Mail delays in the hinterlands.

I have two topics to choose from for today's post. I'm in the mood for the less serious one. You're welcome. Might do the other one next week -- we'll see.

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I never thought Santa Fe was the back of beyond until I moved here and tried to get timely mail service to and from the East Coast. 

I wonder if these guys are still around.
ronleishman | Deposit Photos

The most recent debacle happened just this week. Well, actually, it started in mid September, when I was notified that my former employer was switching 401(k) managers (again; they seem to do this every few years). I had meant to stop taking distributions after I went back to work full-time, but I never got around to it because the process of changing anything is a pain in the ass and almost always requires contacting somebody in the Boston office of my old employer. (She's very nice, but I figure at some point she'll retire, and then who would I call?) So this seemed like an opportune time to roll over my 401(k) to an IRA. 

Setting up the IRA account was a snap; I did it all online. Next step was to call the firm's 401(k) manager and get the money moved over. The nice man on the phone was happy to help me, but then we hit a snag; the firm was requiring that I fill out some kind of paperwork about my spouse. Spouse? The divorce was final years before I started that job. Anyway, I had them send me the paperwork -- which they did, electronically. It was the same form I had filled out before to initiate and change my distribution. 

"Well, okay," I thought, "I'll play your game." I filled it out and sent it back to the 401(k) manager, asking that they electronically transfer the funds to my new IRA account. I was looking at a couple of deadlines: I mistakenly believed I was required to re-home my money within 60 days of the 401(k) manager cutting the check (it's actually 60 days from when you receive the money, and it doesn't apply to direct rollovers anyway), plus there was going to be a blackout period of several weeks where nobody could do anything with their 401(k)s while the paperwork was transferred to the new manager. To make sure I didn't run afoul of the blackout period, I sent the form via FedEx, and received a notice the next day that they'd received it. 

The electronic transfer never happened. Several phone calls to the 401(k) manager's customer service folks, plus a call and some emails to my old firm, revealed the reason: this particular management firm does not do direct rollovers electronically. It doesn't matter whether you have $1,000 or $1,000,000 in your account; they always issue paper checks. Mine was cut September 23rd and sent a few days later via regular mail.

You were wondering when the post office would come into it, weren't you?

Waited a couple of weeks; the check never showed. More back-and-forth with customer service and the old firm. We all finally agreed that the initial check was probably lost in the mail and that the management firm would void the original check, issue a new one, and send the new one Priority Mail so we could track it. (At this point, we were in the blackout period, so my contact at my old firm couldn't get into the system to see whether the first check had been cashed. Or issued, even.)

The second check was issued October 24th or so. The day before Halloween, I called them for the tracking number, which they provided. It seemed almost impossible when I got mail from them on Saturday, November 1st -- and it was; the check they'd issued September 22nd had finally shown up, almost six weeks after it was mailed.

I relentlessly tracked that replacement check across the country. It was supposed to be delivered this past Wednesday, November 8th. It got to Albuquerque that day and went out to be delivered here -- whereupon it dropped off the radar. I was mildly panicked, but I held firm; past experience told me it would be delivered here the next day. Which it was. Finally.

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Why did the first check take six weeks to get here from Boston?

In April of last year, the USPS began easing delivery standards for first class mail. For example, mail that used be guaranteed for delivery in three days wouldn't be counted late if it was delivered in five. At the same time, mail collection times were changed, so that mail that used to be picked up from collection boxes in the morning would now be picked up in the afternoon; in practice, that added a day's delay. More mail is being shipped by truck instead of air to save on transportation costs; of course it takes longer to drive than to fly. And another factor could be a shortage of staff. (It's not because of the government shutdown; the USPS is an independent agency funded by sales of postage and such.)

The whole roster of changes is supposed to be phased in over a ten-year period. Another phase went into effect in April of this year, and yet another just a couple of months ago in July.

I'd noticed the degradation in service earlier. It used to be that I could get birthday cards to my kids if I mailed them a week ahead; now it's taking more like two weeks. Might have to start mailing them a month early, huh?

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I'd love to blame Trump, but the postmaster general he appointed in his first term, Richard DeJoy, lasted through the Biden administration; his term was up in March of this year. The new guy is David Steiner, a lawyer who used to be head of Waste Management (yes, the dumpster company, and yes, I'm refraining from making the obvious joke) and also sat on the board of FedEx. The ten-year cost-cutting plan was created under DeJoy, though, so we can still blame Trump.

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Anyway, I deposited the good check the same evening I received it via the IRA provider's app. The deposit was credited to my account the next day. That I could have wrapped all this up a month and a half ago, if only the 401(k) manager would have done an electronic transfer of my money, I refuse to dwell on. This process has been maddening enough.

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These moments of frustrated blogginess have been brought to you, as a public service, by Lynne Cantwell. Hang in there!

Plot twist? At my age?

 

Meme stolen from Facebook

One of the things they don't tell you about life after retirement is that stuff keeps changing. And if you didn't develop skills for coping with these new situations in your previous, working life, you have to develop them now. 

I have always believed that the meaning of life -- for me, anyway; your mileage may vary -- is to learn and grow. I just kind of figured that at this stage of my life, the learning-and-growing would be fun stuff, things I picked -- like, say, attempting to learn another language. Not situations that other people have set up, expecting me to react the way someone twenty or thirty years younger would react.

Which is to say that I feel like I'm at a turning point. Again. And in some cases, I don't know what to do -- or else I do know what to do, but I'm reluctant to do it. 

• My time on the condo board is coming to a close. In the past, these positions have been sinecures, more or less; most owners don't volunteer, so the folks who do keep serving 'til they've had enough and quit outright. But our new management company seems intent on making sure there's actual turnover on the board. So once we have the annual meeting in a couple of weeks (a month earlier I expected, because this management company also wants us to follow the bylaws and hold the meeting in November instead of December), it's very possible that I'll be done. 
• At work, our department manager seems intent on promoting someone (maybe more than one someone) to the next level up the pay scale. That next level involves extra duties and responsibilities. It kind of seems expected that I'd want to move up, and twenty years ago, I would have wanted to. But now? I went full-time figuring I'd coast for five years (or however long it took for the ginormous special assessment to run its course) and then re-retire. Fighting to reach the next level at work doesn't feel like coasting. 
• Re the promotion: One of those extra responsibilities involves training session proofers. I've taught before (Intro to Video Production for one semester at American University), and it didn't feel like a good fit. Oh, I'm happy to explain stuff -- to readers of my books, to listeners when I was a reporter, to visitors at El Rancho de las Golondrinas -- but it's not like any of those folks would be tested on the material. Nobody's future job prospects hinge on remembering the difference between warp and weft. Now, I acknowledge that I could just have a mental block. But I also remember that one of the suggestions on those listicles for Things to Do Post-Retirement is always to teach, and I consciously said, "nope!"
• I've been attending meetings of a Pagan group hereabouts for most of this year. I haven't gotten a ton out of the meetings (and some of the info the organizers have provided is a couple of decades out of date), but it's been a way to connect with other Pagans/Wiccans in the area. The group was originally slated to keep going for another few months in its current form, but the organizers told us at the last meeting that they're pulling back on their involvement now. This sounds like a great opportunity to reform this group and/or start a new one, right? But I'm hesitant to step up and do it.

I never envisioned myself running a Pagan group in my old age -- certainly not while I'm still working full-time. Although I never envisioned myself working full-time after I retired, either, let alone climbing the corporate ladder.

And if I reject all of these possible-disasters-cloaked-as-opportunities, what do I do instead? (I hear you out there: "Go back to writing!" It's in the back of my mind, sure, but it probably won't happen while I'm working this particular job. I already spend too much time in front of a computer every day.)

Anyway. I'm not looking for advice or "you can do this!" encouragement. I'm just musing on how even when you think you're settled into a routine, things can change on a dime. Even after you've retired.

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I'm also aware that November 1st is the start of the new year for many Pagans, including me. So it's apt that these doors are opening and closing now. I just need to spend some time meditating on which doors to step through and which to gently close.

I'll keep y'all posted.

***

These moments of plot-twisty blogginess have been brought to you, as a public service, by Lynne Cantwell. Onward!

Historically witchy New Mexico.

Samhain, the Pagan New Year (for some Pagans, at least) -- aka Halloween -- is coming up at the end of this week. And like clockwork, intrepid local journalists around the country will interview some witch or another. It's all pretty harmless these days -- or it should be, unless somebody takes it upon themselves to declare witches brides of the Devil and try to have them executed, or at least shamed out of the community.

It has happened in the past, as you know if you've ever heard of the Inquisition in Europe, or the Salem witch trials here in the US. And New Mexico had a brush with the Inquisition in the 1760s. It happened in Abiquiú, a village better known now as the site of one of painter Georgia O'Keeffe's homes.

 A peaceful fall picture in Santa Fe.
Heatherms27 | Deposit Photos

And it started with a Franciscan priest named Fray Juan José Toledo, who came to Abiquiú from Mexico City with a manual of ways to spot witchcraft and sorcery -- brujería y hechizería -- and root them out, as missionaries were wont to do, to save the natives from their savagery and bring them to Christ.

I've just begun looking into this; I had a brainstorm yesterday while at Spirit Halloween to offer to portray a bruja during next year's Spirits of New Mexico event at El Rancho de las Golondrinas. The offer's been accepted, so I have a year to study up. But here's what I know so far. 

I talked about Abiquiú here on the blog a couple of weeks back -- about how it was created as a land grant to several families of genízaros. You may recall that genízaros were Native Americans of various tribes who were enslaved by Spanish settlers and eventually set free, after they'd been Hispanized and had lost most of their own tribal traditions. Genízaro communities acted as a buffer between communities of settlers and Native Americans looking to attack them. But the genízaros themselves were different -- and feared by some settlers because of those differences.

Enter Fray Toledo. He accused the local men running the town of being sorcerors (in Spanish, hechicero or brujo) and some of the women of being brujas and causing a horrible illness. The illness was real enough -- it caused a fever and a powerful thirst, blackened teeth, and, in some cases, death. There was also a rumor that the stomachs of some of the dead burst open and insects crawled out.

Fray Toledo made enough noise about it that eventually the territorial governor, Tomas Vélez Cachupin, arrested a group of the accused Abiquiú witches and sent to the office of the Inquisition in Mexico City to see what should be done.

By this point in time, the Catholic Church was winding down the Inquisition, and eventually accused Fray Toledo himself of stirring the pot, saying he should stop with the accusations, learn the natives' languages, and work harder on converting them to Catholicism.

So nobody was burned at the stake here in New Mexico. However, some of those suspected of witchcraft were sentenced to servitude in local Hispanic families. Imagine being a member one of these fine, upstanding Catholic families and being forced to take in someone suspected of being a witch! Not a prescription for sleeping soundly at night.

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As I said, I've just begun researching this. I'll let you know how it goes. For this post, I've relied heavily on this article written by Rob Martinez, the state historian of New Mexico.

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This weekend was the 2025 Spirits event at the ranch, our last of the season. It was, as always, a lot of fun. The ranch buildings are especially spooky at night, with the kiva fireplaces lit and candles everywhere. (These days we use LED candles, but the fires are the real thing. I was stationed in the Cuarto de la Familia -- the ranch owner's family's quarters -- and as the night got chillier, a whole lot of guests were happy to just come in and sit by the fire, warm up, and maybe dream a little.

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These moments of historically witchy blogginess have been brought to you, as a public service, by Lynne Cantwell. Happy Halloween! Blessed Samhain!

Why I stayed home from the No Kings rallies again.

Congrats to the millions of Americans who turned out yesterday for No Kings rallies across America. I saw one estimate (but have not confirmed it) that 1 in 50 Americans showed up for one of the approximately 2,700 rallies held in towns big and small around the country.

Once again, I didn't go. Here's why.

Here in Santa Fe, there are two places for political protests and rallies: the State Capitol, also known as the Roundhouse, and the historic plaza downtown. The No Kings rallies and marches typically start at one and march to the other one, or else they start at the Roundhouse and make a circuit to the plaza and back. 

The problem for me is that I work at the Roundhouse. My employer is the Legislative Council Service. We are nonpartisan. We are told when we're hired that our clients are all the legislators, regardless of their political party. We're allowed to have political opinions, of course, but we're supposed to keep them out of the workplace.

Hopefully you see my dilemma. If I participate in a political rally at the Roundhouse, even outside the building on a weekend, it could cause a problem for me at work. 

This isn't the first time I've been in this situation. It may be hard to believe today, when media outlets are routinely assumed to be on one side or the other. But when I was starting out in journalism, reporters were supposed to be unbiased -- or as unbiased as it's possible for a human being to be. After all, we were supposed to cover both sides of every issue, and to be fair to both sides. Can't do that if you're taking a public stance on those issues.

Anyway, there are lots of other people who wish they could be rallying but, for one reason or another, can't be there. Luckily for us, there are other ways to be involved -- and one of them is doing what I'm doing right now: showing support on my blog and on social media.

Alert hearth/myth readers know my political proclivities by now. Y'all know I'm there with you in spirit, if not in person. 

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We know we're getting to them when they start to claim that people marching in inflatable unicorn costumes are terrorists and that yesterday's gatherings were "hate America rallies". We had some relief yesterday as they stayed mostly silent while the marches were going on, although Trump himself posted an AI-generated video of him piloting a fighter jet and dumping poop on rallygoers. But as some commenters have said, an image of Trump taking a dump on America is actually on point.

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These moments of supportive blogginess have been brought to you, as a public service, by Lynne Cantwell. Keep the pressure on! It's working!