 

Kael stokes a fire in the loomhall, its glow reflecting off the snow outside. Lira joins him, cradling a mug of steaming broth. “Another day, another cycle,” she murmurs, gazing at the moon’s pale light. 

The village quiets, save for the soft crackle of fires and the hum of lullabies. The Chronians rest, their dreams woven with the colors of spring, summer, and fall, ready to greet winter’s dawn again.

Night: Winter’s Quiet

Under the moon’s glow, Chronus slumbers in a frozen hush. The landscape sparkles with ice, and the Chronians sleep in insulated beds, their homes sealed against the cold. Kael dreams of tomorrow’s spring, already planning a new weave. 

The planet turns, its rapid seasons a relentless yet beautiful cycle, shaping a people who thrive on change.

Lunar Survival Quiz

Hello All:

Happy Monday! Let's start the week off by taking a short test on lunar survival. The test below is/was actually used by NASA in training their space cadets and future astronauts.

Lunar Survival Quiz
You are a member of a space crew that was to rendezvous with the mother ship on the lighted surface of the moon. You experienced technical difficulties and your ship was forced to land about 200 miles from the point you were to be. During re-entry and landing, much of the equipment on your ship was damaged. Your survival depends on you reaching the mother ship. You will need to survey what is left that is useable and determine the most critical undamaged items that you will take for the 200-mile trip.
Your task is to look over the list below that contains the useable, undamaged items left on your ship, and rank them in order of their importance for your crew. Remember you need to rank each item in terms of its value in allowing you to reach the mother ship.
Place the number 1 by the most important item and keep going to number 15 which will be least important.
I have provided the list below, and once you complete it, scroll down (page 3 if you are looking at the text document) for the answers as to what NASA feels is most important. I also provided the explanation as to why these items are so important to an astronaut. I was surprised! Some of the items that seemed important were unnecessary, while other items that seemed ridiculous were actually useful.
Remember, you are on the light side of the moon which is always light. Also, you can assume there is a way of eating food and drinking without opening your space suit and imploding your head. Below is the list:

• Box of matches
• Food concentrate
• 50 feet of nylon rope
• Parachute silk
• Portable heating unit
• Two .45 caliber pistols
• One case of dehydrated milk
• Two 100-pound tanks of oxygen
• Stellar map (of moons surface)
• Life raft
• Magnetic compass
• 5 gallons of water
• Signal flares
• First aid kit containing injection needles
• Solar powered FM receiver/transmitter

Box of matches: Ranked 15 – No oxygen on the moon to burn sulfur.

Food concentrate: Ranked 4 – It will sustain energy.

50 feet of nylon rope: Ranked 6 – Used for scaling cliffs and pulling heavy objects.

Parachute silk: Ranked 8 – The light side of the moon is HOT! You will need it to rest in the shade out of the sun.

Portable heating unit: Ranked 13 – Staying warm is the least of your worries. You want to stay cool on the light side of the moon.

Two .45 caliber pistols: Ranked 11 – No, not to kill moon monsters. You weigh 1/6 your weight on the moon, and the caliber pistols can act as propulsion tools. That’s right, you fire in the opposite direction you want to go, and you will propel from the momentum.

One case of dehydrated milk: Ranked 12 – food is more sustaining than dehydrated milk.

Two 100-pound tanks of oxygen: Ranked 1 – you won’t last long without oxygen.

Stellar map (of moons surface): Ranked 3: Do you really know the surface of the moon enough to travel 200 miles to the destination?

Life raft: Ranked 9– The compressed air will act as another jet propulsion device to propel across the moon.

Magnetic compass: Ranked 14 – the magnetic poles on the moon shift on a daily basis so a compass is useless.

5 gallons of water: Ranked 2 – Water will keep you from dehydrating and dying.

Signal flares: Ranked 10 – these will actually burn on the moon! But you need to be fairly close to the destination so rescuers can come get you.

First aid kit containing injection needles: Ranked 7 – You can inject vitamins and medicine.

Solar powered FM receiver/transmitter: Ranked 5 – FM means the coverage is short range and needs to be line of site. If you can climb a mountain close by, you might be able to transmit to the mother ship.

Family Emergency Scam Phone Call: How to Protect Yourself and Your Loved Ones

Hello All:

Just this past weekend, I nearly fell victim to one of those family emergency scam phone calls. Let me tell you, first hand, that the experience is very traumatic and leaves you sorting through emotional aftermath. This is because before figuring out I was being deceived, I truly believed that something horrible had happened to one of my loved ones. 

Fortunately, I figured out after a couple of minutes that the call was a scam. Interestingly, the only reason why I figured this out was because I had previously read a few news articles that reported this sort of thing. But I made a few mistakes, and I want to share with you, the reader, how to recognize and handle this sort of situation. The more people who are aware of this sort of thing, recognize and take control of the situation, the less successful the dirt bags who do these scams will be. And let me tell you, it takes a very special person to deceive another person and make them believe that their loved ones are in danger just to take advantage of them.

So what happened to me?

Well, on a seemingly ordinary Saturday while returning a shopping cart in a grocery store parking lot, I received a phone call that turned my day upside down. The number, with an unfamiliar 708 area code, piqued my curiosity—perhaps it was a family member or a business contact from back home in Illinois. What followed was a chilling experience that revealed the tactics of a sophisticated phone scam and taught me valuable lessons I want to share to help others stay safe.

The call began with silence, followed by the sound of a young woman sobbing uncontrollably. My heart raced as she mentioned being in an accident, triggering immediate fears for my daughter, who was out running errands that morning. My imagination filled in the gaps, conjuring images of a tragic crash. Moments later, a man claiming to be a police officer took over the call. His unprofessional tone and vague statements raised suspicions, but not before I’d confirmed having a daughter—a mistake I’d soon regret. When he demanded her name “for safety measures,” I hung up, sensing a scam.

Shaken, I frantically texted my family group chat and checked a location-sharing app, only to be misled by overlapping location markers. The scammer kept calling, urging me not to hang up, until I challenged him to provide my daughter’s name. His nefarious laugh before I ended the call left me rattled. Thankfully, my daughter was safe at home, but the experience left me traumatized, grappling with fear and anger for the rest of the day.

This wasn’t just a prank—it was a calculated attempt to exploit my emotions. Scammers use tactics like these to manipulate victims into revealing personal information or complying with demands, often for financial gain. Reflecting on this ordeal, I’ve distilled key lessons to help you recognize and avoid similar scams.

 

What Defines the Family Emergency Scam?

• Emotional Manipulation: Scammers create a sense of urgency and fear, often mentioning accidents or emergencies involving a loved one.
• Impersonation: They pretend to be someone official, such as police officers or hospital staff.
• Pressure Tactics: They urge you not to hang up or to provide sensitive information immediately.
• Information Fishing: They seek personal details like names, addresses, or financial info to exploit or steal from the victim.

Lessons Learned: How to Spot and Avoid Family Emergency Scams

1. Trust Your Instincts About the Voice and Number

   If the voice doesn’t sound like your loved one or the call comes from an unfamiliar number, proceed with caution. In my case, the sobbing woman didn’t sound like my daughter, initially, but fear clouded my judgment and soon caused me to believe it was her.

Here's something to remember. Today, most people don’t memorize phone numbers like we did back in the 80s and 90s., If a police officer gives your loved one a phone and says to call you, he or she will most likely be unable to know your number. So if it's an unfamiliar number with your supposed loved one reporting a tragedy, be it's okay to be suspicious.

2. Listen for Background Noise

   A genuine emergency call from an accident scene would likely include sounds of sirens, ambulances, or commotion. My call was eerily silent, a red flag that the scenario was staged.

3. Avoid Saying “Yes” or Sharing Information

   Scammers may record your voice saying “yes” to use in future fraud or press for details like your loved one’s name. Instead of answering directly, ask questions like, “What happened?” or “Who is this?” In my case, confirming I had a daughter gave the scammer leverage to continue the ruse. I should have simply responded with, "Well, she called me so it must be the right number.... Won't you tell me what happened?

4. Demand Specific Details

   A legitimate police officer will provide clear information, such as the location of the accident or the hospital where your loved one is being treated. If the caller is evasive or insists on your compliance without details, seems more interested in establishing authority over you, it’s likely a scam. Challenge them to provide specifics, and don’t hesitate to hang up if they can’t. 

And here's a bonus: There is no law that requires you to stay on the phone with someone claiming to be a police officer or even with 911 unless you are actively reporting an emergency. So feel free to hang up. Don't believe them if they say you will be in trouble.

5. Call, Don’t Text, to Verify Safety

   After suspecting I was victim of an emergency family scam, my instinct was to text my daughter, but a phone call would have been faster and more reliable. CALL, DO NOT TEXT! LEAVE VOICE MAILS TO DESCRIBE WHAT HAPPENED. If you can’t reach your loved one, call other family members or friends who might know their whereabouts. Leave voicemails to ensure they’re alerted to the situation. Eventually everyone will be calling your loved one and they will figure out something is going on. In theory, everything will soon be resolved.

6. Stay Safe in Public

   During the call, I stepped out of my car, unaware of a suspicious vehicle nearby with a man sitting inside, windows up, in the Arizona heat. I only remembered this 3 miles down the road and wanted so bad to turn around and confront this person. But I had perishable groceries and needed to get home. This could have been part of the scam, possibly using an SS7 hack to target nearby phones. Such hacks, while complex, allow criminals to intercept calls or texts. Never leave your vehicle or linger in public during a suspicious call. If you sense something’s wrong, move to a safer location where you can observe your surroundings. It could have been a tactic to catch me off guard with overwhelming emotions; steal my car, mug me or even abduct me to take me to an ATM.

7. Recognize the Emotional Manipulation 

   Scammers prey on your love for family, using fear to cloud your judgment. The sobbing voice and fake officer were designed to keep me engaged and compliant. Recognizing this tactic can help you stay calm and think critically.

A Changed Perspective on Safety

This experience was a stark reminder of how evil can masquerade as urgency. Scammers exploit our instinct to protect loved ones, turning compassion into a weapon. In a world where even helping a stranger feels risky—whether it’s a stalled car or a panhandler’s plea—we must stay vigilant. These scams aren’t just about money; they’re about stealing peace of mind.

If you receive a suspicious call claiming a loved one is in danger, hang up immediately and verify their safety through direct contact. Report the incident to your local police or the Federal Trade Commission (FTC) at ReportFraud.ftc.gov. By sharing these lessons, I hope to arm you with the tools to protect yourself and your family from the trauma of phone scams. Stay alert, trust your instincts, and keep your loved ones close—safely.

A Nice Dog

 Hello All:

It's Throwback Tuesday. And here's a classic writing from the blog that would have been written around 2011. 

A Nice Dog

It was a fine, mid-morning Saturday in spring; not a cloud in the sky; the sun shined brightly in the sky. Just like many Saturdays, children played throughout the neighborhood and often walked the streets from one friend's house to another. And on this gorgeous morning when windows were opened to allow the springtime breeze through, a blond German shepherd was let out into the backyard where he most-often enjoyed basking in the sun while watching birds; maybe chew a bone offered by the owners. There was something suggestively friendly of this German shepherd as he had some sort of Collie mix in him. From a distant, the dog looked as though he were smiling and inviting visits from strangers.
Outside of basking in the springtime air and reminding himself of how life was good, the dog had another favorite past time. He quickly stood up as his sensitive ears heard the sounds of 3 boys who nosily chattered some half-block away. Their footsteps which grew increasingly louder suggested that the children would soon pass in front of the house.
The dog assumed his post at the side of the house where a 4-foot chain-link fence yielded a clear shot of the front side walk. He sat on his hind legs and waited for the boys' approach.
Soon their bodies became visible as they passed the house two doors down; foot steps echoing along garages and patios. The German shepherd pulled his ears back, laid his tail flat on the ground and slightly lifted his head to show the mouth which resembled a friendly dog who smiled.
Just then, one of the boys spoke, "Hey; look at that really, nice dog!"
"Yeah; that's a cool dog!"
The German shepherd remained motionless, sitting with such well and proper form.
It was tempting for the boys to stop in front of the house and walk across the front lawn to where the dog waited at the fence. "Nice doggy! He's such a good dog!"
"That's right; I am a nice dog. But my owner keeps me locked inside of the house all day and night. They never pet me; and I'm just looking for a friend."
One of the boys spoke while the group carefully approached the fence. "Awe, see; he's a friendly dog. He just wants to play."
The German shepherd shifted his head looking left to right, only gazing at the boys from side of his face, never making direct eye contact. There was something misleading and untrustworthy about his voice, "Yes, come closer; I won't bite you."
Soon, all three boys had their faces close to the chain link fence. The dog instinctively showed his bottom teeth while looking up into the air.
"Look, the dog is smiling!"
"He's such a nice dog!"
The German shepherd remained seated on his hind legs, ears tilted back with tail completely flat on the ground. "Go ahead and pet me; it's safe. I'm a friendly dog."
Finally, one of the boys in his boldness reached his hand towards the fence. "I'm not afraid of this dog. I'll pet him."
And as his arm reached over to show affection, the friendly German shepherd turned ferocious as it growled and quickly snapped at the little boy's arm that was perhaps a hundredth of an inch from receiving a bite. All three children ran off in terror while the dog barked as if it couldn’t wait to get out and kill! It wasn't such a nice dog, after all!
Satisfied, the German shepherd strolled over to the patio door where it gazed in, seemingly asking for a bone. "See how well I protect your house from strangers? Don't you want to give me a treat?”