Peggy Dover

Of course, vultures age, but who can tell? They’re born wrinkled.

What I mean is that seeing my resident turkey vultures make their pre-spring touchdown never gets old. They arrived bringing hope and cheer to their favorite roosting spot on Feb. 22. False spring gets them every time. They’re fascinating with their quiet comings and goings, and resemble ancient creatures with a red featherless head great for carcass diving.

Speaking of ancient creatures, this happened to me — the other day I received notification that someone had tried to purchase $8,000 worth of Scandinavian furniture online with my credit card. Now, I’m not sure how dim you’d have to be to think that a purchase like that wouldn’t raise eyebrows. Everyone knows I’m not into Nordic decorating. Of course, the bank noticed. So, they immediately closed the account and sent me a new card just when I had the old one memorized. I’m still waiting for its arrival and continue to space the fact that my card isn’t there. Three times I’ve gone to pay for things only to remember when I see the vacant slot in my wallet.

The first time was the other night when I wanted to pay for dinner out with my daughter and her fellow who visited from Portland. It’s a desolate feeling being without funds. I had no back-up except … checks. I carry a checkbook. If you’re under 50 reading this, good for me. But Google it. Checks are still a thing. I mentioned to Emily that I would have to write a check, and she practically dived under the table. She would not allow me to “put the server through” the hassle of dealing with a check. She paid for the meal, assuring me it was fine, and I felt silly.

The next time was out at Del Rio Winery on Sunday, bless their hearts. I was hungry and wanted some cheese and crackers. I told the gal behind the counter I only had checks and explained my put-upon plight with the card. She said it was fine and there was no asking for ID or calling over the management or looking at me through a magnifying glass.

But the most humiliating incident of all was yesterday when I had planned to meet a friend at Starbucks after my bass lesson. I arrived there before her, went to the counter to order a mocha, and gazed yet again at the empty spot where I had once stored my golden ticket to financial liberty. Why didn’t I go to the bank and get some cash somewhere along the way, you ask? I kept forgetting. Is that good enough? It’s all I’ve got.

Anyway, I looked into the large, long-lashed eyes of the youngster behind the counter. She may have been named Bambi. I told her I only had checks and went into my spiel about the Scandinavian furniture fiasco.

Her eyes widened as she looked at me like I was from Neptune and wanted to pay with some cosmic currency. She asked her equally age-deficient colleague if they could take checks and she, too, gazed upon me for several seconds, and then looked around to see if their universe had warped back to 1963. Then, Bambi said, her voice filled with pity for the sad example before her, “I’ll just give you the drink.” She felt sorry for me for having checks and gray hair so, hey, what’s one small (“tall”, talk about a strange universe) mocha with almond milk in the grand scheme of things.

I replied, “No, here I’ll show you what they look like,” and started reaching for my wallet. But it was clear that despite my credit rating, the checks were of no use there except for blowing my nose.

When my friend Jeanette arrived, I told her of my embarrassment and she covered the drink for me (with Apple Pay, darn her). Today I sent her a check for the $5. I also scanned a QR code for Ace Hardware to prove I could, and applied for a passport renewal online, for which the State Department wants my check.

I’m not old, just rebellious, or possibly lazy.